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kakushino · 7 months ago

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hello can i get a giyuu x reader angst , like where giyuu had an argument with the reader , but it turns out the reader is pregnant? you can add any other plot twist cus i love plot twists thank you !<3

Almost

Tomioka Giyuu x Fem! Reader

He had lost a lot of people in his life by his own making. He refused to lose you too.

Tags: pregnancy, arguments, blood mention, abortion mention (no actual abortion), hurt/comfort Word count: 2k

Masterlist

AN: Hope you enjoy it! I actually had a WIP of an argument + making up before, so I got to revisit it and add the pregnancy spice you asked for hehe~ Huge thanks to my dearest beta reader @glitchtricks94 for helping me clear it up (o゜▽゜)o☆ another huge thanks to @starrierknight for brainstorming with me

Giyuu’s injuries weren’t worse than normal, but that didn’t stop you from fretting over him – especially when he had a gash on his cheek, the same cheek you kissed a week ago when he was leaving for his mission. It made your chest feel tight to see his pretty face marred by demons. Your grandmother was surely rolling in her grave that such a classical beauty was hurt, the thought spurred you on to care for him.

No detail went unnoticed under your eye. He seemed tired, as usual, and a little stressed, as usual too - just a regular morning after slaying demons.

You sat him down at a western style dining table with a medical kit and supplies to clean the cuts with next to you. Your hands shook slightly when the damp cloth wiped away grime and blood, your lips pressed together when a fresh drop of blood oozed from the wound.

“You need to be more careful,” you murmured as you worked, the statement automatic, thoughtless.

Giyuu’s whole body stiffened. “Or what?”

You froze in place, your hand dipping the cloth in warm water. This was a new tone of his – a new way words could cut you if he wanted you to hurt: it was rough, serrated, mean. “What?”

He rolled his shoulders back a little, rearing for a fight. “You heard me the first time.”

You clenched your hand, leaving the rag in the water, and turned to fully face him. “Why are you so defensive? I meant no harm,” you replied, trying to calm the storm before it fully set in.

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking the chair he had sat in over. The look he shot you sent your heart galloping in your chest, from fear or indignation, you didn’t know. “You’ve done enough. Leave me be.”

Did he like you like this? Was the hurt in your eyes enough? That was – did he like the way it glinted, the way it caught the light? Hours upon hours spent on making your suffering pretty, and perhaps now it would pay off. He could cut you down into something pretty if he wanted to, and maybe you would let him.

Before he could walk away, before he could twist the rusty blade, you rose from your seat, “I have done nothing to warrant this tone with me, Tomioka Giyuu. Now tell me-“

"Stop bothering me," he cut you off, heading towards the door.

A violent whirlpool of emotion threatened to drown you, and for once, you let go. “You- you oaf! I can’t stand you being like this! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfect,” he snapped, voice like a viper and words just as stinging. “Or at least it would be if I didn’t have you nagging me every time. I’ve been through this enough to know what to do with myself. Unlike you who sits here all pretty and safe and fat, ready to wrap a bandage and call it a day.”

You flinched, for the first time in your husband’s presence, tears springing from your eyes, which you rapidly blinked away. What have I ever done to deserve this? You had waited on your hands and knees for this man every time he’d come home battered and bruised and broken and put him back together, without complaining, with love. This was what you got in return for your devotion? Pretty and useless. That’s what he basically called you.

Your throat tightened. You hardly had the energy to respond so you turned away and just… left. You couldn’t continue listening to Giyuu when he sounded so much like… like Shinazugawa. Whatever was bothering him best be left alone to cool off before you could talk about it.

You nodded to yourself as you packed an overnight bag. Some time apart would be good for you both. You knew he wouldn’t be sent out on a mission for a few days again, since he just returned from a longer stint, so you would come back tomorrow and try to resolve it then.

It was time for a check-up with a midwife anyway.

He had really said all that.

And you left.

Your eyes filled with tears, and you left, as you should. He had treated you like garbage.

There was no going back, no taking back his idiocy, no swallowing back his words.

‘Let's stop fighting’ was at the tip of his tongue. ‘Come here and let me hug you’ nearly spilled from his lips. ‘I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry’ choked him up as you walked away.

He knew you were right. You did nothing wrong.

He felt nothing.

He was worth nothing.

Giyuu picked up the shards of his heart up and finished cleaning up his wounds. A short bath later, he walked into the kitchen to find food already made for him, now long gone cold. It just reminded him how much he butchered his relationship by what – stress and tiredness? A demon taunting him right before its death? If so little shook him up, did he even deserve to be with you?

A sharp pain pierced his heart at the thought of leaving you. His selfishness truly knew no bounds, hurting you and putting you in danger for being a Hashira’s partner yet wanting you to remain by his side.

After eating his portion, he made tea and waited to see if you would join him. There was no movement in the house at all; were you in your shared bedroom, laying in bed as you were used to when upset? He would give you time to cool off, give himself time to breathe, and then he would approach you with a clearer head. He needed to apologize.

One hour. Two hours.

Had he angered you so much that you wouldn’t come out? Your spats had never lasted this long.

The tea had long grown cold, but Giyuu couldn’t bring himself to make more. There were no sounds coming from the house.

Were you even here?

The thought jolted him from his seat, quickly walking to your shared bedroom.

“Love?”

Nothing.

“I’m coming in.”

He somehow expected it, though he’d hoped against it. You weren’t there.

Already turning to check all other rooms, he called out your name. His pace was brisk, his throat starting to clog up with a familiar emotion. Claws of anxiety sunk into his stomach, his heart beat like a drum, his lungs struggled to take in air. You weren’t there.

Where were you?

He ran through the whole estate and back two times but came up with no clue as to where you were. Panic mounted, crawling up his spine like a spider he couldn’t shake away.

Giyuu slammed the gate of his home open, very nearly running into his elderly neighbour.

She was hardly phased, though confused by his frazzled visage. “Tomioka-san? What’s got you in such a hurry, young boy?”

“Have you seen my wife?!” he’d never been as rude as he was now, but you were gone so what was he supposed to do?

“Your wife? Oh, that’s right, I saw her. If I recall, she was on her visit… hmm, who was she going to visit?” his neighbour mused. Giyuu waited with all the patience Urokodaki beat into him, that was – quite impatiently. “Oh right! A midwife! I was very surprised when-“

He stopped listening, or rather, he stopped hearing anything going on around him. A midwife? A midwife was a profession with a very specific set of skills for a very specific group of people… Did that mean-?

“Isotani-san,” Giyuu interrupted, breathless, eyes wide with surprise. “Are you saying my wife is pregnant?”

She squinted at him, “You didn’t know?”

It felt as if lightning came from clear skies and struck him. Every nerve itched with some kind of energy telling him to move.

He later vaguely remembered asking his neighbour for the direction you left in, but at the time, he saw nothing, and felt everything all at once.

Were you going to… terminate it? Were you going to tell the midwife, and would she terminate it? Was the midwife going to terminate it and help you move on? Would you move on without him?

Thoughts racing, heart galloping, Giyuu felt feverish. He stumbled back, deaf to his neighbour’s concerned questions as he turned the way you had left just hours ago. One foot in front of the other, a step by step, getting faster with each meter he passed until he was running nearly as fast as Uzui, desperation spurring him on.

Kanzaburo flew overhead, and when he cleared the village bounds, he called out to get the crow to lead him to you.

Time was of the essence. He may have botched his life, but he was too selfish to let go of you. He wanted, no- needed to get you back. You were his love, his soul, his home. He wouldn’t be able to go on if you left.

He felt crazed, desperate, as he ran.

Giyuu would have been faster had he not have to follow Kanzaburo but he wouldn’t be able to find you alone. He felt as if he was racing against the time. Any minute now, you would be in a the midwife’s home, waiting for the release from his clutches; any second now, you would sever the only tactile link you had to him – your baby.

His baby.

He swore, his mind supplementing him with your argument. It had been all his fault, he’d just lashed out because of nothing, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. How childish he’d been – and he was supposed to be a father? No, he wanted to be a father. He’d fix himself and he’d support you and he’d even carry you your whole pregnancy, so you didn’t have to walk. He’d learn to cook more than the basics to feed you and your baby.

Please, let me be in time.

Then he saw you.

The whole world seemingly froze, grey and empty save for you.

You were a pearl amongst rocks, still as beautiful as the first day he saw you, as beautiful as you were on your wedding day.

Giyuu didn’t stop, even as you turned to him in surprise when he called your name. He didn’t stop until he had you in a soul-crushing hug, tight and near bruising – one he immediately eased up on, since he didn’t want to hurt you.

“Calm down, Giyuu! What’s going on?”

“D-don’t-“ he stumbled over his words, still frantic and breathing heavily, “don’t get rid of it!”

You were confused, “Get rid of what?”

His hands were heavy clutching onto your clothes, his frame nearly hanging onto you. “Our – our child,” he gasped out. “Isotani-san told me you were- she told me you were pregnant.” His words came out in a rush, eyes wide as he stared at you, his pupils darted all over your face for a sign of – of anything, be it forgiveness, anger, sadness, anything.

Looking at him in such a state, near quivering in his spot, you felt powerful. Giyuu was at your mercy for once. You could topple him as easily as a sandcastle, crush him under your boot and grind down to juice him of all that made him who he was. It made you realize you held just as much power over him as he did over you. Oddly, you felt reassured - of his love, of your love, of the relationship.

Heart hammering in your chest, cheeks filling with warmth, the adoration you carried in your heart spilled over and pooled in your stomach. You hungered for more of this power, positively starved to sink your teeth into him and drain him.

But that could wait.

“I am indeed pregnant,” you confirmed, your hands resting on his arms, thumbs stroking soothing lines over his muscles. You paused, letting the seconds painfully stretch out, “I’m not terminating the pregnancy.”

His whole being sagged with relief. Giyuu fell to his knees in slow motion, his hands sliding down your yukata to rest over your hips, now clutching the fabric there with a weak grip. “Thank gods…” he rasped out, his breathing stuttered as if holding back sobs. “Please, love, let’s not- I apologize – I apologize for everything. I shouldn’t have lashed out. I was wrong…”

His impossibly blue eyes met yours, the surface glistening with unshed tears, his guilt bitter but his plea tasting sweet on your tongue. Saliva gathered in your mouth, wanting more.

Did that make you a bad person?

“You dismissed my concern,” you stated, fighting back any expression wanting to take over your face. “You said I nag you. You called me useless.” And pretty, your mind supplied. He’d also called you fat, so there was that. “I didn’t deserve that.”

Giyuu’s lips were downturned, “You didn’t. I was an oaf.” His admission did nothing to soothe the ache he’d given you. “I’m willing to take whatever punishment you deem worthy of my misdeeds.” He let go of your yukata, smoothing over the wrinkles he made. He didn’t know what to do with himself, trying not to fidget as you rolled his actions and words in your mind.

“There will be no punishment,” you told him. If possible, he became even more tense, the need for absolution great. Perhaps no punishment would be a punishment of itself. “But don’t think you’re entirely forgiven. I accept your apology; you however have to make up for it your own way.” You studied his earnest expression, brows slightly furrowed as he started thinking about ways to win you back. It shouldn’t be too hard. He did it once, he could do it again.

Giyuu slowly stood up, taking your hands in his. “I won’t disappoint you, love,” he said resolutely, kissing your fingertips softly. He adored you, with his whole heart, mind and body.

Everything would work out – just like the ice always melts and clouds disperse, a typhoon passes and the sea calms.

“If you pull this act again, I’m leaving.” You glared at him for a second to get your point across. Giyuu nodded and pulled you in for a sweet kiss.

He almost lost you and he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Thanks for reading! Reblog or comment if you liked it :3

Networks: @enchantedforest-network @themovingcastlez

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ir-abelas-vhenan · 24 days ago

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Losing My Mind over Veilguard 8/??

See, I waited a perfectly reasonable amount of time before coming in swinging again but I actually cannot get over how dead the game is. Literally. (Me ranting about an early game quest in Minrathous incoming)

Spoilers below the break

So. The first time you go to dock town? And Neve says in one of seventy different ways "no you don't have to come with me, this is my home not yours, I can handle this myself if you want to stay back" ?(but the showing not telling argument is for another day so I'll refocus and conserve energy for another day). Anyways.

This quest. The one where you go into the chantry in Minrathous and surprise!

Dead bodies absolutely EVERYWHERE.

I took a screenshot and then lost it, but it's worth mentioning that in my game, Neve's line of dialogue above about tracking down family and friends of the deceased didn't even trigger. If it had, however, I still would have lost my mind.

Why, you might ask?

Because after counting, losing count because I was counting so high, and then recounting about seven thousand times I can confidently tell you that plus or minus two to three more corpses, there are EIGHTY SIX dead bodies in the CHANTRY. The holy center of an incredibly popular religion! And even if it weren't that! It is a massive grounds with EIGHTY SIX DEAD PEOPLE who were KILLED HORRIFICALLY BY THE VENATORI AND DEMONS. How are you going to have the time to track down next of kin for that many people? And WHY are we acting like this is NORMAL?!

Dock Town is played very one-note already as a neighborhood where sketchy things happen and people go missing and it's best to just keep your head down if you're not in a position to do something about it.

But oh my sweet baby Maker come onnnnnnn.

You aren't going to recover from this if you're this branch of the Chantry. Presumably, you've just taken a massive hit across all levels of your religious hierarchy and that takes time and training to fill. And dock town is poor as hell, so where are you going to get the funding to fix this sudden staffing issue?

How does this affect (per @housederiva's iconic posts) Viper? Ya know, the guy we have found out through datamining is literally the Black Divine?? All we see (in the scenario where Treviso is saved) is him sadly sitting outside the chantry going "we remember the fallen" and that's presumably for the people lost when the dragon attacked, with nothing spared for the (again, I can't not lose my mind over this) eighty six dead people who were devoted to the same cause he is!

A whole smattering of holy women have just been yeeted off the mortal coil and it means absolutely nothing to your immediate party save for some of the emptiest lines ever, the city as a whole, or in the larger lore of the game. At all.

There are so many moments like this that had me rapidly oscilating between screaming at my ceiling and looking exactly like this:

And this isn't even something they can pass off as being too tied to the source material and wanting to start "fresh". This is just lazy, empty, disappointing storytelling and it's why I lose my mind a little more every time I see an ardent defender of the game tell an older fan to "get over it" or "let go of your expectations."

Because having something like (so sorry) EIGHTY SIX DEATHS go down with actually NO ripples throughout the rest of the game coming from ANY studio, let alone one that used to kill this kind of thing, is crazy to me. And I will die on that hill, even if it means Neve just kind of skips over my body on her way to find my next of kin only to never spare me another thought again.

#veilguard spoilers #dragon age the veilguard critical #datv critical #dragon age veilguard #datv spoilers #veilguard critical

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argisthebulwark · 1 year ago

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Most Ardently

summary: Terms of endearment Skyrim men would use for you as your partner. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used. feat: Vilkas, Cicero, Brynjolf, Farkas, Miraak, Erandur, Teldryn, Arnbjorn warnings: minor allusion to suggestive content, mention of blood. and some swears.

Darling Vilkas, who wields terms of endearment with both kindness and sarcasm. Who knows how to get under your skin or comfort you with just one word. "Oh darling, have you forgotten who trained you? More than anyone else, I know your limits." He would sneer, face flushed when he rounds on you after a disagreement. "My darling," Vilkas would whisper in the dead of night, when your hands are tangled in his hair and you can taste the wine on his breath. "My darling." He breathes just before kissing you, all worries melting away. Cicero is giddy at the idea of his Listener having special titles only he is permitted to use. Who spins you around the Sanctuary when your mood is low, showering you in kisses and praise until he sees the smile he loves so dearly. He would say it often, soft and full of love during a stolen moment alone or brashly in front of any new recruit whose eyes lingered a touch too long. "Oh, darling Listener." He would sigh, gazing at you with unabashed adoration. "Cicero loves you more than words can say."

Sweetheart Brynjolf, who says it with that crooked smile that never fails to melt your heart. Who murmurs the pet name when he finds you slumped behind the Guild Master's desk glaring at the rolls of parchment piled haphazardly before you. Brynjolf who scoops you into his arms, planting a kiss on your forehead and allowing you to grumble about your day. "Hold still, sweetheart." Brynjolf would breathe against your skin, clutching you to his chest as the manor's steward paces its hallways. Farkas, who cups your face so gently and speaks as if you are the only one in his world. Who calls you his sweetheart as he wipes the blood of fallen bandits from your cheeks and checks you for injuries. Who helps you out of your armor after a hard day, sinking into a warm bath and combing the hair away from your face. "You alright, sweetheart?" Farkas would call over the clashing of swords, needing an assurance that you haven't fallen.

My love/My beloved Miraak, whose voice drips with devotion when he calls out to you. That touch of reverence never fades from his tone, eyes softening when he stares at you. Miraak who attempts to cover the depth of his love with sarcasm but would fall to his knees for you if asked, who believes his unnaturally long life's only purpose is to adore you. "My beloved," that deep voice rumbles through his chest as he gazes up at you, ungloved hands twisted in your robes. "One whose soul speaks to mine." Erandur, who speaks tender words of love as a form of worship. Who sings your praises with every breath. Whether it's a retelling of his salvation to an enraptured crowd in some small tavern or against the skin of your thighs he devotes himself to you, the one he loves. "My love," he would murmur over and over, lavishing attention upon you. "My most beloved, you must take better care of yourself. I cannot imagine this world without you, my heart."

Fucker Teldryn, who slaps a hand on your thigh with his head thrown back in laughter. Your gut muscles ache and your voice is hoarse from hours of laughing at each other's stories but you never want such a night to end. Other patrons have stumbled off to bed and you're sure that Geldis is glaring daggers at the pair of you but Teldryn's easy laugh is far more intoxicating than the drinks forgotten on a nearby table. "Oh, you fucker." Teldryn would say, the affection clear in his voice. He drags your chair closer to his, allowing you a closer look at his flushed cheeks and sharp teeth. Arnbjorn, with his gruff exterior that you somehow cracked through. His tough heart that you wormed your way into, the softness he saves for the rare moment alone. He is not one for tenderness but conveys his feelings in a way you understand, a subtle love language you learned over time. "Why do I like you again?" He would grumble, forced annoyance coating the affection in his tone when you squirm closer to him. "Fucker." The word is harsh, a contrast to the soft way his calloused hands brush over your skin. "I didn't want to fall for you, y'know."

#skyrim #skyrim fanfic #x reader fanfic #writing #vilkas #cicero #brynjolf #farkas #miraak #erandur #teldryn sero #arnbjorn #skyrim x reader

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munsster · 4 months ago

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take me to church

A/N: i am down ASTRONOMICALLY for big men who are also whiny babies (gif creds: @mulderscully)

Pairing: Hugh “Ransom” Drysdale x Fem!Reader

Summary: The Drysdale heir gets on his knees for his darling goddess. 3.0k words

Warnings: smut mdni, switch!ransom, switch!reader, degrading, worship, slapping, pet names (princess, puppy, sweetheart, honey, baby, angel), gentle slapping, religious references (mainly catholic), overuse of italics xoxo

"You should know your place by now, Drysdale."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't whine, you sound like a baby," you groan. Just a moment ago, you had slammed his bedroom door shut tight, and all six feet of him had whipped around with the meanest scowl on his face. He's big, sure, but you've got leverage on his heart. It kills him the way you snap into place between his ribs with, god, the prettiest laugh he's ever heard. He'd never admit it, though. Least of all to you.

And he knows he's nothing but an insect under your heel, yours to shatter and reconstruct. He gets a rush in your presence. He has never been so intimidated by someone with such a sweet smile. Such a gentle soul but the worst sadist he's ever held close. Worse than himself.

"You think you stand a chance, don't you?"

You're like a roman candle with how unpredictably fiery you are. Yesterday, it was being stuck in traffic down the ninety-five. Tomorrow, it'll probably be some coworker's silly mistake. Tonight, you simply came home angry. That's it. You need a release, and there he is. Dark hair ungelled and messy but pushed back and flawless still, standing like a statue and at your mercy. You're set off, the wild look in your eye setting him off.

"I'm all yours, princess, tell me what you want," he coos so sweetly you could melt, but you never ever would. It'd boost his ego and splinter his edges. He'd get worse. And what you give him is discipline. Patience for his inner child. Medicine for his deepest wounds.

"On your knees, puppy."

He does. Without one single thought. Every iota devoted to your demands. With a thud, he's at your feet, lamenting his own devotion when your hands preen through his hair.

You're his heaven and hell and all the bits in between. He's a shrine to your love, a glimmering reflection in the pool of your heart. And he's grown oh-so-narcissistic these past few months.

"What to do with my poor boy," you whisper because he pouts, not a single change to his expression, but he sinks in on his own body, deflating at the core. You coddle him. "Oh, I know."

He hates your mystery. Because it's no secret what you're up to. It's no longer mystery with a grin like that. He shifts and settles his big hands onto your thighs, pushing up to hold your waist tentatively.

"Please, sweetheart, anything."

"Hugh, you know exactly how I feel about begging." You hold his chin and lean close. So close blood pumps through his ears and drowns out his panic. Yeah, his cock is hard, but it's no rival to his blown pupils and needy hands that tug the waistband of your slacks.

"Keep going," you say against the corner of his mouth, nipping his bottom lip and sucking until he whines and digs his fingertips into your skin. The heat of your palm blows over his cheek as you strike him. Gently, though. Just a kiss of your fingers on his skin, and he blushes. No way in hell would you hit him—harm him without permission. He has to admit though: he'd like the sting if it was your doing. For it would be his unraveling and a blessing all the same.

"Princess, sweetheart, come on, I can give you everything," he huffs, grasping desperately for you, at anything within his insatiable reach, "Just say the word, please, honey, you gotta understand: I worship you."

"Oh, I understand plenty, pet. Why don't you prove it?"

He stands from the floor like a ghost fulfilling his final purpose in your hands. His body is so ardently belonging it's sickening. To be yours is a rite amongst the holy and yet you bring the sin out of him. All seven, splayed out like a deck of cards across his thieving brain.

"You Boston boys think you're so scary. All that east coast charm just pourin' outta you. You couldn't scare a newborn. What makes you so special, huh?"

"You."

Your breath seizes. Every nerve alight with his warm hands crawling over your torso and his cheeks pink. Your boy has never been so forward. Not like this. Not ever. His eyes gleam like he's never witnessed such beauty and wickedness up close. Like he's never seen a mirror.

You stare at him, incredulous of his charisma, his grace. He is sure of one thing though: whatever you are will kill him, but wouldn't that be the best poison?

"You have no idea," Ransom whispers. He tosses your shirt aside and unbuttons your pants. And you let him. Sincerely, you are taken aback and breathing in awe. He is filled to the bones with your light, blood replaced by lust. He needs nothing else besides your soul. Your wicked hands.

Then he kisses you. Like he could lose you to the abyss if he let go for even one moment. With saliva spun from his tongue and delving into yours, but soft and kind and to feel the familiarity of your warmth. He becomes pliant, knowing with clear certainty he is a lonely boat and you are a raging sea only lying in wait to rip him to shreds.

And yet he sails willingly. Blissfully.

"You know," you mumble against his fervent mouth. "You'd be so handsome if you weren't desperate." Though, he doesn't stop to listen. He's too dissatisfied. He needs the taste of you and the half-glass of wine you downed in the kitchen. It tingles in his mouth, bitter and recherché, the best he could find. For his goddess, he'd pay with his life.

If you truly meant the things you said to him out of frustration, he would still promise you every ounce of starlight in the sky. If you truly meant every insult, he would still beg and pine and bleed to be called yours. He'll be a disgrace as long as he is your disgrace.

And he knows you're lying when you tell him things like that. As if someone so lovely as you would consider some lowlife like him if he weren't the finest looking asshole in northern Massachusetts. Worship is an exchange of grace. It's not a one way street, no. It's an intersection. God must love his mortals or they would not be his.

"Hugh."

He pulls back and squints. You call him that when: one, you're pissed off, or two, you're about to fuck the living daylights out of him and leave him destitute and longing for days. Either way, he wins.

"My angel... my beloved... my one. What can I do for you?"

Each endearment peppered with kisses along your throat. He sweetens it up because he's smitten and wants what you give him every time: pain.

"If only I could use you like the poor beggar you are," you say, condescending in that way he goes mad for. And he grins.

"Please?"

Say no more, you tug his hair without any sense of remorse and no gauge for his pain. Anyway, his tolerance is boundless when he's with you. He tilts his head back, neck bare and Adam's apple bobbing as he gulps. Out of fear or pleasure, he can't tell. But he gives you that cheshire smirk, and it all dissolves down into his affinity for your touch.

You trace the column of his throat and press your tongue to his jaw, sucking at the skin to mark him. And he wishes you would do it all over and everyday. He is nothing if not yours. When you leave little bruises, he gets to be told even when you're away.

"You're incorrigible," you pant against his warm skin that pulses with cold blood. "Look at you, so so needy. Trust-fund-fuck-toy, little no good dolly, hmm? Need someone to tell you what to do so you don't rot away."

Something like a growl blooms in his chest, though it feels like a purr when he goes slack and leans into your touch. You're always taken aback by his antics, but you've never let on about it until now. With eyes wide, you're spoon feeding him abuse, and he's taking it without the airplane noises. He slips easily into your submission, and you're stunned. Even now, after all you've put him through.

"Ransom," you whisper into the little indentation at the base of his neck. He hums. Your fingers comb through his hair, and he shivers with delight. We create false gods to pass time and worship them all the same. He is yours, and you are his, and it will be that way until the end of time.

"On the bed. Now."

He jitters with excitement, only still under your scrutiny, and manages to drop his sweatpants into a crumpled pile at his feet. You dare not look down. You don't have to. You know he's not wearing his usual briefs: crisp white and snug around the muscle of his thighs. You know because he hisses when the cold, autumn air sidles along his cock. Doesn't matter. He'll warm up nicely once he gets inside you.

For now, he sloppily kisses the bow of your lips and slumps to the bed, breathing heavy with his back to the headboard. He's loud and yet untouched. You'd think he ran a marathon. Or six.

"Join me," he grumbles, scratching his knee before slowly dragging his blunt nails up and up and—then his fingers are wrapped around his cock. Nothing in comparison to any ounce of what you've given him before. The best sex of his life stands clad in panties with her arms crossed. Brooding over his weak body. "Princess?"

"Shut up. Let me get a good look at you, pretty boy." You hold his chin between thumb and forefinger. Between head and heart, he lies steadfast and boyish in the wake of your warmth. His strength is drained by your every touch. You render him incapable, but he's the one built far above and toned like the shaft of a power drill. You can fit your fingers perfectly into his divots, and all is restored. Turn his house into a home so long as you keep looking at him like he's a work of art.

"Ransom, what're you thinking about?"

And then again, you hold him so so gently, he'd think he was precious. Beyond value, even. What is value anyway. His gauge will always be whether you want him or not. His value is subjective to you. Forever and always, he may be a dreadful Catholic, but he’s well-versed in your scripture.

"What do I ever think about? Other than your sweet pussy," he mumbles and cups his palm between your legs, fingertips slow and circuitous around your covered clit. "Come on, princess, I know you want it. I can tell she needs me. Give in."

You've gotten good at being angry with Ransom, so good it's hard to remember his softness. The assailant of his soul often outsmarts the gentleman. But once in a while, he shines through the cracks beside his eyes when he smiles. So genuine, it's hard to deny. Not now, though.

Now, he reads troublemaker loud and clear.

You straddle his hips, and he gargles down a throat-clawing moan. Oh, you're horrible. A fist around his cock, you tug the crotch of your underwear to the side and slick his tip between your folds. You manhandle and taunt him, and yet he's never been this hard. He's gonna need painkillers for the headache you rattle him with.

"Who needs who again?"

He could cum. In fact, he would burst if he wasn't clenching his fingers through the sheets: tight enough to draw blood between the linen and from the heel of his palm. He's withholding because of your withholding. He won't last like this. And he's going fucking crazy.

"God—fuckin' damnit—gorgeous, baby, you're killin' me. Huh—fuck—'s that what you want?" He groans, head thrown back against the headboard.

"Be careful, Hugh. I can be a lot less nice if you want," you grumble with teeth scraping the edge of his jaw when you kiss his skin. And he wants. Oh, he wants you—with every fiber of his wicked being—to be mean. But he'd also die every which way to be your good boy. He slips his fingertips beneath the underwire of your bra, weaseling his palm to cup your supple breast.

"I'm being careful," he says, "so careful. Wouldn't wanna hurt my babygirl." You grab his jaw hard as he pinches the bud of your nipple with a grin.

"You're the worst, Drysdale."

"You love me."

"I love using you."

He stills. Then lifts his head. Of course. Of course. He suspected it, sure, but never has he wanted you to take back what you said like he does now. His body aches for you nonetheless. He shatters into pieces for you. Of course you love it. But not him.

"Take it back," he mutters.

"Hmm? I can't hear you—"

Ransom wraps his arms flush around your waist to hold you against him like a crime. Your smirk melts away hot and fast at the frown on his pretty face.

"You love me. Say it, princess, you love me." A sinner in every degree, he's begging. His repentance is you. If only you'd forgive his wounded pride. You press the pad of your forefinger to his chin and look down on him like a god. Like he's a sacrifice.

"Oh, Hugh. You don't know the first thing about love."

"But you do. And you love me. Please, love me," he huffs. You lick his wet bottom lip like a cat, stray and rabid and curling into his warmth with the sun long gone.

"I'll show you love, pretty boy. Like you've never felt it before."

And you sink onto him; he nearly loses all control beneath you, squirming and grabbing at anything he can reach. Needy as babies often are, only he is fully grown and you both know it. Though his whining might prove otherwise.

"Jesus—Jesus Christ, that's—that's—keep going." His hips jerk up off of the mattress with every pulse of your walls clamping around his shaft. His body is so limp and yet so tense, he could explode. He wants nothing more than to make you his: to fill you so deeply he's there for months. Nine, maybe.

You mewl. Holy shit, the prettiest noise he has every heard, you mewl. Like a newborn fawn, ever fair and fragile, only graced by sweat and heavy breaths. His eyes snap open to see your back arched, palming at his wrists with your eyes fluttered closed. He licks his lips, then kissing your navel wetly, he watches you coyly through his lashes.

Your fingers scratch at his scalp while he bounces you on his pulsing cock. Every vein, every subtle undulation, you feel slipping out of you just to slip back in. Yanking his hair, he pants, and you purr again at his body's rough reaction. His hips jolt, and you grin with your lip content between your teeth.

His hands are so big, and you're so soft, and there's nothing he can do but worship and sanctify your hallowed and celestial body. Ethereal. You are of literature, written as an angel, halo and all. A blade of light piercing a thick blanket of clouds, shedding calm on his broken heart. And he's a pagan of your beauty.

At this point, he accepts it. He wouldn't mind being nothing more than a doll to you. Because you still chose him. He's still your doll, once all is said and done. And his pulse steadies from a raging pounding to a heavy beat in his ears, rushing through his bloodstream like narcotics.

"Feel so good, princess, all tight 'n warm for me. All mine," he groans. Eyes shut, you breathe in the soft slapping of damp skin, and he savors the way you drip down his inner thigh. "My little vice, all wrapped 'round my cock. So good to me, aren't you? Atta girl."

You crane your neck forward and clench your jaw. Your thrusts grow slow and deep and reaching as the warmth drains from your head and you clench his shoulder with eager fingers.

"C'mon, we both know how bad she want it. Fuckin'—can feel you squeezing me, angel." He pats your thigh, and the vein on his neck goes red hot about to burst.

Then you go weak in his palms. It's your turn to be used while he lets you wring his cock for dear life. He glides you in slow up down, up down strokes and spills into you, plugging you tight as you keep him struggling for air.

You nudge the tip of your nose against the soft part of neck beneath his chin. The softest part of Ransom Drysdale—besides the spot reserved in his little heart for you, his dove. You press, and he swallows and syncs to your every movement. From the bat of your eyelashes to the ample exhales of your parted lips.

"I love you, Ransom."

He goes dizzy.

"What?"

"I love you."

You lift your head, dead serious with fingers ticking along his expanding chest. He grins, dopey and elfish and needy. And shifts his hip. You gasp at the blood flowing hard into his cock once more.

"Say it again," he grumbles.

"I love you."

"Yeah. Yeah, you do. Now you're gonna scream it till the neighbors do, too." You're sure of one thing and one thing alone. Ransom Drysdale has always been true to his word. That's how you end up with his hand around your throat and your fingers in his mouth.

masterlist

#ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x fem!reader #ransom drysdale smut #ransom x reader #ransom x fem!reader #knives out #knives out x reader #x reader #x fem!reader #smut #switch!ransom drysdale #hugh ‘ransom’ drysdale #Spotify #chris evans x reader

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peachetteprice · 3 months ago

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heya, can I please request hc’s of how 141 boys would react to their s/o finding out they(141) cheated on their s/o (reader) . im in need of some angst 😭

Oh, boy.

Long disclaimer: this has been in my ask box since July, and I am well aware that it's unlikely you're still in need for angst. I quickly came to the realisation after working on it for a few days that I misread the entire prompt and had written for Price and Soap with YOU being the one to cheat on THEM (141). In my perfectionist state, I abandoned the whole thing, choosing to forgo the whole prompt even if it meant denying someone who was clearly interested in my work something that they'd asked for that I could (reasonably) provide. Nobody should have to wait this long for their ask to be answered, and I'm incredibly apologetic that I was so selfish as to leave it go stale in my inbox. Anon, sweetheart, I highly recommend that you search for another writer to fulfill this, because I'm sure they would gladly dive into the idea that the 141 are cheating on YOU, and not the other way around like I misunderstood. It is entirely uncouth for me to make someone wait this long for a simple ask – don't even get me started that it isn't even in HC format – and I can only apologise that even when it is 'out', now, it is not what you asked for and is my initial interpretation of your ask. I did not do it justice. You deserve better, anon. I sincerely aplogise.

Some of the Boys with Cheating S/Os

TW: General angst, adultery, mild aggression, mention of arson (mild)...

Captain John Price

Anyone knew it wasn't easy being married to a man such as John Price, himself included. He would have traded the life he had if he could, but he couldn't, nor wouldn't, because that wasn't the man he knew himself to be. Sure, in some perverted timeline, a thousand light years away wherein he didn't feel a sense of pride, responsibility, or accountability over the people with whom he shared his country, might he have taken that job as head of accounting he would have been promised, had he gone to university, or simply devoted his life to the blues and twos of the constabulary. None of it would have been harder work that he currently undertook, but it was honest work. And that was the sort of man he was: honest, dependable, and loyal.

That being said, much like the aforementioned, neither of those exclusive three things were easy to achieve. Nor adhere to. But when he stood at that altar in his pin-striped suit, pink and red corsage on chest, and spoke his vows to love you in sickness and in health - and, Christ, he didn't take them lightly - and you returned them, he hoped that you meant it.

And that wasn't to imply that you didn't. You did. Most ardently.

But the nights were long, cold, and unbearable without John. When he was back, he was often distant for a week or two, reeling from whatever madness he saw in the field. If he did make it back into his own mind, he was unlike the man who left beforehand. In fact, he would only return a few days prior to leaving, and then the cycle spun again. And again. And again.

He never spoke about it – the field. Never took a moment to cry in front of you – you heard him, of course you did, in the shower, when he thought you were doing the laundry – and if you did press him on the matter, he simply washed it away with a dismissive hand and a non-committal 'I'm fine, love'.

That might have been when it started. The distance. When the nights become longer, colder, and so unbearable that you needed something to warm the space beside you when he was away. That was all it was ever supposed to be.

John found the men's razor in the bin in the bathroom. It was your colleague, Mark's. He'd come over one evening to comfort you when John was away. It was supposed to be a bottle of wine and a walk home for him, but he woke up in your bed, and there was no stopping what had started, then.

There was no moment of doubt in John.

He knew it immediately; you had another man by your side.

He most expected it. That might have been the most devastating part of all. That, in sickness, he knew you might have longed for the warmth of a man to the point of committing adultery, even if you professed that your heart still lay with him. Even if he knew, himself, that it still did.

You knew he knew it, too, when he sidled into the kitchen with a hand palming his beard, and he placed the razor beside the pot of bolognese you were monitoring as it bubbled away.

"Got something to say?" He asked.

For some god-forsaken reason, there was no malice in his tone. He should have been near-boiling over the thought of another man with his hands on you – the body that he had sworn to cherish and to hold until the day he died.

But, as was the case when he took his vows, he did not take them lightly.

And though you sobbed, pitifully, and asked him to be quick with the divorce papers, so that you might quit your job and move somewhere else - somewhere less suffocating from the lies and the deception – John did not give up.

He threw the razor back into the bin. He sat you at the dining room table. He asked you to explain. Everything. From the very beginning – not since Mark, not since that bloody bottle of red wine, not since the gentle hand he placed on your knee when he should have been out the door – the complete, unabashed beginning when you first lost a modicum of care for him.

When you did finish speaking, the sun had come up. It must have been seven in the morning, but your eyes were so bloated, your words had torn such a scratch into your throat that you couldn't ask what time it was, nor even be able to see the clock on your kitchen wall.

It wasn’t pretty, the things you both spoke about, of the late nights spent texting John, asking if he was doing alright – to utter radio silence on the other end – as another man lay between your legs, suckling against your sopping cunt, and dragging every droplet of cum and sinful moan your voice had to offer, of the dissolved shared affection and broken trust that lined every sentence, of the nervousness as you walked into the pharmacy to ask for a morning-after pill, just to quell the shame you felt about having another man's uncloaked cock in your cunt, even though you were up-to-date on birth control that month.

But if anything permeated throughout the entire conversation, that cemented the idea that, if he hadn't asked you to be his wife, that someone else would have surely filled the role better than you – it was that he was not going to give up on you.

He'd given those vows as a promise, not as a suggestion. In sickness and in health. Till death do you both part. And you could have – and had – moped about how terrible a wife you were, how he should leave at the soonest possible moment and never look back, but that wasn't going to happen, so long as John Price was your husband.

Because if there was one thing he would do, in every facet of life, perverted timeline or not, it was try.

For John Price would never give up on his lawfully-wedded wife.

John "Soap" MacTavish

There's a pair of underwear in the wash that doesn't fit him. He knows because he tried them on. They're initial-ed in sharpie on the inside label. JR. They're not his initials, that’s for certain. They're not his favoured design. They're not in the shade he wears. They're a lot of things that they aren’t and shouldn't be, like in the wash at all, beside your panties, one of your special weekend bras, and old bedsheets.

James Robinson, your pilates instructor.

It takes him too long to rack his brain before he happens upon the name, arriving at it after consulting your calendar magnet-ed to the fridge, spending the rest of the time thinking with them on the kitchen counter. He nurses a glass of milk as he does. It isn't right for alcohol at the time. It's only five in the morning, though if it were five in the afternoon he would have already taken the next bus to the White Rabbit pub and burnt them in the trash out in the alleyway, just to send a message to you to never give them back to the man who took you from him, when they better suited being strapped to one of his homemade explosives and thrown through the bastard’s office window.

The cereal you munch as he stares at you that same morning tastes sour. Seems like it’s gone off, but Johnny's drinking a glass – his third that morning – so you surmise it’s just about ready to turn. His eyes won't leave you. They often never did, particularly in the mornings, but not like this. Not with such intensity that your stomach draws bile from your liver.

The boxers are in the knife drawer.

You don’t know that the boxers are in the knife drawer, and if you did, you might have even fessed up before he had the opportunity to confront you about it. You’re a coward. You know it. He knows it, too. That’s why he’s waiting for the right time.

And when it is – the right time, that is – he digs them out from between the cutlery and throws them in your lap. It’s silly, really, the thought that takes the place of confusion in your brain. It’s stupid. Naive. Idiotic. Perverted.

"What was that for?" You chuckle, holding them up. Sure, if he wants that now, you're quite ready for it–

"–They're not mine."

All prior concern is embellished with fear. A gall builds in your stomach – you’re about to throw up, and a dry heave makes it to the base of your throat, a quick gulp forcing anything bitter back down. It’s simply foolish, how easily it makes complete sense. The nervous drinking all morning, the gaze that wouldn’t leave yours, the smell of cigarette ash on his fingers when he handed you the carton of milk for your cereal. And you think, oh-so naively, that there may be a chance to refuse his insinuation.

“They're not yours? Who else could these belong to, Johnny? They fit you, don't they?"

"Really? Seriously?" He bites back a disgusted scowl, you see it in his cupid’s bow, hunched up towards his nostrils exactly how it manifests in his nightmares, the scent of rotting bodies, dirty blood, unfinished business. "J.R."

You go blank. There’s nothing at all. You’ve never thought about nothing at all before. It’s a desolate place, the emptiness of your mind. It ruminates in your soul like footprints in a field at night. Who they belong to, why they’re there, why they’re no longer. There’s nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, nothing to be felt – the trees are too far drawn into the night to be real; tangible.

"Johnny–" it spills out suddenly.

"–Don't you go sayin' my name with those dirty fuckin' lips!” He growls.

"We can – we'll talk about it.” Some things are coming to mind. Not many. Self-preservation related, mostly. “Sit down.” You wave your hands wildly. “I can explain everything, I promise–”

"–Oh," there was almost amusement in his voice, edging on the maniacal, certainly psychotic, "You take me for a fuckin' bampot, don't ye?"

"Johnny, please!"

He nears. He’s animalistic, right now, the way he's stalking you like a tiger who can’t pounce because you haven’t yet turned your back to him, and it wouldn’t be fun until you did. You've never seen that look on him. You never want to again, if he can help it, though you’re not sure he can. It's better suited to the field, staring down an enemy from close range, just before he sets a bullet straight through his head. A sharp fear rises behind the upset. It’s cold. It lingers like a needle beneath skin. It hurts.

"Get out of my house."

"What? Johnny?"

"I said, get out of my fuckin' house!" He swells with an uncanny rage.

Only when you do leave, retreating into the hallway wearing your pyjamas only, does he heave a breath or two that turn solidly into anguished pants, choked sobs and lonely wails. It isn’t supposed to turn out like this, sitting before the lift of your apartment complex, covering the guilt with the ruse of having lost your keys if anyone stops to ask if everything is okay, though everything is most certainly not okay.

James was a nice man. Johnny was a nicer one. But the quell in your throbbing, begging cunt from months of being apart from Johnny was even nicer when James indulged, tongue lapping over your folds like a dog wishing to please its owner. You told him you enjoyed it, even left him with a kiss on his cheek, and he left as soon as it ended, though you hid from him the fact that you threw up in the toilet as soon as you locked the door, sobbing into the same sheets he had you dribble your cum, wishing you could reverse time.

Johnny will never forgive you. That much is true. No matter how much you plead at his doorstep for him to reconsider the relationship – his mind is not so weak, and he finds it endearing that you seem to be convinced otherwise. Though, he does regret one thing – not taking your things, too, along with James’, to the empty lot behind the correctional youth centre and paying the kids there to watch it burn.

BONUS: Phillip Graves

Totally not because I feel bad about letting down anon... no way...

It's three weeks after the fact of your adultery that a text pops up on your phone, unattended, that reads something to the effect of feeling guilty about your time spent with a man for the benefit of revenge, suspecting that Graves, too, has been cheating, as you delicately lament to your best friend, Emily.

Naturally, he confronts you, and you know better than to lie to a man with an arsenal of juggernauts at his disposal, so you confirm his suspicions, and explain that it was by no fault but your own that you slept with Adam.

He’s furious, ardently so – justly so – and you explain that it was undeserved on both sides, to which he seems inexplicably confused, until landing on the understanding that you thought a woman you saw at a hotel with Adam was his lover. And you realise… he wasn’t cheating on you.

And the confusion compounds in your mind, realising his naivité of your illicit relationship was fueled only by the fact that you’d been attending book club at such ridiculous times in the night. He’s pacing, gasping for air as you rightfully say;

“I can’t believe you thought I was going to book club this whole time.”

And he stills, like a lamb, crouches against the dresser, and exclaims with such anguish that you wish you’d never said anything about it at all:

“There’s no book club?!”

| Masterlist |

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empty-fantasies · 5 months ago

Text

Burning

Love involving Mortefi is like a flickering flame; fueled by blazing passion and embraced by gentle affection

Character(s) Included: Mortefi

gn!reader, fluff, mindless ramblings from eden once again

It takes an attentive and mindful approach to endure the fiery passion known as Mortefi’s love.

Treading carefully at the beginning of the flaming romance, as if one wrong move would create a gust of wind and take out the flame you had oh-so-painstakingly pined after for so long. It was no easy feat to come to terms with your ever growing love for the Head of the Tacetite Weaponry Branch. Nor was it any less difficult to accept the possibility of rejection should you carelessly smother that fire by beating around the bush about your sudden awkwardness the manifested upon realization.

Patience was required when the meter approaches its limits and manifests in frequent groans of frustration and a near permanent frown. The flame, as you have learned, can easily burn you if you’re not careful with your own words. He’s a straightforward man, after all. Which was evident in his rather blunt way of confessing to you that eventful day and something that had always seemingly caught you off guard in unsuspecting moments. Would you complain about this? Not at all, contrary to your playful complaints that your heart was far too fragile for such (Mortefi would rather admit to defeat against Xiangli Yao before ever confessing openly around others that he simply adored your varied reactions).

Love, in the way that Mortefi expresses it, was all consuming. There was no lack of effort on his part. A point was made for each planned date and every little moment of exploration that no words were needed to express the everlasting devotion he had for you and only you. Determination to perfect everything despite your constant reassurances that occasional mishaps and derailed plans (due to a certain someone’s habit of sacrificing his sleep every now and then) happen. It engulfed your entire being; heart, mind, and soul. Overwhelming as it may sound, you welcomed it fully and returned just as much by fanning the flames, having quickly become accustomed to the heat long before you even realized it yourself. Much to your surprise, you too have also found yourself adopting new habits just to show as much appreciation and effort as he does.

As consuming as it is, Mortefi does have an uncharacteristic gentleness that many are not privy to picking up by mere observation alone. A comforting warmth, one that reminded you of serenity found in a cup of tea on a winter night spent in bed. You wouldn’t deny that you were a bit selfish in wanting to keep this warmth to yourself at first—desiring nothing more than to bask in the fact of knowing that only you were able to experience such without limits.

Sweet-tempered fingers would dance across your skin, taking hold of your hand in silent moments when either of you are finishing up reports. Tenderhearted words responding to your curious questions about the classical music to echoes softly every now and then. A rare pink hue dancing across his cheeks the moment any small praise falls from your lips. As the fervent flames roar of adoration, they also invoke a sense of comfort shared just between the two of you. There were no walls other than the ones that shielded this flame of love from gusty winds of doubt and weariness. To bask in such has made you realize that perhaps that selfish desire for keeping it to yourself was a wish instead to keep this flame alive—to endure all this is to come in the future.

Mortefi’s love is an ardent flame; ever-consuming in the way that he has to make it known where his heart resides. Yet, it is also a soothing warmth marked by the solace found in butterfly kisses and gentle gazes. To you, the ever curious lover of his, the heat is gladly welcomed each and every single time.

#wuthering waves x reader #wuthering waves #wuthering waves mortefi x reader #mortefi x reader #wuthering waves mortefi #wuwa mortefi #wuwa x reader #mortefi #strange that I’m planning a xiangli yao post after this oho

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tennessoui · 9 months ago

Text

oh ho ho au where there’s been a brutal murder and all signs point towards anakin being guilty….but during the trial prep work, obi-wan, not on trial at all btw, confesses to the murder.

the prosecution knows he didn’t do it, but his dna is at the scene, there’s security photos of him close by the murder scene, there’s enough circumstantial evidence that it makes it incredibly hard to prove that he didn’t do it. there’s a ton of evidence to prove that anakin did it, but there’s also not a small amount of evidence that obi-wan did it which makes it really difficult

(anakin definitely definitely did it. but obi-wan feels an incredible amount of both guilt for the loss of life at the hands of a boy who he has vouched for so ardently in the past and also a fervent and insane devotion to anakin, and he can’t let him suffer for his crime when obi-wan could suffer for his crime instead <3 that’s the way things should be)

(anakin would snap out of his stunned stupor and tell the judge and jury that obi-wan is innocent and he’s the actual murderer, but like. it’s really hot. it’s like really hot that obi-wan’s going to give his freedom away so that anakin can live untroubled. no one’s ever loved him so much, not even the devoted wife of his sitting in the audience. this is different. this is everything. this is like. breathtaking.)

#Kit’s silly lil AUs #obikin #im imagining this in a gffa setting #the chancellor has been killed by anakin #but way before anyone thinks the chancellor is a bad guy #or corrupt #so it’s like a crime crime #and obi-wan is like no that’s my padawan if he learned how to (checks notes) brutalize a persons skull with a paper weight then #I taught him that #so he confesses and uses their training bond to pull all the details and story from anakins mind #without anyone knowing #anyway of course obi-wan is sentenced and anakin breaks him out and they go live amongst the stars #as fugitives #and it’s pretty easy to convince obi-wan into bed with anakin when they’re both fugitives #like he already gave his freedom up for his padawan #what’s his body compared to that?#what’s his heart?

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ihavemanyhusbands · 11 months ago

Text

(Un)holy

Raven-haired angel, lover and executioner both, darkening your doorstep with his long shadow. When you looked up, his halo was so bright it obscured his face, except for his eyes; The flint that sparked a fire inside of you.

The echo of church bells rang in the cathedral of your mind and you trembled in anticipation. Was it really time for service? Communion? Sacrifice?

Of course, he’d come to get you. He loved you, after all. Oh, how he loved you! You could see it plain as day in his stare, ardent and ravenous.

His fingers dug into your soft wool, scratching behind your ears. Your eyes were wide and docile as a doe’s, glazed over with a devotion reserved solely for divinity. How prettily your cheeks flushed, too, at his nearness.

The thin rope he’d placed upon your throat tugged you forward, the other end held in his fist. This way, my sweet, follow my voice.

Oh, his voice…. Like a river of honey pouring forth from that bewitching smile. Sharp and luminous as a crescent moon, or a scythe glinting beneath it. He could never lead you astray.

He was a wolf-headed shepherd and you willingly lay yourself on a silver platter in front of him. You, who were his only sustenance, the one he constantly craved. The one he would devour time and time again.

His most sacred lamb, indeed.

His love was best felt when he tore you asunder, lapping you up like the most delectable ambrosia. You adored him all the while, praying for his claws and his fangs as they sank into your pliant flesh.

You said his name deliriously, pearlescent tears gathered at your lashes, over and over again — John, oh, John…

You, his first and only supplicant, the most faithful of subjects. So willing, so earnest. He truly did love you, in his way. After all, you got him closer to understanding godliness.

#this is more about THE VIBES OKAY #no real plot #i told u i wanted to get experimental #midnight mass fanfiction #john pruitt x reader #monsignor pruitt x reader #father paul x reader #this is a more evil version of him tho #minors dni

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rom-e-o · 3 days ago

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Make you melt:

Both our Veilgirls are short?

Emmrich on his knees for them, worshipping every inch of their frame, gazing up into their flushed expression as one might look upon a deity. "If I may be allowed a humble request: Please, allow your devoted servant to most diligently please you in whatever way you see fit, my queen."

OH MY GOSH, this is absolutely melt-worthy. (Ngl, I had a bakery shift today and was thinking about this ask the whole time.) I can already imagine it. Both girls are posed before him. Perhaps in a glorious gown, or perhaps partially undressed. Perhaps even nude. They're flushed, waiting to see his response.

Emmrich is a TALL man. So, when he kneels before her, I imagine he's eye-level with her core, or somewhere near that area. He's also very close. Close enough that she can feel his breath on her skin. They don't anticipate him sinking to his knees. No man has ever done that before, for either of them. I imagine it takes their breath away. Now, it's not the first time he's done that.

Then, he speaks to her. Like a man before an altar, and he asks her for the grace of being able to please her. In whatever way she would like. He asks her for the privilege of being with her, which is so in-character for him. This many sees his One True Love as someone who is high on a pedestal. Absolutely higher than him, which is where his lover belongs. He's merely a devoted subject, and if she wills it so, he will be her most ardent admirer. He will give her enduring affection. It ... almost feels like a proposal. Of varying degrees.

Her word is his command. And he speaks so genuinely. Truthfully.

I imagine it starts with a, "Yes."

And a look of relief washes over him. Relief and, heartbreakingly so, disbelief. A part of him honestly thought she'd push him away.

He, of course, begins with kisses. Her stomach, her chest, her arms, her hips, her legs. Then, he kisses a path to her face. He pays tribute to her cheeks, chin, forehead and even eyelid before finally descending upon her lips. He sighs blissfully at the contact, a moan from deep in his soul blending beautifully her with own gasp of pleasure.

Then, she sweeps her off her feet. Easy, once again, thanks to his strength and height (he's going to keep using that to his advantage, haha). She's then carried to the bed; his bed.

There, his worship becomes more physical, and he is persistent and devoted in following each and every request from his goddess perfectly.

#emmrook #emmrich volkarin #veilgirls #oc guinevere vynhalsyne #oc belisma ingellvar #HE'S SUCH A PARAGON OF A MAN <3

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crimsonhydrangeavn · 10 months ago

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If mc had A only fans?

Haha oh boy, that's certainly an interesting can of worms that you've opened there~ Garret simply wouldn't allow it. The only person who should be allowed to look upon your beauty is him, and he isn't willing to share you with strangers online. He'd force you to take it down and if you complained about the lack of revenue, he'd simply double whatever you were making at the time and give it to you as a sweet little allowance. You won't ever need to work when you're with him, he'll make sure of it.

Marcelo would probably be pretty uncomfortable with it. However he wouldn't be as ardently opposed to it as some of the others. He'd ask questions and probably mention how the thought of internet strangers objectifying your made him feel him feel uncomfortable, but he would ultimately respect your decision. Depending on what you said/ did, he might even be convinced to help out with some "content" that required a second person. Though he would be upset if you were intimate with other people after you got together, whether or not you could get away with it depending on how far you'd be willing to manipulate this devoted lovestruck fool. Camilla would be completely onboard with it! (Spoiler: She might already have one herself.) She'd help you come up with content ideas, and even insist on collaborating to create content you both could use. Hell, realistically she'd probably end up taking the role of your manager and coach you on the best ways to market yourself and create content, all completely free of charge of course. Rita would be pretty hesitant at first. She'd ask a lot of questions about it and really try to gauge the safety of it all. She's not particularly well versed when it comes those kinds of sites so she would do a lot of additional research to make sure she really understood what you were getting yourself into and any potential consequences you might deal with later down the road. Once she discussed everyhting with you, and you still wanted to go through with it, she would support you. She'd also be willing to star in some of your videos, however she would refuse to show her face and make sure her face was cropped out at all times as she toyed with you on screen. Depending on how it's brought up and presented to Teagan, it could go one of two ways. Either they're completely against it and will personally delete your account, your feelings be damned. OR they would insist on overseeing everything and taking part of all of your videos/ content. There's really no in between, either no one sees you, or if they do they'll be forced to see Teagan constantly claiming you as theirs. Essentially making sure that everyone knew who you belonged to.

#crimson hydrangea vn #visual novel #crimson hydrangea #yanderes #original character #yandere #yandere visual novel #yandere vn #male yandere #garret belmont #camilla bello #marcelo aguilar #teagan conners #rita miller #ask

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astrangetorpedo · 6 months ago

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Julien Baker: Accomplish the Most with the Least

by Zachary Gresham | Photos by Nolan Knight

Julien Baker is more visible than ever. After her low-budget debut, Sprained Ankle, made nearly every best-of 2015 list, the 21-year-old Baker signed with Matador Records and went home to Memphis to record her next record at the legendary Ardent Studios. Turn Out the Lights was released in October of 2017 to massive acclaim from critics, and was met with extreme devotion from audiences. It is the rare record that one can wholeheartedly describe as both monastically spare and cinematically epic, putting her in the heady company of Tori Amos, Nina Simone, and Jeff Buckley. We caught up with Julien shortly after her return to Tennessee from a quick tour of Japan to talk about guitars, Ardent, Craig Silvey, reverb, and doing more with less.

Turn Out the Lights is really beautiful.

Oh, thank you!

I find it difficult to disconnect from it emotionally for a while after I've turned it off, which is the sign of a quality record.

That means a lot to hear. Thank you.

You made it at Ardent in Memphis, but you did your previous album, Sprained Ankle, at a studio in Virginia, right?

Yeah. Spacebomb Studios. Most of the songs on Sprained Ankle were recorded at Spacebomb, but there are two on there (two with percussion, "Vessels" and "Brittle Boned") that were recorded at Cody Landers' house. He's an incredible engineer.

Were you recording yourself before that?

When I was in high school, the band I was in [The Star Killers, later known as Forrister] put out a full-length [American Blues] album that we recorded entirely in Cody Landers' attic. We were all kids, and he took on this project because we were his friends. It was a labor of love, as well as a learning experience. We had no idea what to ask for and what sounded good. It's funny, looking back now on what we were trying to emulate.

What were you trying to emulate?

Well, Matthew [Gilliam] – the drummer and one of my closest friends – our biggest influences are probably Manchester Orchestra and Circa Survive. We wanted to sound big, bombastic, and theatrical, but with sinewy, reverb-y guitars. The other guitarist listened to Wilco, Guster, and folk-adult-rock. It ended up sounding half like Whiskeytown and half like Sunny Day Real Estate. Those are mixed very, very differently. Also, and this is true with youth, is that everything is more exaggerated. You want things as more drastic, colorful caricatures of themselves. I always wanted a 30-second reverb tail on my vocals. The guitars had to be super loud. Matthew had the biggest snare that was sold at the local music store, because everything had to be so powerful. A better way to put it is that it lacks taste or restraint. I learned so much every day, after school sitting in front of Cubase and crafting a record. Before I ever went to MTSU [Middle Tennessee State University], that's how I learned how automation works, why you track drums first, or why you don't want to put a whole bunch of reverb on the drum kit, even though it sounds cool as an idea.

You went to MTSU to study recording?

I did. I went to MTSU because they had a really notable and reputable recording industry program, but my thing was always live sound. There's an audio engineering major, and within that you can specialize in recording arts or live sound. I don't have the meticulous drive to pick apart a waveform in a DAW. I make my own demos, but they're simply for mapping out songs. I can't sit there and master forever. When I was a kid I learned how to use a PA, and then they would let me run the console at shows. I thought, "Well, I could do that. I know how to do simple circuits, so maybe I could work at a repair shop repairing guitars." I went to school to learn that, systems optimization, and building stages at festivals. But because we were all in the same program – all of my friends who were wearing their headphones around their neck and mixing at the campus Starbucks – those were the people who would say, "Hey, I have some extra studio time. Do you want to come in and record?" I think that it is important to keep yourself open to opportunities to gain experience.

You've got to get in there.

Hands-on experience taught me so much. I took so many classes on systems optimization, signal flow, and live sound mixing. But what taught me how to find my way in a live sound setting was doing sound for bands at venues. What taught me how to act, how to vocalize what I wanted, or the protocol inside a recording studio, was being able to spend that time. I think that's a good thing that MTSU gives you. There are resources on hand to take the theoretical knowledge from the classroom and apply it in a real setting. Otherwise, I couldn't have gotten to meet [engineer Michael] Hegner and do the first demos of what would eventually become Sprained Ankle. He was sitting in the library and asked, "Does anybody have a song they want to do? I've got a session in 30 minutes and no one to fill it." I was like, "Yeah."

Of course, you had to put the time into having a song.

I didn't think about that. Writing is always a compulsory thing, so I always have literally hundreds of voice memos.

Is that how you make your demos, just voice memos on the phone?

That's how I make the very first part; the writing process. If there's an idea while I'm playing guitar that I think is worthy of being explored, then I'll make a short little 1-minute voice demo and save it as "cool riff 85," or whatever. Then later it will be fleshed out as a song with placeholder lyrics. I finally took the plunge and got a real DAW. I use Logic now and I do those little MIDI things for keyboards. I can plug straight into a little one-input interface and have my actual guitar sounds from my pedalboard. Before that, I was using a straight-up 2005 Audacity program that I found. It was free. It looked awful. No hate on Audacity. But my version was so old.

It's a great program for cutting up samples.

Yeah. It's really limited. I guess that's how you learn. I was also using a Toshiba computer from 2006, because I held off for so long, saying, "I'm not going to buy a computer. This one works fine." It's so hard for me to give in and upgrade my gear, because I get used to working within the parameters I've become familiar with.

From that perspective, let's talk about going to Ardent Studios. Listening to the record for the first time, I kept waiting for the gigantic production to kick in. Almost all the songs have a moment where I thought, "Here it comes." But it never does.

It's really interesting to me that you say that. I felt self-conscious in the opposite way. I thought, "There're eight vocal tracks and strings, and my buddy's playing clarinet. This is so much." By comparison, it's much more expansive than Sprained Ankle. I was worried. I had this oxymoronic fear that it would be too similar to my past material and also too different, but not in the right ways. I wanted to have it be very dramatic – and have the parts that seem like soaring ballad climaxes – because I'm a sucker for that kind of dynamic. I think it's very emotive. But I also wanted to be careful that I didn't take so much of a maximalist approach that I weighed the song down, or it got to this critical mass where there's too much going on.

That's an incredibly mature perspective. I don't mean this because you're a younger person, but just in general. There are people who never get there.

Thank you. I'm going to acknowledge your compliment; I didn't take it as a thing about my age. But I agree. I think that restraint is such an important skill in music. For a long time when I was playing guitar in a band – and I think this had a lot to do with my insecurities about being a female in a male-dominated scene – but every time we played a show, I had to rip a crazy solo so that everybody knew I was "good." Still, one of my primary lurking fears about performing the material that I have today is that if I have a song that's three chords of quarter notes, everybody's going to be bored and put to sleep. But that's the challenge. Restraint is such an important thing. Just because you have every single color in your palette doesn't mean that every single color serves the painting. I think there are artists where the maximalist approach serves them well. When you think about a Bruce Springsteen record, like Born to Run. Or have you listened to Kimbra?

Yeah. A lot going on there.

Or St. Vincent. There are so many sounds; it's insane. But I think the challenge with my music is figuring out how to make it interesting while still leaving it pretty sparse. It's an interesting interplay. How many points of dynamic can you introduce into the song, as subtly as possible?

Do you go into recording feeling like you're going to do what you do live, but with a little extra?

There was this reciprocal relationship between the live and the recorded for this record. Another thing I wanted was not to say, "I don't know how I'm going to pull this off live, so I'm not going to explore this possibility." Now I do the weird play-guitar-and-piano-at-the-same-time. I decided if I wanted to have clarinet in there, then it'd be worth it to add clarinet. I think I was a lot more particular about the instrumentation on this record because I knew that it would be received in a different way. With Sprained Ankle, I was recording the songs as they had formed in my free time, using my looping pedal or whatever. With these songs, I sat down with a spiral [notebook] and mapped them out. I thought, "This song is tedious. What small embellishment can I add that will change the song enough to re-focus the listener's interest, without detracting or obscuring the totality of the song?" One of the best pieces of advice I've ever gotten was from Josh Scogin [of bands The Chariot and '68]. We were at a show, and we were talking about how The Chariot's records are so interesting. They'll have this incredibly heavy breakdown, but it'll be free with no time signature at all. Or the song will completely stop and then something from Atlanta AM radio will play, and then the song will pick back up. "How do you know to do that? Is it just a novelty, or what?" Josh said, "I think you have to think of what will make people back up the track because they missed a thing." You don't want to make a song that goes on in a predictable fashion without introducing new elements.

You got an incredible guitar sound on the record. You tour with a [Fender] Twin and Deluxe, right?

Yes. We recorded a lot of Turn Out the Lights on my little 1x12 Deluxe, but I also have a 2x12 Blues Deluxe that I took the speakers out of and replaced with Warehouse guitar speakers called Veteran 30s. I got the higher-wattage option because there's way more gain room before it breaks up. My one gripe about Fender amps is that they break up too soon.

By design. A lot of people want blues.

Exactly. I get it. With the Twin, it's fine. It's a really sparkly break up. The Deluxe amps, I like the warmness of them. But when you start to break up such a warm, midrange-y amp, it gets fuzzy really quickly. I really like those speakers in that amp. I use so many of my instruments partly because they sound the way I want them to, but also partly because it took so much work for me to get them to sound the way they do that maybe my goal and my ability met in the middle. Especially with the wiring. I have a [Fender] Telecaster that I modded, and it took so long for me to figure that out when I was 18, trying to read a circuit diagram on how to get your pickups to go in series or parallel, and add that little option with the 4-switcher. Once I finally did it, I was like, "This is what I want, for sure." Whether or not it was what I was going for, I was so committed to doing it.

Do you go back and forth between series and parallel?

No. I have the blue guitar, it's a Mexican-made Tele, and then I have an American Tele, which is the butterscotch one. I leave it on series all the time. You have to put aftermarket pickups in Fender guitars. The Telecaster has the plucky clarity that I like; but I think everybody plays them so hot and bright, because that's the Nashville sound. I thought of Telecasters as country music guitars until I saw Now, Now and Circa Survive on tour. Both the guitarists were playing Telecasters. I was like, "What is happening? How are you guys getting this sound out of a Telecaster?" Then I used my next paycheck to buy a Mexican Tele. I love it.

Were you using Fender amps already?

Yeah. The first amp that I used was this Vox digital combo that was bad news. Well, it wasn't bad news, because I think those amps that have the effects built-in are good for learning. I wasn't playing big shows, so why would I need a $700 amp? The first real amp I bought was the Fender I replaced the speakers in. I had it for a really long time. Then I bought the 1x12 on tour when the tubes of my other amp broke, and now I play through stereo amps. It's interesting that the idea to do that never occurred to me, even though I had two amps on hand. Even on Sprained Ankle, I played through one amp.

You use so much reverb and delay, it's perfect for what you're doing.

Sometimes we'll be at a festival and I'll play through one amp. The way that my looping system is totally jury-rigged, I can use it into the first and second channels on a Fender amp.

It's a wonderful, underused feature, having the two channels on those amps.

It is. So much of my musical knowledge is very de facto and functional, and it doesn't result in a logical understanding of the mechanisms I'm using. On my Deluxe, there're two input jacks. I'd say, "Oh, I always plug into input 2 because it sounds different, and I like that sound." I didn't know until October of 2017 that one of them is high gain and one of them is lower gain. I had no idea. It sounded different. Now I have two A-B-C-Y splitters on my board; I send out from those two channels a dry channel and a reverb channel on one amp, and then yet a third reverb channel into a different amp.

Is the reverb channel 100 percent saturated?

It's all the way on, all the time. The dry channel is there in case the two stereo outs of my looper go off, because I'm paranoid about my loop breaking and there being no safety net for me to play through. I was not always that wise. I have been brought low by humiliation, the great teacher. Now I have one fail-safe channel. The rest of my loops come out on different outputs.

Do you use the amp reverb?

I used to have it pulled up to quarter to two almost all the time, but now I like the flat character of the amp enough, and I have three or four different reverbs. The Strymon blueSky is always on. I forget that I have it on my board, because it stays on. It's the staple of my tone.

I read that you used a [Neumann] U 67 for recording your voice. Is that right?

Yeah.

Did you do a shootout, or did you know going in you wanted a 67?

We tried out that mic because Calvin Lauber, engineer for Turn Out the Lights] suggested it. On Sprained Ankle, I recorded part of it on a [Shure] SM7B. We used a couple of different microphones on that one. I don't remember what the other one was. With the Neumann, I'm very reluctant to use mics with so much crispness, because I think my voice has a tendency to get really nitty and bland.

I respectfully disagree, but go on.

Well, okay. Maybe I'm hyper-critical of my voice. But that vocal mic sounded really nice, especially in the room. Once we started tracking with that, I was like, "Yeah, I'm really, really happy with this vocal sound." It's an incredible microphone. It sounds like it's capturing what's happening to your ears with intense clarity. Whenever I make my little Logic demos, I go in there and notch out 2.5 to 3 kHz, because it sounds really annoying. When I started singing in a band, I wanted the vocals to be pushed all the way to the back and ‘verbed out. I was self-conscious about my voice. I never really wanted to be a singer. I wanted to play guitar. Then our first show came up, and we didn't have a lead singer, so I said, "I'll sing until we find a singer." Then I became the singer. Every single time we performed live, someone would say, "That was really good. You should sing louder!"

Did you try to change the way you sing?

By the time The Star Killers had been a band for a while, I would do the shouty scream thing. But then that became a gimmick of my voice. It was atonal. It was less about the pitch and more about the intensity and having the gang vocals part where everybody sings along. It took touring for a while as a solo musician for me to become completely comfortable with my voice as an instrument. That was also probably because I still smoked at the time we recorded Sprained Ankle. Singing was really taxing on my voice. When I had not smoked for a little over a week, the way that my vocal control and the timbre of my voice changed was amazing. I thought, "This cannot be real." That made me much more confident, and it made me take singing seriously. My voice was no longer just a vehicle for poetry that I was using to "Leonard Cohen" out my lyrics. I think that's also what made recording this record a lot different. I was more ambitious with what I could do.

How long did you have at Ardent Studios?

I booked out six days, intentionally. We ended up staying there 12 hours a day. Time flies when you're in the studio, because it's fun, and exciting, and interesting. I think I limited it that way because of that fear of overproducing the record. If I gave myself too much time, I would fall into a paralysis of option anxiety. In hindsight it might have been good to have a deadline, but also take a rest. Record for a week, take a month off, let the tracks sit, and then come back with fresh ears. Maybe I was over-restrained, like I was overcompensating for my fear of overproducing.

It sounds like discipline is a huge part of your whole process.

Oh, definitely. I talk about this with so many of my friends in music. This land of words like discipline, motivation, and obsession are all fluidly bound. For any of the players on the record, like Cam [Boucher] from Sorority Noise, or Camille [Faulkner], who tours with me, the way that those people interact with music is almost obsessive, but in a way that drives them to be the most optimal players they can be. Not in a competitive way. I really don't think that trying to be the best you can be means that you have to be obsessed with being the best musician out there, or being superior.

It's its own reward.

Exactly. I think the fact you say that discipline is a huge part of the record is because maybe it wasn't that I had to apply an effort to sit down and map out the songs in a spiral notebook, or think about them and listen to them over, and over again. It's what preoccupies my mind all the time, so the only way to abate the anxiety of creating is to be engaged with it. But, at the same time, that's why I only wanted to book out six days. It's really important to get a great raw sound. We did a lot of setting levels for what would basically be how the record sounded.

It's a huge advantage not to "fix it in post."

Exactly! Get it right the first time. This thing that Calvin and I would say to each other all the time is, "It's worth it." When I would record a vocal track and it was almost what I wanted, and I felt I could live with it, we could nudge a note, or we could comp it. But I had the time. I'm not flying out to L.A. to do a two-hour recording session and we have to comp it. We had the time to get it right, and it's worth it. We ended up tracking a whole bunch of weird piano, guitar, and keyboard tracks that didn't make it on the record. But what if it had been awesome? It's worth it. When you start with good ingredients and you do less work on the back-end to try to wrangle it into sounding good, it's so much easier. And it sounds very pure and more organic, because I think you can tell when a song has had to be manipulated.

You can. It's almost never going to be as good as it would have been.

Exactly. There are so many great records that are tracked live. That's how recording used to be. Now I'm going to sound like one of those people who thinks that antiquated methods of recording are the only way and swears by tape only. No, there are amazing things we can use Pro Tools for. But I think the ethos of old-school recording is getting a great live sound. I watched a documentary about Tom Dowd [Tom Dowd & The Language of Music]. He plays the faders like a keyboard. It's so cool. Whenever I watch those documentaries, I'm amazed at that process, because it's happening to those people in real time; it's just their job. They have this very colloquial relationship with the music. Chilling out with Aretha Franklin and not knowing that it would change history. What I think you glean from those is not that it was better in the past, and we should only record to tape, and only use old vintage equipment. I think the process is that you should be able to accomplish the most with the least. You should know how to utilize a room, or you should know when it's enough. I think sometimes the necessity of having only four tracks, or having only eight channels, or what have you, makes you be more discerning. The options aren't endless. The time is not endless. You make a leaner, refined version.

Craig Silvey mixed Turn Out the Lights?

Yeah. We had a mixing day with Calvin; then he and I shot some mixes back and forth. I had very specific things I wanted out of the mix. It was really observable what Craig changed, but he didn't necessarily remove or add anything. I was amazed at how much he was able to add to the tracks. I think the people we involved on the record were all ones we wanted to use, either because of their prior work, or our prior history with them, indicated that they know how to be tasteful. Especially with Craig Silvey. I knew a few of the notable records that he had done, like Arcade Fire, but when I started to look at the breadth of the work he had been a part of, it was amazing.

Did you choose Craig, or did Matador say they wanted him?

Matador brought the idea. I was reluctant because I wanted the least tampering. They said, "We have this guy we think you'd really like. Give it a chance." I'll give anything a chance; but if I didn't like it, I was ready to say, "No." We sent a test mix, and when I got it back, I was like, "We should have the record mixed by this guy." It was ultimately a collaborative effort between Calvin being so personal and central to my life as a person and a friend, and knowing what I wanted, as well as Craig's expertise and impeccable ear. It made for a really special thing.

(link)

#this offers an interesting look at jb’s recording process #i bought this issue to gain access to the full interview so please don’t repost to twitter thx <3 #boygenius #julien baker #calvin lauber #tape op magazine #2018 #may 2018 #interview #archival

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odyssean-flower · 1 year ago

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The Winding Path of Fate Chapter 3 - Spring: An Agreeable Marriage

Masterpost Pairing: Neuvillette x Female Reader Summary: You and Neuvillette decide to get into a marriage of convenience. Warnings: None except for restrictive gender roles, also for some reason Fontaine’s regency england (sort of) now? Note: I update this story on AO3 first so please subscribe to the fic there if you’d like to read it faster Note 2: If you want to be on the taglist for this fic, please make a reply to this post, send a message or send a private ask

Have a pic of Neuvillette staring contemptuously at Venti

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“Monsieur and Madame, I am here today to declare to you that I am deeply and ardently with your daughter, and I would like to ask for her hand in marriage.”

Very nice delivery, you thought. Although, his facial expressions could really use some work.

You and Neuvillette were currently sitting in the small parlor of your family home, facing your parents, who were staring at Neuvillette like he had just grown a second head. Which perhaps would be less shocking than the fact that the Chief Justice of Fontaine had just declared his intentions to marry their daughter.

“What!?” you hear your sister scream out from behind the closed parlor door. Your parents had wisely made her wait outside when Neuvillette made his visit.

“P-Pardon me, Monsieur Neuvillette?” your father finally spoke, blinking rapidly like he was still convinced this was a dream. You couldn’t blame him. “Could you please repeat what you just said?”

“Certainly, sir,” Neuvillette proceeded to do just that.

“I-I see...” your father said. “So, just to confirm, you wish to marry our oldest daughter, is that correct, Monsieur?”

“Yes, sir. It is my dearest wish. My heart yearns for it,” Neuvillette nodded.

You heard your sister squeal behind the door. This must be like one of those pulpy romance novels come to life for her. Although, I wish Monsieur Neuvillette look less like he’s informing my parents of a death.

Your mother brought her hands to her mouth. “Monsieur Neuvillette, do you truly mean what you say?”

“Yes, I do. Every word of it.”

“Might you tell us...why you want to marry her? I don’t mean to question your judgment—my husband and I raised both our daughters to be fine ladies of good character, though our oldest can be a bit stubborn in her ways at times—but as you probably already know, we are not a particularly wealthy or influential family, so it is quite shocking for us to hear that you, Monsieur, would choose our daughter as your wife.”

Neuvillette was silent for a moment. Oh no, perhaps he hadn’t anticipated this question, you thought. Maybe he just assumed that my parents would automatically agree and ecstatically give their blessing. I can’t say I blame him, I expected the same thing--

“In my humble opinion, Madame, wealth and rank are trivial when it comes to love,” Neuvillette said, looking straight into your mother’s eyes. “I was drawn to your daughter for her wit, sensibility, and devotion. There is no other person who I would choose to share my future with.”

Okay, now he’s overdoing it. You watched as your mother blushed under Neuvillette’s intense gaze. There was muffled screaming coming from You would probably be blushing too, but thankfully, you had become rather adept at controlling your facial expressions over the years.

“And you, dear, how do you feel about this?” your father addresses you at last.

You cleared your throat and straightened up.

“As Neuvi said--”

“Neuvi!?” your parents, as well as your sister, exclaimed in unison. You could feel Neuvillette suddenly turn to look at you and had to resist the urge to bury your face in your hands. Your family’s shock was understandable. You never used nicknames for anyone except your closest family members and friends.

This was all calculated, of course, after a long and fraught brainstorming session.

“Ahem, as Neuvi said, he is in love with me, and I reciprocate his feelings wholeheartedly. I believe this marriage will be a beneficial one for our family, which is just one of the many reasons why I accepted his proposal immediately.”

As explanations for marriage went, this wasn’t the most romantic or heartwarming. But then again, you were never much of a romantic, and if you had said something about your “love for him being as boundless as the ocean” or that you’d “die if you weren’t allowed to be with him,” that would surely set off alarm bells for your parents.

You were once again proven right when your parents nodded without probing any further.

“Well,” your father said, standing up with your mother. “Your mother and I would like to discuss this amongst ourselves for a little bit. This is very sudden, after all.”

“But of course,” Neuvillette said. “Take all the time you need.”

Your parents left the parlor, blocking your sister from rushing into the room as they did so.

Now it was just the two of you.

Next to you, Neuvillette calmly took a sip of tea. You couldn’t help but feel how surreal it was to see the Chief Justice sitting on the worn couch you used to play pirates on with your sister. The entire past week had felt like a dream, like you were watching yourself from above.

You decided to voice what was bothering you. “Monsieur Neuvillette, I must apologize my earlier discourtesy.”

“Discourtesy?”

“Yes. I referred to you by a nickname and didn’t tell you about it beforehand. It must have caught you by surprise.”

“It did,” Neuvillette admitted. “But it wasn’t discourteous in the least.”

“Ah.”

Another silence fell between the two of you. It wasn’t exactly awkward, but you felt some strange need to fill it. After all, this was a scheme plotted by the two of you. Surely there should be more communication? Feedback, perhaps?

“Your speech earlier was very good,” you said, grasping for a topic. “If I were my parents, I would have believed that you truly meant it. I never knew the Iudex could lie so well. If there is one critique I have, it’s that your facial expression should match your words better.”

You had meant that half-jokingly, but Neuvillette nodded like he was seriously taking your words into account. “My apologies. I have often been told that my lack of expression has caused misunderstandings. It’s something I have been struggling with for a long time, so I must continue to work on it.”

Now you felt angry at yourself. You had also been told by many well-meaning people that you should smile more and look friendlier, and it had never failed to annoy you.

Just as you opened your mouth to apologize, Neuvillette added, “Also, not everything I said was a lie.”

You stare at him in shock. “What--”

Your words were cut off when the parlor door opened and your parents walked in, with your sister leading the way. It seemed that she finally convinced them to let her in. Your mother’s eyes looked puffy. She must have been moved to tears of joy over the fact that her daughter, who seemed destined to a life of spinsterhood, finally found a match, and with the Chief Justice no less.

Your father looked at you both, then smiled broadly. “Your character is impeccable, Monsieur Neuvillette, and if our daughter wishes to marry you, we have no reason not to trust her judgment. We give you two our blessing.”

Your sister squealed and clapped her hands, and your parents looked upon the two of you with warm eyes. They were probably expecting hugs or even a kiss between the two of you.

After no such thing occurred, your mother broke the awkward silence and turned to you. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so happy that you are finally going to experience matrimonial bliss for yourself! Now you don’t have to waste so much time and effort on all that governess nonsense!”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“Oh, is that how you met?” your sister said, her cheeks flushed like she was the one getting married here. “At the Palais Mermonia? I knew it, there was something going on between the two of you at the opera house!”

“The wedding...” your mother started to pace. “There is much to be done for preparations. Now, we are not exactly wealthy, but a wedding with the Chief Justice needs to have a certain gravity and extravagance to it. Don’t worry, we’ll see what we can manage...”

“There’s no need to worry about that, Mother,” you interrupted. “Because there won’t be a wedding.”

“What?”

You stare at Neuvillette in disbelief, completely forgetting to be polite. Did you hear him right? Neuvillette didn’t seem to be the type to joke around, but you dearly hoped he was doing that right now.

“My apologies, I understand that it is a great shock to hear this so suddenly,” Neuvillette said, his voice even and smooth as though he didn’t propose to you out of the blue. “But after hearing your story, I think this arrangement can be of great benefit to the both of us. You require a place to stay, and I am in need of a spouse.”

“You are?” You weren’t up to date with the latest gossip, but even you knew that Neuvillette, in all his long years as the Chief Justice, had never looked for or even expressed interest in having a spouse. “Why now?”

For the first time since you’ve known him, a flicker of annoyance appeared in Neuvillette’s eyes, but it didn’t seem directed at you. He let out a long-suffering sigh that sounded suspiciously similar to the kind your mother would give you. “Furina--the Hydro Archon—has been getting increasingly insistent about me, in her words, ‘experiencing the joys of matrimony and companionship,’ to the point where it has become difficult for me to work uninterrupted.”

You hadn’t been expecting that answer. It was hard to imagine Neuvillette feeling pressured by anyone, but the Hydro Archon most likely would be one of the few people in this nation—maybe even this continent—to be able to do that. You wondered what their relationship was like.

“It can be a temporary arrangement, just long enough for Furina to lose interest, and for you to get your license and find a new place to live. Don’t worry, I will do everything in my power to maintain the privacy of you and your family. We can perform the marriage quickly and discreetly to avoid any attention from the press.”

Your mouth hung open as you listened to him, but what was shocking you even more was that you weren’t immediately standing up and leaving. “You...have certainly put a lot of thought into this already, Monsieur. How long have you been considering this?”

“Since we ran into each other at the Palais Mermonia,” he admitted. “But I hadn’t initially planned on asking you because you were so set on your own goals.”

Goals that were now completely up in the air. “How convenient for you that I have fallen into this predicament, then, Monsieur.” A thought just occurred to you. “Wait...you didn’t have anything to do with me being placed on the waiting list, do you?”

“I can assure you, I had no involvement, nor would I ever use my power in such a way. In fact, I will swear it upon my position as the Iudex of Fontaine.”

The certain, resolute look in his eyes made you believe him. Neuvillette was well-known to be a principled man, but you knew that even the kindest façade could hide a dark underbelly.

“This isn’t some scheme to make me your, your, um, kept woman or anything, is it?” The words sounded absurd as soon as they came out of your mouth, but you had to ask. “Because if it is, then let me tell you, Monsieur, I may be of an inferior status than you, but I do still have my self-respect, and--”

“Please, Miss [Name],” Neuvillette interrupted you. The horrified look on his face took away the rest of what you were going to say. He looked deep into your eyes. “I will once again promise you that I have no such intentions towards you, nor will I ever. If you need further assurance, we can sign a contract that will stipulate that I never lay a hand on you.”

You were taken aback by his intensity. Luckily, there was no one sitting near you two, or else this would be all over the papers tomorrow.

"I think that’s going a bit too far...” you said a bit weakly. And how would it even be enforced? You thought.

There was one thing that was still bothering you. “So, why me? I’m sure there are plenty of people that would be a better candidate than me. I am not exactly the most prospective match for a man of your status, and we hardly know each other.”

Neuvillette stroked his chin thoughtfully as he stared at you. For a moment, you feared that he was going to say something encouraging, but instead, he said, “I don’t see what makes you unfit. Neither you nor your family are involved with Fontaine’s political factions, you don't seem to be romantically involved with anyone,” he paused for confirmation here. You nodded, and he continued. “You have a pleasant temperament that is well-suited to my own...and I enjoy your company. Is that not enough for an agreeable marriage?”

You found that last part a bit baffling. Thinking back to your few interactions, you came across as considerably curt and disinterested. Plus there was that one time where you rambled on about history for around fifteen minutes... Did that qualify as enjoyable company for him? You found it hard to believe. There must be some other ulterior motive behind this. However, you were in no position to ask him about it.

“I suppose it is,” you said. Neither of you brought up the subject of love.

You licked your dry lips. Solely relying on someone else’s sympathy was unbearable for you. “You said this arrangement is temporary... I assume this arrangement will last until I obtain my license?”

It was stated in the requirements for becoming a licensed governess was that one must be unmarried at the time of receiving the license. There was also a strong preference for schoolteachers to be young and unmarried, though it wasn’t a hard requirement. If you divorced before that time, though, you wouldn't technically be breaking the rules.

"We will of course do everything the proper way,” Neuvillette, observing your silence, seemed to be trying to grasp what you were thinking. “We will ask your parents for their blessing and obtain a marriage license, and hold a wedding ceremony, if you like--”

“No ceremony,” you said immediately. “I don’t care to go through all that trouble.”

Neuvillette nodded. “I’m very glad to hear that. To tell you the truth, I share your feelings on that matter, and my schedule this month is already too busy.”

You nodded. “It would be best if this whole affair is as quiet and low-fuss as possible.”

“I agree. Ah, my apologies. I don’t mean to imply that I’m ashamed of marrying you, or to pressure you into an agreement, for that matter, I know this isn’t part of your plans--”

“I never implied anything of the sort,” you said, sounding harsher than you meant it. You were starting to get a good idea of what kind of person Neuvillette was. “And I haven’t said no, have I, Monsieur? I accept your proposal.”

The corners of Neuvillette’s mouth lifted. “Thank you, Miss [Name]. I will do my utmost to ensure that everything goes smoothly.”

The two of you shook hands. You proposed a toast with the Fonta, but he politely declined. Despite the clouds from earlier, it did not rain that day.

It was a fine spring day. The skies were clear, and warm sunlight fell upon the land. Flowers were blooming, the once-naked trees were dotted with green shoots, and the singing of birds could be heard everywhere. It was a good day for a wedding.

Unfortunately, you wouldn’t be able to experience it, because you and Neuvillette were getting a civil marriage.

The marriage services office was tucked away in a quiet corner of the Palais Mermonia. By the time you arrived there, Neuvillette was already sitting on a chair outside the office, waiting for you. He was wearing something similar to his usual outfit, which was already plenty formal. He looked up when you approached.

“Good morning, Monsieur Neuvillette,” you curtseyed. “It’s a lovely day today.”

“Good morning, Miss [Name],” Neuvillette responded, standing up. He paused, taking you in. You were wearing your nicest dress, a white muslin with a deep blue sash, as well as a silk bonnet trimmed with blue ribbon and garnished with lilacs. You had bought it with the money your mother had insisted on giving you to buy something nice for your marriage. Even though you didn’t like the long-winded extravagance of a wedding ceremony, you still wanted to look nice for your first and last marriage.

Neuvillette was still staring at you. You shuffled your feet in discomfort. Was there something wrong with your appearance? Maybe you should have just dressed normally; this was just a marriage of convenience after all.

However, he surprised you by saying, “Blue looks good on you.”

You blinked. Then blinked again. You could feel your cheeks warming. Having a non-family member or friend compliment your appearance was a rarity for you. “Th-thank you, sir.” You were about to say that he looked good in blue as well but stopped yourself when you realized how dumb that sounded. He always wore blue.

But he did smell different today, you noticed. Did he put on cologne? Should you mention that? But before you could say anything, he held out his hand. You stared at it for a few moments before you realized that he wanted you to take it.

Silently, the two of you walked through the office door. The license had already been purchased by Neuvillette, and all that was there was left to do was to sign the registry with a witness. Your parents couldn’t make it, so your witness was a Melusine named Liath. You had expected the Hydro Archon to serve that role, but perhaps she was too busy.

The clerk in charge of the office was trying very hard not to stare too much at the both of you. Neuvillette had promised you that the marriage would be kept as private and lowkey as possible, but you knew that it was only a matter of time before it got out.

“Monsieur Neuvillette, Miss [Name], welcome,” the clerk said. “The marriage registry is on this desk. Please feel free to sign it whenever you like.”

The clerk’s voice sounded too loud in the quiet room.

A thought suddenly struck you. This was going to be the last time you would hear yourself be called “Miss.” From today onwards, you would be “Madame Neuvillette.”

It’s only temporary, you reminded yourself.

Neuvillette stepped forward and picked up the pen, then wrote down his name with a firm hand. He then passed the pen to you. You took it with a surprisingly steady hand.

You wrote down your name, right next to Neuvillette’s. The black ink stood out starkly against the white pages. You wondered if your names would be crossed out or painted over with white when you divorced. There was so much you didn’t know about the marriage process.

The clerk signed their own name next to confirm that the marriage had been witnessed and approved. “Congratulations on your marriage!” they said with a bright smile. “I wish you two all the happiness and bliss in your married life.”

“Thank you,” you two said in unison.

There were no bells, no cheers. But it didn’t matter.

The clerk looked at you two expectantly, probably for a kiss. The two of you just stared back at them. They cleared their throat awkwardly and began to rummage through the large filing cabinets behind them.

“Shall we go, then?” you asked Neuvillette—your husband. You were supposed to be moving into his house today, and you had to return to the boarding house to get your things.

“Wait,” he said, and took out a small box from his pocket. He opened it, revealing two unadorned silver rings. The color of his hair, you thought. “May I help you put it on?”

“Okay,” you nodded and held out your hand. He grasped it between his fingers. He’s doing his best to not touch me too much, you realized. You watched as he slid the band carefully down your ring finger. The cold metal sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. The ring fitted perfectly.

You took the other ring and asked him to hold out his hand. It was gloved, so you gently pulled it off. You slid the ring down his finger, willing your hand to remain steady. You could feel him watching you. What was going through his mind right now? Was he feeling relieved? Resigned to a year of being bound to a near stranger?

After you were finished, you stepped back and looked at him. It was over. You were now married to this man.

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windsweptinred · 2 years ago

Text

Metamorphosis Part Seven

(It's finished, it's actually finished!!)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

The great stained glass windows of the palace throne room shifted in a continual blur of pattern and colour. At the base of the vast staircase below, Night watched them with concern. Their disharmony, a clear sign all was not well with their master.

The young Endless in question stood upon the first step, facing him, Matthew perched loyally upon his shoulder. He looked, for all the world, like a slighter, pale miniature of Night, tall and dark as he was with Dusk balanced proudly on his own. Time stood at Night's side, one hand placed at the small of his back, resting gently on the cool leather. The other, carefully cradling the treasured baby blanket, Night had passed him.

Dream fiddled with his sleeves once more. An anxious tick, Night pondered fleetingly, just like Time. Those life green eyes looked to them imploringly. "Must you go?"

Night gave a slight, weary smile, "It is time we took our leave." He looked to the imposing stone throne above, sat empty and expectant. "And you must see to your realm, your highness."

Dream followed his gaze, expression somewhat troubled, before slowly smoothing to one of acceptance and determination. He turned back to the pair, chin high and declared in a stately manner, "I will make you proud." Time smiled warmly in response. "You already have Dream." The young man nodded in silent gratitude, eyes wet.

"You will find your tools of office in Lucienne's safe keeping." Night informed him softly. "I had meant to hand them to you personally, earlier. However…"

"It all turned into a colossal cluster fuck? " Time offered.

Night bit the inside of his cheek, as Dusk looked at him sharply in appalled dismay at Time's words. He ran a finger over her flanks placatingly. This is 600 years of refinement before you Dusk, he thought. And imagined with a quirk of his lips, how his handmaiden would have reacted to the scoundrel he had encountered in 1389.

Turning his attention once more to Dream, he continued, demeanour serious. "They will help you grow gradually accustomed to your power, but do not become reliant upon them."

Dream's eyes broke their shared gaze, fluttering about in a lost manner. Before he looked to Night with an expression of deep anguish. "I remember." He admitted almost inaudibly.

Night screwed his eyes shut. Bitter grief flooding his heart. He had so ardently hoped the youth had been spared some of the worst cruelties dealt to him. That he had remembered the who's and hows of Dream of the Endless.. Not all.

"I wish you did not… I am so very sorry" He whispered mournfully. "For you to be burdened with such monstrous memories… I would like you to have met the dreamers afresh, with benevolence and hope. Not already tainted by my own experiences."

Dream shook his head emphatically. "It is not your fault. It is not theirs either."

Night stared at him in wonder. Oh my darling boy, how did one such as you come from such brutal beginnings?

"If you ever need… " He started.

"I shall call for you." Dream assured him. "I swear it!"

Night took Dream's face in hands, running his thumbs lovingly over his cheeks. Eyes of blue and green bled to matching swathes of night. Bright stars flaring within both at recognition of the other.

"Do not grow proud." Night attempted to sound stern in warning. But his voice was hoarse, and the tender concern in his words won out. "Take heed of Lucienne's wise counsel. Trust Matthew in all things, he will never abandon you. Do not fear calling on the Corinthian's aid, for there is little he would not do for you if you asked it of him."

Dream nodded, gentle tears slipping from his eyes, which Night swept away without comment. Leaning forward, he placed a kiss, full of devotion upon the Dream's forehead, whispering into place his lips had marked with urgency." Remember your duty is not all you are Daniel."

Dream's breath hitched, and he clutched at Night's coat with an unrelenting grip. Time stepped forward, running a hand affectionately through the youths white locks, stopping to cradle the back of his head. Dream looked at him, eyes gleaming.

"Visit Hippolyta Hall." Time instructed gravely. "Let her know you are safe and whole. Continue to do so from time to time, even if all it brings you is discomfort and her misery. Do not leave her to suffer a parents greif. Pomsie me, Dream."

Dream glanced at Time, then Night, with a great, sorrowful look of understanding."I will, I promise."

They withdrew from him, Time knocking a gentle knuckle against his cheek as they did. "Stay hearty and hale for me." He whispered, pleadingly. "Do nothing reckless."

At Dream's shoulder, Matthew puffed out his small feathered chest. "I've got this. I'll take care of the kid. Don't you worry!"

Night smiled at the raven, caressing his head with a gentle finger. "You must take care of each other."

A heavy, awkward silence fell over them and Dream looked forlornly to the floor. He scrubbed childishly at his eyes, valiantly attempting to regain his composure, sniffing intermittently. Finally he straightened his posture and bowed low at the waist, the perfect picture of decorum save for his still hitching breath. "Farewell then, your Excellencies."

Night dipped his head courteously in response, eyes bright. Time gave a curt nod, eyes downcast. He hooked an arm around Night who sagged into his side, looking briefly to the raven on the young man's shoulder. "I'll leave the window open for you Matthew, don't be a stranger." Then with a despondent sigh, he turned them and they began their way slowly towards the ornate entrance way.

"Wait!"

They had barely reached the doors of the grand chamber, before Dream raced after them. He threw himself at Night, causing Dusk and Matthew to take to the air in a flurry of feathers. Hooking his arms tightly about Night's neck and tucking his head determinedly under his chin, Dream snuggled into Night's collar bone as if someone would try and wrench him away. "Goodbye Mother," Dream whispered intimately into Night's skin.

Night wove his arms about him, hugging back with equal fervour. Tears welled in his eyes as he clutched Dream's curls, "My sweet boy… My sweet child." They stayed there for a while, swaying slightly against each other. Then Night pulled back, unlatching Dream's arms just enough to shrug off his coat and drape it over the light, white tunic that covered Dream's shoulders. It swamped his smaller form, bottom trailing across the floor. But as the lining of infinite night skies swaddled Dream's body, Night felt the youth's essence wrapped securely within his own and let out an overjoyed breath. "Wear it when you venture forth." He insisted. "So that I may know you are safe." Placing another impassioned kiss to the young man's head.

Already, the leather was fading from midnight black, to storm cloud grey to a brilliant starshine white. The trailing ends, curving and rippling into soft, rolling vapours of cloud and mist. Dream pushed his arms through the sleeves, and Night laughed wetly as the now bleached cuffs hung ridiculously low over his fingers.

Time gave an amused huff, "You'll grow into it."

Dream looked questioningly to Time then, who opened his arms wide, a vibrant grin across his face as Dream flung himself into his embrace. A matching beam spread across his lips. "Father."

Time clutched him to his chest with all his might. As he did so, sand drew from the stone floor beneath them, swirling lazily about them. "We share the sands of Time and creation. Remember, I will be there, in every grain! " He swore resolutely. "Trust it to protect you, to defend you, as I would."

Dream nodded into his shoulder as Time rocked him one last time, then released him. The sand slunk back to the floor, remelding back into the stone.

Dream looked to both of them beseechingly as Matthew returned to rest upon his shoulder once more. "Visit as much as you are able!"

"You couldn't keep us away." Time insisted, as Dusk settled carefully upon Night's forearm, mindful of his now bare flesh.

Dream pulled them to him again, one last time. And stood, nestled happily between them. Behind them, the stained glass windows rippled, before settling peacefully into place. To the left, Night. Resplendent in a gradient gown of dusk to dawn, profile framed in shining moonbeams. From a raised hand, stardust swirled artfully.

To the right, Time clothed in vibratant robes of nature's rich bounty. Behind him, a sun flared like a golden halo. From an hourglass held proudly aloft, sand flowed in bold sweeps.

Finally in the centre, stood Dream of the Endless, white and gleaming, head crowned with an intricate circlet of stars. About him, star dust and sand coiled and entwined in a protective embrace.

………………..

Time shouldered the door of the New Inn open with a relieved grunt, ushering Night and Dusk, still perched upon his forearm, through into the dim light of the empty bar.

Behind the counter, Henry, seasoned barkeep and unofficial leader of his motley crew of staff, gave a surprised grunt. His hands still leafing through the day's takings, a flip file, full of neatly recorded figures, open at his side.

"Rob! I was just closing up. We wondered where you'd dissappeared off to? Not like you to take off without leaving word." He sent Night a friendly smile, giving an interested, yet unsurprised glance at Dusk. "And Morpheus, always good to see you lad."

Night returned a warm, tired smile. Leaning into Time's side with a pleased exhale. Time gave an embarrassed huff, tugging at his ear which immediately had Peter's interest fixed on him. All the power of existence and he still hadn't lost that telling habit.

" I'm sorry Henry." He apologised sincerely.

"It was a last minute thing." He gave Night a conspiratorial grin, before declaring with an awkward beam . "We may.. have gotten married."

He felt the steady, slow thrum of the old man's life force blast into a concerto, as Henry laughed disbelieving. Rounding the bar in a flash, he delivered a firm slap to Time's arm, which Time noted, felt like an insect had accidentally collided with him. Before he grabbed Night's hand and shook it vigorously. "Robert you old dog!! Congratulations, congratulations! And you didn't tell a soul?!"

Time shared a flustered look with Night before shrugging. "It was kind of a shotgun situation."

Henry laughed riotously at that. Giving Time's arm another firm slap. "Oh I bet it was, I bet. Trust you Robbie. I'd ask, are you going to carry your husband over the threshold, but you both look dead on your feet." He looked towards the kitchens, then gave them a kind smile, gesturing towards their regular table. "How about I get the kettle on before I go? And I think there's some of Martha's cheesecake left in the back."

Time all but collapsed into his chair. Giving an exhausted grumble as he dragged a chair from the nearest table across to sit at their side. Night gently manoeuvred Dusk onto its top rail. Before gracefully taking his usual seat.

" That would be heavenly Henry. Thank you!"

Time glanced at Night, taking in his worn out, but contented expression. His dark hair spilled over his shoulder, the slightest glimmer of something more than a natural reflective sheen, trailing down it in the low light. Pulling a hand through his own locks, he checked covertly, still auburn. Good. He was using more energy than he wished in his drained state to keep his appearance fixed. But it was worth it to be back.

Henry bustled out from the kitchen, arms loaded with plates and cups the way only a practised waiter could. "There we are." He placed mugs full of steaming tea infront if Time and Night. Then followed it with three plates of delectable looking cake. One for each of them. And one placed proudly down in front of Dusk. Who gave it an indifferent stare. "And some for this beauty. I remember Matthew always liked his own portion. Where is the little blighter then?"

Night sat his tea down regally into its saucer. Before responding, "My son has just taken up his own residence. I left Matthew with him so they may look after each other."

"Uni is it?" Henry asked, not waiting for any sign of confirmation as he pushed a plate of now broken up crumbs and cream eagerly towards Dusk. "I remember when it was my Tom. The wife cried buckets. They grow up so fast ey?"

Night nodded in solemn agreement. "Indeed. It was only mere days ago he was a toddler."

Time smirked into his teacup as Henry, having given up trying to convince Dusk to eat, gave Night a consoling pat on the shoulder. "Oh ay, I know that feeling well."

He righted a few of the chairs and tables around them. Before giving Night a mischievous grin. "But you're pulling my leg. You're not old enough to have a boy closing in on twenty."

Night returned his smirk with an equally playful quirk of his mouth. "You would be surprised, Henry."

Chortling, Henry returned to the bar, packing up the last of the day's business. "Well, time has been very kind to you then. You lucky bugger!"

At that, Night fixed Time with an adoring look. "Oh, far kinder than I often deserved Henry."

Time reached out his hand across the table, resting it gently, palm up on the table. Night, sent him a small, loving smile before placing his own hand down upon it delicately, fingers twining about each other's wrists.

The sound of a few doors slamming shut echoed about the room, then Henry emerged again, shrugging on his jacket, making his way towards the door. He gave the couple a tender look, before motioning to the exit. "Well, now that you're both settled in. I'll let myself out. Robbie, and ofcourse our new Mr Gadling. It's good to have you home." He raised a hand in farewell, then left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Time leant back in his chair, exhaling in satisfaction. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet thrum of existence from the furniture, the walls, the streets and city beyond, as their life force slowly turned ever forward. If he concentrated, he could feel the rotations of the Earth beneath his feet. Somewhere beyond, he gave her a gentle spin, trailing his finger through her oceans.

Home.

……………..

Sol peeked his head inquisitively over the horizon. His first rays spilled down the streets of London, rippled upon the waves of the Thames, their soft glows illuminating through window curiously, searching for his new master. Fluttering gaily between his beams, an ethereal feminine figure, twirling in robes of white, blue and pink, tapped at each plane of glass and laughed joyfully. At one window, she peaked, giggled mischievously, then disappeared in a flurry of bird song and dew.

On the little window box that sat in front, an owl, pale and opalescent as the morning haze, eyes gleaming and golden as the sunrise, landed gracefully beside their darker twin. Dawn chirruped to her sister in joyful greeting. Before snuggling into her side and joining her in a peaceful slumber as the sky lightened.

Within the room, two figures knelt on the bed, one astride the other, slim pale back pressed against a broad furred chest, sheets twined about their legs.

Night cracked his eyes open and watched his handmaid's antics with disinterest. A second later, sols rays streamed into the room, setting their bodies aglow with triumph. Scrunching his eyes, Night tipped back his head, letting it rest upon his husband's shoulder. Be gone Sol! He felt the rays soften in apology, their heat trailing across his skin in pardon, before the beams departed, the sun continuing on its journey.

He felt Time quicken his lazy thrusts, force intensifying, aim sharpening and let out a pleased, drawn moan. Trailing his hands up his husbands thighs, he rested them at his hips, feeling the surge of each upward rock. Tightening his own hips, he clenched down on Time's length, drawing up, hold taut before dropping back vigour. Infinitely smug when he heard a pleasured groan by his ear and the seconds of the digital clock before him leap back and forth erratically.

"Be careful my love, remember where you are."

Time brought a binding arm about his waist and snapped his hips up as he locked him in place. Night let out a shriek as flames roared through his nerves.

In the pale blue skies above, Venus blinked confusedly back into sight. Searching in bewilderment for the source of her summons, before twinkling good humouredly, blazing one last time in salutation. Then subtly disappearing from the rising morn again.

Time smiled amused into Night's nape. "You remember." Then adjusting his hold, he twisted them both with ease, bringing Night with a forceful slam to support himself with frantic hands against the bedhead. Resting his own palms upon the wall directly behind, Time began to pound into Night with an unforgiving pace. Leaving him able to do nothing but writhe desperately, screeching in pleasure with each powerful thrust.

"That's right" Time panted hotly. "My Morpheus, my beautiful darkness, my nightingale. Sing for me!"

If anyone was by the riverfront that early morning. They may have seen the waves of the great Themesis rise in a sudden, inexplicable swell. The current escalating in a rapid, powerful flow, rocking the tour boats moored along its banks violently. Then, with a sudden great surge, it settled.

Below, Martha Lewis, the keys to the New Inn still swinging idly from her fingers, looked to the ceiling, shook her head with an amused chuckle. Then set about readying the ovens for the morning ahead.

In their little flat above, Night and Time laid entwined together on the bed, letting the vibrations of awakening life around them sweep over them. Time trailed a finger idly across Night's side. "I have been thinking, love. I would rather like us to stay... Here on Earth." He said haltingly. "For a while."

Night smiled at him sweetly, sweeping in to place a tender kiss upon his lips. "Of course my love. If it brings you peace we can stay until the horsemen ride. If that is what you wish. It is but the blink of an eye for us after all."

Time gave a satisfied hum, pulling Night to him to lay upon his chest. "Together forever," He declared with serene ecstasy.

Night gave a fond smile, stoking down Time's chest hair with relish. Trailing his fingers lightly down its path, teasing as it thinned over lower stomach, then grew abundant again at the base of his husband's flagging manhood. He dug his hands into the public curls, massaging. Watching as Time's cock perk once more at the attention. "No one has forever my love, not truly. A life with no end, even for those such as we, is implausible."

Time's hips began to rock and Night took him in hand, pumping languidly. They shared a sultry kiss, Time drawing back, giving Night a challenging, entertained leer." Wanna bet?"

Night huffed, eyes darkening in arousal before tightening his grip about his husband. "Care to prove me wrong, my love?"

Time arched, slapping hungrily at the pert swell of his husband's arse. Kneading his fingers into the pale flesh with a playful grin. "Always!"

Night gave a warm chuckle. "If anyone can will true eternal life into existence." He whispered huskily. "It shall be you Hob Gadling." He then placed an adoring peck to Time's chin, then collar bone, then rib cage. Trailing his way slowly downwards before giving a final impish nip to the skin just below Time's belly button. Sending his husband a sensual, promising glance as he slunk down with predatory grace to claim his prize.

The unusual activity that beset the city of London that day was written off, quietly and conveniently, in the most British of fashions, as being 'A bit strange.' In the Threshold, Desire kicked their heels and purred in bliss, as their realm puslated with raw power around them.

……………..

Three Months Later

"You're absolutely sure this is what you want, duck?"

Night looked to Time, nodding with conviction, before turning his attention back to the ruined structure before him. At his shoulder, Dawn gazed, intrigued at the decrepit building, just about able to keep itself standing. Her pale feathers glistened in the afternoon sun, beautifully contrasting Night's attire of deep blues and blacks.

Time clapped his hands together with finality, giving the small woman by his side an excited grin." Right, well. Consider it a deal then, Mrs Crowther. Thank you for being open to our request."

Mrs Crowther, a tiny woman, with hair pristinely gelled into place and a prim badge at her breast, declaring her name and position within the local council, sagged with relief.

"Oh it's our pleasure really Mr Gadling. With our budget reduced as it is, renovation was completely out of the question. And what with the countless petitions we've had fighting its demolition. Well, it would have just continued to sit here. You did us a favour taking it off our hands."

She gave them an intrigued glance, obviously fighting her own curiosity before asking," May I enquire what your plans are?"

Time looked to the building, hands waving expressively, as if trying to draw out an invisible portrait for her." Reconstruction, as much as possible! There's so much history in the place you know! It'd be a shame to lose it. Then a private house. Lots of room for the family to visit and plenty of space to run the business."

Mrs Crowther instantly perked at that. "Oh, what are you in?"

"Clocks." Time said with all the believability of a lying child, caught mid transgression. "Morpheus is an astrophysicist." Mrs Crowther shot an openly questioning look in Night's direction. Lingering with a raised eyebrow on the owl perched at his shoulder and the opulent clasp, adorned with stars, holding his hair in a loose half ponytail. She probably thought they were some kind of criminal elite, Time surmised. Ah well, at least it would help to keep away unwanted attention.

She gave them a strained, if polite smile. "Oh, lovely." Then looked to her car wistfully, before turning back to them with an overly enthusiastic demeanour. "Well I'll leave you two to it shall I? I'll get the paperwork sent across this afternoon Mr Gadling." She shook Time's hand once more before striding away as quickly as civility allowed.

With an enthused leap, Time bound to the doorway, placing his hand upon the frame, feeling the wood begin to strengthen under his palm. "I'll breathe some life back into the old girl. Restoring her just wasn't possible before. But now, if I give her just enough of a boost." He turned giddily to Night, who sauntered towards him with a pleased smile. "I'll get the team that covers wear and tear at the New Inn for the rest. Good lads. And there'll be no questions asked about how it miraculously sprang back to life that way."

He turned in a circle, taking in the railing, closing off the property with interest. "We can put up a perimeter wall, for a bit of privacy. And gardens running all the way down to the river!" His growing excitement caused bunches of dandelions to surge optimistically in clumps around the land site.

Bounding back to the building, Time gave the wall a hearty slap. Dawn ruffled her feathers at the hail of dust it caused to rain down on them.

"The downstairs, a reception hall, dining room, throne room. She'll break more laws of physics then the inside of the tardis when I'm done! And upstairs, a private area for the family. A grand library for you love. And a master and seven suits for the family."

"Eight my lord." Dawn interrupted in a polite yet chipper tone.

Time stilled, before turning to the owl with a dazed expression. "What was that Dawn?"

Dawn preened Night's hair, as Time watched his beloved's eyes glance anywhere but him.

"Young sire shall be requiring eight rooms for the children, not seven." Dawn proclaimed with merry assurity.

Time moved not an inch for a minute before tenderly taking Night's hands in his own. A look of disbelieving awe in his eyes as he tried desperately to fight his growing elation.

"Night, my Darkness?"

Night's eyes rose to meet his, comets shooting a blazing trail within, leaving vibrant paths of gleaming dust in their wake. "Eight." He admitted, with a blissful smile. Time's answering beam shone like the very spark of creation itself.

"Do you know their name yet?"

Night gave a slight smirk, stepping into Time's arms and whispering to his lips,

"It appears you have proved me wrong yet again, husband mine. They shall be… Eternity."

Behind them, within the husk of the White Horse, the ancient hearth roared to life.

(Yup... They're starting their own little brood of cosmic munshkins, and moving to the next letter of the alphabet. 😆 For anyone interested, Dusk and Dawn are based very heavily of European Eagle Owls. They're a large species of owl who are crepuscularx, meaning they hunt at dusk and dawn when the light has not fully set or come out. It seemed apt.

Well that's it! My very first full length fanfic is complete! I did it!! (Insert a high pitched squeee!) A huge thank you to everyone who took a chance on this random headcanon of a fic. And massive outpourings of love for all your fabulous comments, likes and reblogs. And a humongous thanks once again to @ibrithir-was-here @kat-wick and @mashumaru for your phenomenonal artwork. I think I'm going to go lay down now. 😅)

#Dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #daniel hall #daniel!dream #time!hob #night!morpheus #father time #mother night #the sandman #The sandman fanic #dreamling fanfic #the sandman au

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its-jaytothemee · 5 months ago

Text

Until I Met You - Chapter 31

Chapter 31: A Promise Kept

Pairings: Halsin x Tav

Word count: 5,467

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

Read on AO3

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Summary: Halsin shares his plan to rescue Thaniel from the Shadowfell. Part 31 of the slow burn fic. Tav and Halsin POVs.

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

A/N: More drama incoming!! I hope you enjoy my take on Halsin's time in the Shadowfell :)

Thanks for reading, as always! It might be a hot minute before the next chapter comes out while I get ready to go back to school full time. But I really hope to be back soon!!

Tav fought the tears welling in her eyes. All this time, Komira and Locke hadn’t been captured and tortured by the cult. They had somehow survived in the shadows, only to be cut down in the place that used to serve as a sanctum for healing, for refuge.

The undead woman spun around to greet them after hearing their gasps.

“Oh! Terribly sorry,” her quiet, rasping voice didn’t come off as hostile, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for a moment if you’re in need of help. You see, I have my two patients that require my undivided attention.”

She gave them a small bow of the head before walking back to their bedsides. Tav was startled and jumped away when she saw the woman pull out a scalpel and cut into their flesh once more.

“Why do you continue to torture them?” Tav asked, disgusted. “They’re already dead.”

“Dead?” She turned around and cocked her head to the side. “No, not dead. Merely resting. I would never torture; I am trying to soothe them. Now please, I must concentrate. If you are in dire need of assistance, please make your way to the doctor in the central chamber.”

She gave them another cordial nod before turning back to the two tieflings.

What am I going to tell Arabella?

Tav shook the thought away for now, trying to keep herself from spiraling again.

“Shit, what now?” Karlach hissed behind her.

“It sounds like we need to pay this doctor a visit,” Tav sighed.

Sparing one last look at Komira and Locke, she led her companions out of the room once more. She did her best to harden her mind to allow her to concentrate on the task ahead.

You can grieve later. For now, we need to find a way to rid this land of Shar’s wicked influence once and for all.

***

Halsin did what he could to keep Art Cullagh from succumbing to the lingering effects of the Shadowfell. Every now and then, he could feel him start to fade away, but with no small amount of effort from Halsin and the powers granted to him by Silvanus, he was able to bring him back each time.

He would catch a glimpse of Shadowheart out of the corner of his eye from time to time. She was pacing around the inn, muttering under her breath, a scowl twisting her face.

Despite her words of devotion, Halsin had sensed a small waver in her voice earlier, but he knew very little about Shadowheart. He hadn’t taken the time or energy to get to know her better in their time traveling, nor had he wanted to.

Regardless, he had theorized that the wound on her hand only flared up when she went against Shar’s teachings. Anytime a seed of doubt was sowed in her mind by the words of her companions or others around her, she was punished. What he couldn’t decide was why she continued to allow herself to be punished so regularly. Shadowheart recited prayers to Shar and her commitment to the goddess each morning and night, as well as throughout the day. If she was such an ardent pupil, why did she seem to pull away from Shar so often?

A sharp groan from Art pulled him from his thoughts. His legs had started to spasm and his breathing became more ragged.

The other Flaming Fist in the room ran over to his bedside.

“What’s happening?” she asked, panic evident in her expression.

“A seizure. His mind is fractured and exhausted from his time in the Shadowfell, it’s starting to have physiological consequences.” Halsin had to push his own panic down at the thought.

“Well, is there anything we can do?” She started to reach out for Art, but Halsin held out a hand to stop her.

“No, we must wait for it to pass, don’t try and restrain him.” Halsin reached out and enveloped the man with a spell, hoping it would help him to fight off the seizure. The simple cantrip could at least help buy him some time until the others returned.

He let out his held breath once Art stopped spasming a few moments later. Halsin could feel the fatigue settling in the man’s mind, so much so that his body was starting to feel the effects as well.

“I can’t say I’ve seen a Resistance spell used in that manner.” Shadowheart was now standing at the foot of the bed.

“You’d be surprised by how many spells can be applied to healing,” Halsin responded before turning back to Art.

“I have to say I’m impressed,” she continued, “to hold out this long against Lady Shar’s magic requires a strong mind.”

“That it does,” he said. “I can only pray it is strong enough to last until we find a way to wake him.” As he finished speaking, Halsin started a healing spell to help Art’s muscles recover.

“Even if you do, what difference will it make? He may have the answers you need, or he may not. These shadows were born of Lady Shar’s wrath. You’d have to be a fool to take her on alone.”

“Perhaps I am a fool,” Halsin faced her, “but I also know that a dear friend of mine has been held captive, kept away from his home for a century. I will do whatever it takes to have him returned to me. If that means clinging to a sliver of hope when I find it, so be it.”

Shadowheart’s eyes landed on Art Cullagh once more.

“The Lady of Loss teaches us that hope is a poison, a most effective one at that. It makes for a slow, agonizing death, yet you don’t even realize you’re dying. Not until it’s too late and you’re welcomed by the darkness of Lady Shar’s embrace.” She recited the words with flawless dictation, but there was little feeling behind them. Her eyes had glazed over while she spoke, devoid of any emotion.

“It’s all a matter of choice, Shadowheart. You can choose to look to the void to ease your pain, but eventually there is a price to be paid for that choice. I hope you’ve pondered what that sacrifice means before that time comes. I hope you’ve truly prepared yourself to lose everything in Shar’s name.” He kept his voice gentle and quiet.

“I’ve been preparing my entire life, of course I’ll be ready.” She tried to hide the crack in her voice with a scoff. “I’ve dedicated my life to her, sworn to spread her holy darkness where I tread.”

“And I have been preparing for this,” Halsin gestured to Art, “for the last one hundred years, since before you were born. So, I’m sure you can understand why it’s important that I follow through to the end.”

She pursed her lips and shifted her gaze to the floor.

“I do not ask that you help us, it would go against every belief you claim to hold dear. At the very least I can understand what your faith means to you, even if I do not condone it. We all need some sense of purpose to keep us moving forward. If this is the purpose you have chosen, there is little I could say to convince you otherwise.

“I do hope you can understand that this is the purpose I have chosen. I serve nature, when it is out of balance, I do what I can to tip the scales in its favor once more. Unfortunately for the two of us in this moment, that means going against Shar.”

Shadowheart looked pensive for a moment, as if she was considering his words. Halsin’s eyes fell on the small, circular wound on her hand, waiting to see if he had perhaps swayed her in any way.

Nothing.

A small commotion outside drew his attention away from her. Enthusiastic greetings rang from refugees and Harpers alike. A moment later, Tav appeared in the doorway, once again bloodied and looking just a tad more exhausted than before.

“Welcome back, my friend.” He gave her a relieved smile but saw a concerning sadness in all of their expressions. “What happened?”

“We can talk about it later,” the tears gathering in her eyes told him it wasn’t good news, “for now I think we found something of Art’s.”

Tav pulled a lute from her back. The neck of the instrument had the Fist’s name carved into it. Another swell of hope caused his heart to beat faster.

“Well done. Try playing a little, perhaps it will be enough to snap him from his trance.”

Halsin waited with bated breath as she strummed along the strings. She didn’t play a specific melody, just a few light notes that drifted away into thin air. They waited for a moment, waiting for any response or reaction.

Nothing from Art Cullagh.

He let his head hang low as his mind started to race again. Tears burned in his eyes.

So, the lute didn’t work, what else could we find that–

“THANIEL!” Art shot up in the bed, his frantic eyes darting between all the people gathered around watching him. Tav let out a startled squeak.

“He’s still trapped there – he needs help!” He continued to yell as his eyes searched the room.

“Calm. Breathe.” Halsin knelt next to the bed, keeping his voice low so as to not alarm him. “You’ve been trapped in the Shadowfell for a century – take a moment to clear your mind.”

“A century…” Art pressed a hand to his temple. “You-you’re Halsin. He said to find you.”

He felt his eyes sting again at the man’s words. Thaniel had been looking for him too.

Art suddenly gripped his arm, disrupting his thoughts. “Thaniel’s in trouble, you must help him – please.”

“I will, but first I need to know where to look.” Halsin kept a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “If I go charging in with nothing to go on, I’ll be lost myself.”

“I…I don’t know,” Art shook his head lightly, “the landscape in the Shadowfell shifts and changes…”

“There must have been something that remained constant.” Tav now knelt on the other side of the bed as she spoke. “Something that you only saw with Thaniel?”

Halsin paused for a moment to let him think. His heart pounded against the walls of his chest. He was so close…

Oak Father, please, help him remember.

“Lavender,” Art said. “Whenever I saw Thaniel, I always smelled Lavender.”

Lavender. Large fields of the flowers used to grow not far from Last Light. Perhaps even now Thaniel tried to preserve their sweet scent…they were always his favorite.

“I can work with that,” Halsin assured him, “rest now. We’ll take it from here.”

Tav was looking at him expectedly as he stood up.

“Meet me by the lake shore when you’re ready. I believe I may know where to find him.”

“Ready when you are.” She walked around to stand next to him.

“I can’t let you do this.”

Both Halsin and Tav whipped around to see Shadowheart standing in the doorway. Tav bristled beside him, her anger and grief hanging heavy in the air.

“Get out of the way, Shadowheart.” Tav’s voice was cold and threatening.

“The Shadowfell is Lady Shar’s domain. I cannot stand by and allow you to go and steal a prisoner from her!” Shadowheart’s voice rose with each word.

“Get out of the way, or I’ll move you myself,” Tav shot back. Halsin caught the subtle twitch her hand made for the bow on her back.

He forced himself to take a calming breath. Shadowheart stood between him and Thaniel and he didn’t fully trust his emotions at the moment. But if their conversation from earlier was any indication, perhaps he could at least convince her to stand aside.

“Shadowheart,” he started with a hand held out, “Thaniel does not belong in the Shadowfell, he’s just–”

“He belongs there if my Lady says he belongs there. If he was taken, she had her reasons, and I am not one to question them,” she hissed back.

“And isn’t that the problem?” Halsin asked, still keeping one hand up in a truce. “You are unwilling to question why Shar would steal away the very life of this land? Thaniel was not sworn to Selûne or Shar, he was simply the spirit that watched over these woods. She tore him from his home before cursing the land to eternal darkness, she has no claim to him.”

Her glare wavered for a moment before she cried out in pain and gripped her hand. Halsin’s heart continued to beat harder and harder in his chest. Though it was far from his first choice, he would fight their companion to fulfill his duty.

“As far as you know.” Shadowheart’s hateful stare returned once she recovered. “One of the key tenets of Shar’s doctrine is embracing loss. Perhaps the two of you could learn a lesson or two from her.”

Her words were Tav’s undoing. She snatched the bow from her back with a growl and aimed an arrow at Shadowheart.

“One last chance, Shadowheart,” her voice remained low and cold, but the tears gathering in her eyes had given her pause, “move out of the way, or I step over your corpse.”

“Tav! What are you doing?!” Karlach yelled as she started to reach for Tav. Halsin turned and waved her off, if anyone interfered too quickly, he worried she would kill Shadowheart where she stood.

He could see Tav’s hands shaking as she held the feathered end of her arrow by her cheek. Her lower lip trembled as she glared back at Shadowheart. Grief and guilt had blocked all thought and reason. Her eyes, usually pink as spring cherry blossoms, almost appeared red from the anger clouding them.

He placed a hand on her shoulder which caused the dam to break and her tears to spill over. Her arms continued to tremble with the effort it took to hold the arrow drawn and ready to fire.

“Tav, it’s alright. Put the bow down.”

“You heard her! She wants us to embrace Shar’s wicked creed?” she cried back at him in a broken voice that made his heart ache before turning her rage back to Shadowheart. “You think that we do not know loss? That we could never understand what it’s like to stare into the void and want more than anything for it to drag us down so we can forget?!”

Once again, Shadowheart’s glare wavered at Tav’s words.

“These shadows stole my brother from me. The only person I’ve ever loved in my long life. Even now, the weight of his death threatens to drag me down into the nine hells with every passing moment.”

A deafening silence seized the room around them as Tav’s arm continued to shake at the effort of holding the arrow’s aim.

Then, she finally dropped the weapon to her side.

“But I would rather live the next six centuries carrying it with me than allow Shar to take a single precious memory of him.”

Not a sound was made in Last Light Inn. Everyone witnessing the fight had gathered around, staring on in strained anticipation.

“Shadowheart, please,” Halsin begged as he willed his own tears to remain in his eyes, “should Thaniel remain imprisoned, this land will be encased in shadow forever more. In his eyes, he is nothing more than a child. A lost, scared child who was ripped from his home and locked away from nature, where he belongs. I have spent the last one hundred years preparing to rescue him. I truly do not wish to harm you, but I cannot, I will not, let you stand in my way.”

She clenched her jaw as she considered his words. Tav kept her fingers curled tight around her bow, an arrow still resting on the string and ready to fire.

“I will not aid you in this.” She held her glare steady.

“I do not ask you to,” Halsin replied flatly.

“Fine,” she said the words through gritted teeth, “but do not expect me to speak on your behalf should Lady Shar turn her wrath to you.”

Tav relaxed and dropped her bow to her side.

“Let’s go, Tav.” Halsin took slow, careful steps out of the room. His eyes remained locked on Shadowheart who now had a just a shimmer of guilt clouding her expression.

Once Tav was out the door, he turned back to Shadowheart, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She looked down at his hand before jerking her arm away and storming back into the room.

Fair enough.

“Ngh, it hurts.” He heard her hiss the words as he jogged after Tav.

The rest of their companions filed after them slowly, dragging their feet and sharing uncomfortable looks. All except for Gale and Karlach, who had remained in the room a little longer.

Tav stood in the entryway of Last Light, staring down at the bow in her hands with a disgusted look on her face.

“Tav?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice before wiping away a few stray tears.

“Are you ready?” he asked gently.

“Of course. I’ll wait for Gale and Karlach to catch up.” Tav’s eyes were watching the doorway of the they had just passed through.

“Then I will go start the preparations.” He took a deep breath. “Meet me by the lake shore once you’ve gathered everyone.

***

Tav and her companions found Halsin standing on a large rock formation overlooking the lake. His face a hard mask of concentration, his entire body tensed. They had passed just beyond the edge of the moon shield, and shadows swirled around their limbs, repelled only by the pixie blessing they received. The eerie lack of sound out by the water set her nerves on edge.

Tav motioned for Astarion, Lae’zel and Karlach to stay on the ground, Wyll and Gale followed her up the rocky steps to Halsin. Lunari sat down at the base of the small overlook.

“You’re here, good. Now we can begin.” His voice was level and commanding.

“First, I’d like to know what to expect.” Tav grabbed her bow from her back, ready for anything.

“Thaniel is trapped in the Shadowfell. Thanks to your efforts in waking up the Flaming Fist, I finally know where to look. Now, I must go there – alone.” His tone suggested this was not a detail up for discussion, Tav just didn’t care.

“Hold on…alone? Into the Shadowfell? No fucking way, I’m coming with you.” Tav took a step towards him, but he held a hand out to stop her.

“No, Tav. This opportunity has been a hundred years in the making. It has to be me. Only me.” His commanding aura dropped slightly as he looked into her eyes.

“You were the one that told me no one can endure these hardships alone, yet here you are charging into the Shadowfell…alone.” Her voice rose with the panic she felt taking over her body.

“And I meant it.” He closed the distance between them to take her shaking hands in his. “But you’ve already lifted the veil for me. Something I could not have done alone. But this…this is something only I can control. It must be only me, please, Tav. Have faith in me.”

His last words caused her breath to catch. So close to the code phrase she had with Tev. Few people in her long life made the list of those she would trust, no questions asked.

Today she realized Halsin’s name had been added to that list.

“I do, Halsin.” She relaxed slightly as he pressed his forehead against hers.

“Thank you,” he whispered before continuing to address the others as well. “Besides, I didn’t just bring you here to witness an old druid’s grandstanding. I will need help from this plane if I am to return.” He let her hands drop from his.

Tav took a deep breath. She still wasn’t okay with Halsin going into the Shadowfell with no backup, but she trusted him. If he said he must go alone then she would believe that it needed to be done.

“Anything. What do you need?”

“Time. As much as you can give me. With Silvanus’ aid, I have learned a ritual that will allow me to open a portal to the Shadowfell. One that can lead me to Thaniel.” Halsin gestured eagerly as he spoke.

“Entering the Shadowfell will sap my strength. You must stay here and defend the portal at all costs. Keep it open until I return.”

“You can count on me,” she responded, anxiety seeping into her voice.

“I know I can.” He smiled softly before turning his back to begin the ritual.

“This took me years of study and seeking the Oak Father’s favor. Pray that it works.” He took a deep breath before starting.

The warm, golden hum that Tav had come to associate with Halsin’s magic swirled in the air around them, pushing some of the shadows aside. She heard him pleading with Silvanus to allow him passage, saw his hands trembling at the effort. Suddenly, a beautiful portal burst into existence before them. Energy teemed at its edges, the dancing lights cut through the shadows around them, bathing Halsin in their glow.

“It’s ready,” he said, almost in disbelief. “I’ll return as soon as I have Thaniel. Stay close, defend the portal in any way you can.”

Tav watched as he took slow, deliberate steps toward the portal, striding towards their lone chance to rid this land of the curse. He was the only person alive who could possibly do this, yet her selfish desires ached to keep him here with her. The Shadowfell could consume a person much quicker than these lands ever could. She had to trust that he would return, so long as she could do her duty here.

Just before stepping into the portal, Halsin turned over his shoulder to meet Tav’s gaze. He gave her a small nod and smiled before disappearing beyond the magical barrier.

Not a moment later, a mass of shadows and cursed, reanimated corpses descended upon them. Their focus was fixed on the portal swirling at the top of the rocky overlook.

Tav drew her bow, took a deep breath, and fired the first shot.

***

Whatever darkness choked the land around Reithwin and Moonrise was nothing compared to the cold, hollow despair Halsin felt the second he crossed into the Shadowfell. A shivering fatigue already gnawed at him, like all the warmth had been drawn from his body. Just as it was the day the curse was unleashed.

Everything felt dull, numb. No life flourished here, darkness and shadow gripped every fiber of the surrounding land. What few trees and foliage could be seen were empty and lifeless, devoid of all connection to the Oak Father. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this severed from his guiding presence.

How had Thaniel managed to survive in this desolate place for so long?

He forced himself to keep moving forward across the fractured landscape.

A sharp pain pierced his chest – the portal had taken a hit. He trusted that his new friends would defend the other side with their lives, he just needed to find Thaniel.

Open your heart, hear nature’s symphony. You know the way.

Halsin’s breath caught as he heard Silvanus’s voice drift into his thoughts. Even here in the darkness of the Shadowfell, the Oak Father’s eyes cut through Shar’s foul veil to watch over him.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for anything that could lead him to his old friend. There was the ever-present scent of death in the air. The scent that seemed to follow Shar wherever she resided. But there was something else as well, he was so close to identifying the sweet smell…

Lavender.

The moment he picked up the trail, a small, golden tendril of magical light ripped through the Shadowfell to find him. A pure, incredible magic as familiar to him as his own.

Thaniel.

His strength came back to him, invigorating his muscles and propelling him through the dark plane. Running as fast as his legs would allow, he followed the winding light further into Shar’s domain. The last one hundred years of his life had led to this moment.

He would rescue Thaniel from this cursed place, or he would die trying.

***

Wave after wave of shadow beings challenged their party. Tav stood near the portal, picking off enemies along the shore from her rocky perch. She said a silent thanks to the traders at Last Light Inn who had equipped her with so many special arrowheads. The arrows she fired into the advancing enemies came alive with all kinds of magic. Fire, lightning, thunder…she had even found arrows that sought out multiple targets at a time.

Wyll and Gale were desperately repelling any enemies that had broken through their defenses away from the portal. Gale was switching between hurling balls of fire at far away shadows and conjuring powerful gusts of wind to knock closer enemies off of the ledge.

Wyll had given up on casting spells and instead danced between enemies with his rapier.

Karlach, Lae’zel and Astarion were ripping through undead flesh down below. Lunari stayed close to the steps and lunged at any enemies that managed to make it past the fighters on the ground. The clang of their weapons rang through the darkness as they dispelled a large group of cursed Harpers. However, just as the last enemy fell, a whole new set of reinforcements arrived that included Githyanki warriors.

The portal behind them had taken too many hits, the energy surrounding it was now crackling wildly instead of humming pleasantly.

“The portal can’t take much more!” Tav yelled at the others. “Fall back and defend it!”

Just as their companions reached their side, Gale brought forth a massive wall of flames to scorch the cursed corpses. The smell of burning flesh mixed with the decaying scent of the shadow curse made Tav’s stomach churn.

A soothing feeling suddenly came over her, strange in the midst of this battle. It took her a moment to register its meaning.

Halsin.

“Halsin’s close, I can feel him. Just a bit longer.” Tav shot an arrow tipped with fire into the advancing Githyanki.

An arrow came flying back at her and impaled one of her wrists. She cried out in pain, dropping her bow.

Karlach hurled a smokepowder bomb into the mix, taking down all but one of the advancing githyanki.

Of course, it was the archer that was left.

It’s always the fucking archers.

It aimed its crossbow just past her, trying to destroy the portal. Out of time and with no weapon in hand, she watched with a careful eye for the moment just before it pulled the trigger.

Easily able to determine the enemy’s aim, she dove at the last second and let the arrow pierce her shoulder.

***

Clutching Thaniel against his chest, Halsin had finally made his way back to the portal. He could feel that he was running out of time, it was close to disappearing.

“We’re almost there, Thaniel, I can see our way out now.” Halsin took panting breaths as he forced his legs to keep moving forward.

Shadows and wraiths were close on his trail. He had evaded them thus far, but they had finally sensed his presence once he plucked Thaniel from the web of cursed vines that had been holding him in place.

His strength was fading fast. He kept Thaniel held tight in his arms despite his fatigue.

Try as he might, he found himself too weak to cast any spells. No vines to deter his relentless pursuers, no healing magic to reinvigorate his exhausted muscles, no warm, radiant light to keep the darkness at bay.

At least they were close enough to the portal now that he could feel the warmth of the magical lights on his skin.

Almost there, please Tav…hold on just a little longer…

Suddenly, an icy hand wrapped itself around his arm, its fingers long freezing tendrils trying to loosen his grip on the boy in his arms. He hugged Thaniel tighter to his chest, desperate to keep him close.

Another hand grabbed his shoulder. Their touch was so unfathomably cold that it burnt his skin. They pulled at him, trying to drag him away from the portal to remain in the Shadowfell forever more.

Their hands worked their way forward to wrap around Thaniel – his arms, his torso, his throat – trying to wrest him from Halsin’s grasp. He fought and pushed to no avail, the energy around the portal waning with every passing second. A small, pained whine from Thaniel brought tears to his eyes and every horrible thought from the last one hundred years bubbling to the surface.

We’re not going to make it…

He could hear the wicked, unnatural cackle of the shadows as he felt the portal start to fade away. Thaniel let out another rasping whimper as the shadowy fingers around his throat tightened their grip.

No, I didn’t come this far to fail now.

Halsin let out a scream, pouring every ounce of rage, sorrow, and guilt he had felt over the last century into the sound. He used every last bit of strength he had left to push the darkness away.

A massive bubble of daylight was conjured around him and Thaniel, causing the shadows to relinquish their grip and fade away into the Shadowfell with a chorus of hissing shrieks.

With one final push, he leaped through the barrier back into the shadow cursed lands. As soon as he returned to the material plane, he felt his strength return to him.

“It’s done. I have him.” He was still breathing heavily. “But someth–”

He looked up just in time to see Tav launching herself in front of an arrow that was heading for the portal. The head of the arrow pierced straight through her shoulder, pushing a small splatter of blood out behind her. His heart dropped as she cried out in pain and her body landed with a hard thud on the ground. The last enemy on the lake shore was quickly taken down by their other companions.

“Tav!” Halsin yelled, running to kneel next to her, still cradling Thaniel in his arms.

“Oh good, you made it.” She smiled up at him as the portal behind them closed with a soft whooshing sound. He couldn’t help but let out a relieved laugh. Her eyes moved to the small boy in his clutches.

“Is that Thaniel?”

“Yes…but something’s wrong. Dreadfully wrong,” he whispered, tears burning his eyes. “There’s a part of him that’s…that’s missing.”

Tav slowly reached for Thaniel, resting her hand on one of his. She winced at the pain in her shoulder. Halsin saw that another arrow was protruding from her other wrist.

Guilt crashed over him in harsh waves. He was perhaps too late. All his years of study, risking the lives of his new friends, risking Tav’s life…was all for nothing. What little hope he had left when they came here began to dwindle away.

No, not yet. He can still be brought back.

“I need to get him somewhere safe. Maybe I can examine him at camp.” He looked at Thaniel, and then back to Tav. A few tears fell down his face.

“Go.” She let her hand drop from him. “Get him to safety. We’ll meet you there. I can take care of this.”

Tav’s face twisted in pain before him. How could he leave her there after she just took an arrow for him, for Thaniel? Karlach and Wyll came over to sit next to Tav. Lunari shuffled up behind them, lying next to her with a soft whine.

“We’ll look over her, Halsin. You go, we’ll bring her back to camp as soon as she can move. Gale and Astarion will go with you,” Karlach assured him.

He took one of Tav’s hands, giving it a light squeeze. She smiled at the touch. Sparing one last look at her, he turned to hurry away to their camp, Gale and Astarion following close behind him. He heard Wyll give a quick countdown followed by another cry of pain from Tav as he removed the arrows from her body. The sound was like a shard of ice in his heart, but he had to keep moving.

The fate of the entire region depended on bringing Thaniel back.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #halsin fanfic #halsin x tav #halsin silverbough #bg3 halsin #halsin x tav'ahria #oakflower #totally forgot to post this here yesterday when I updated oops!!

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