#or if I would let it be. remain untethered.

[duskandstarlight]

A Golden Opportunity - Part Five

Nessian Modern AU

Notes: Hi fandom friends, I hope you all had a nice festive period. It's so nice to be back again and to see how many of you still want to read my Nessian unstructured ramblings! I actually had this written before Christmas and intended this to be a Christmas present. And although @noirshadow edited it with her usual speed and prowess, it took a while for me to finalise everything. So, consider this a NYE present instead! I hope you enjoy it and let me know your thoughts <3 xx

Part Five Nesta

Waking was like resurfacing from somewhere unknown, a secret pocket in the fabric of the world carved out just for Nesta. Her sleep had been dreamless, but even so, there had been a sentience to the somnolence. Dark and untroubled, quietly blissful in the empty waters - yet somehow still breathing with intent, in and out, the buoyancy like lungs drawing and exhaling breath.

Yet whilst it beckoned her - the lulling disconnect of sleep - Nesta had known that to stay in it would be cowardice.

For hours, Nesta had felt herself intermittently break the surface as she shifted in her sleep - as she came to recall loosely what had happened, the reason why the sheets smelt different, the very air - only to be dragged back under before her consciousness was able to fight it. It had been out of her control, a protective move that almost scared her. But now, with her consciousness awake and her senses creeping back into cognisance - the waters arousing, growing choppy - Nesta made herself force her eyes open. 

At first, the room was as lightless as the place she’d emerged from. Flat on her back, her arm stiff and extended above her head, bent at the elbow, forearm resting beneath the pillow. Wincing, Nesta tried to move and as she did so, she felt a sharp pain in her head. The sense that her brain had come untethered and was rattling around in her skull. 

There was a throbbing, bruising pain to her right temple. A waft of laundry detergent that was not hers, reminding her again of why she was here. Of what had happened. Tomas reclining in a chair. The stabbing fear that came from hearing his voice. Her proximity to him. His musky amber aroma choking her from where she sat behind him. 

Then, Cassian kneeling beside her. The worry in his hazel eyes as he stared up at her, the warmth of his hand, the strand of hair escaped from its tie. The sharp spikes of pebbledash, the splintering pain. Blood on her fingers. The glare of torchlight. A burgundy high-neck jumper. Slim, deft fingers turning her chin this way and that, rubber against her skin—

Scattering the images with a sharp exhale, Nesta waited for the reality of what had happened the day prior to come as a punch to the gut. Yet whilst the emotions Nesta knew she should be feeling were at the forefront of her mind - fear, shame, embarrassment - nothing came. Not even a glimmer, as if they had dissolved into the ether, thankfully melting before they had the chance to fully form.

After a beat, Nesta propped herself up onto an elbow. Then, when the lancing pain in her head subsided to that pulsing thud, she resignedly rubbed the grit from her eyes with her free hand and willed the room into focus.

At first, everything remained pitch black. Then, shapes grew in the darkness as their surroundings lightened, her eyes adjusting. Stark outlines sharpened into furniture: the chest of drawers opposite the foot of the bed, an armchair hosting some folded clothes on its seat in the corner, a desk across the length of the window. 

A foreign room she’d never set foot in before yesterday. Cassian’s sanctuary, where he slept, where he read, somewhere he’d realistically shared with other women. And here Nesta was in it, dressed yet vulnerable, stripped bare, all defences down.

She had thought she’d end up here in different circumstances. Now, it wasn’t something Nesta could even entertain. Her mind only threatened to sabotage her with yesterday. To remind her of how she’d been so thoroughly consumed by the fear of Tomas that she had forgotten to hide herself. And Cassian had seen all of her. Fragile, shaken, brittle. Ultimately weak.

And so had Azriel. Mor. 

Nesta needed to move, to get out of her head and the panic she knew would eventually set in. Away from yesterday and all the people she’d exposed herself to.

Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, she slid cautiously off the bed. Her feet sunk into the soft pile of the carpet and she blindly groped for the headboard, levering herself up only to sit back down again, light-headed. Dark swept over Nesta in a wave, threatening to carry her off, but she gripped the wood hard, squeezed her eyes tightly shut and fought the sensation.

It took a while for the crackling static behind her eyelids to clear, for Nesta to feel her way to the door and pull it open.

Natural daylight poured into the dark bedroom from the large living room windows ahead of her. The flood of light was so sudden that Nesta found herself disorientated all over again. Wincing, she blinked rapidly to rid herself of the pressurised ache behind her eyes in the face of the overwhelming white. Grabbed sightlessly for the doorframe as that dizziness hit her again.

When the world had righted itself, her vision slowly bleeding back into colour, Cassian was there in side-profile. Sat up on the U-shaped length of couch facing the kitchen, a duvet over his legs, his laptop balanced on his knees. What she saw first was bed hair loose and tangled. It fell shadowily over his tan skin. What with that and the stubble shading his face, the dark startled eyes, it struck Nesta that this was a Cassian she had never seen before - untouched by performance or presentation, the pressure to remain upbeat and light. 

If it had not been for the worry etching itself deep amongst the grooves of sleep, Cassian would have painted a picture that was sleepy and soft. Before the morning coffee, the rigour of the day that wiped away the gentle light of dawn, the muskiness of sleep faint against his skin. 

But instead, his eyes widened further - panicked - as she swayed. 

His laptop clattered against the surface of the coffee table as he moved to stand until, just as abruptly, he seemed to decide against it. 

Cassian sank back into the cushions with a stricken sort of hesitancy that had Nesta’s breath hitching up an octave, fluttering unsurely, as if it had lost its footing, stumbled.

“Ok?” 

Cassian’s voice was a concerned rasp, scratchy in her throat, reaching across the room towards her, like an arm outstretched.

Nesta wanted to reply, but found suddenly that she couldn’t. Instead, she fisted her hands into the wrists of the long-sleeved jersey she’d found the night prior and fought the temptation to rub her eyes. Went to nod but then immediately regretted it when her head bleated in protest.

The consternation etched on Cassian’s face intensified, carving into ravines of guilt. The worry in his voice surfaced again. “Is it your head, Nesta?”

He was still half-sunk into the couch, the position awkward and unnatural, as if he was halfway between standing and sitting. That sharpness in Nesta’s throat pierced deeper at the sight - his awkwardness - her breath growing thinner. 

And that? That she could feel. 

And Nesta wished she couldn’t, wished she could make it all go away. That they could pretend yesterday hadn’t happened, but Cassian continued - as if he couldn’t stop himself, “I’m sorry about that.”

As he spoke, his eyes shifted to a spot on the wall beside her - as if he couldn’t meet her eye.

And there was such suppressed grief in his apology, a devastation that was further wreckage to Nesta’s insides, that she finally found herself impelled to speak, the words a rasped truth. “Don’t be.”

There was a bob of his Adam’s apple. A painful tug at the corners of his mouth; the curved and unconvincing attempt at a smile. Eyes sliding back to hers, vulnerable, troubled and achingly sad to look at. Snagging at the spot at her temple that pulsed before they locked with hers. “Hard not to be.”

The subsequent silence was as painful and brittle as Cassian’s weak smile. He seemed to realise this and attempted to hitch one corner of his mouth higher into a ghost of his signature crooked grin. 

The feeble sight of it was too much. Sensations crowded Nesta as abruptly as something dropping from the sky. 

She couldn’t talk about yesterday. Not now, not yet.

Tearing her gaze away from him, Nesta intended to look towards the kitchenette. But she only made it a fraction, her eyes catching on the coffee table, drawn unwillingly to the laptop abandoned askew atop it.

“Do you have my laptop?”

The question was clearly not one Cassian had been expecting. Nesta could tell because it took him a moment too long to reply. It added to the stilted interaction, another brick added to the wall between them. 

His concern grew stricken. “Mor said to gradually increase your exposure to the screen over time…”

Awkwardness transfigured into something else, the only outlet Nesta could summon. A muted sort of anger that he was continuing to talk of yesterday, when all she wanted to do was run, stay numb. That for once, he hadn’t read her. Hadn’t understood that her laptop was her income, her livelihood. A story unfurled and coaxed from inside of her head. The strike of letters against a keyboard. The expectant blink of a cursor. “But do you have it?”

A frown knotted Cassian’s brow, but then his expression smoothed, understanding dawning - too late. “Your satchel is hanging by the door.”

Nesta sagged in relief. The doorframe held her up like a spine. “I couldn’t remember…”

She never could, not when it came to Tomas and events like yesterday. It was like her memory was wiped in snatches, huge fragments missing, jagged holes that cut through skin like butter when you tried to recall them.

Cassian’s head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze watchful, his eyes swallowing the light in the room rather than reflecting it. “I carried it out for you, that’s probably why.” 

Nesta tried to remember leaving the cafe, but when she tried to cast her mind back, it was only in physical sensations she could remember. The way she had begun to shake as she stood, the adrenaline coursing through her veins, making her jittery. The desire to break into a sprint, to outrun it all, her breath, her lungs burning, so fierce that she barely recalled the phantom pressure of a hand on her lower back, light but steady as it guided her out. 

“Are you hungry?”

The sudden change in conversation had Nesta blinking. Despite the fact that Cassian’s expression was clean, careful, neutral, she got the impression that she’d been very far away. That he was disquieted. Or perhaps it was what Nesta expected from him. Her mind jumping ahead a step, waiting for the next thing, reading him so she couldn’t be surprised or caught out by anything ever again.

That had happened before, too.  

If Nesta could, she’d allow herself to press the button on the remote and skip her life forward so she was privy to what was going to happen before anyone else. That would rid herself of the fear she knew would inevitably set in, solid and immovable until suddenly it lurched, a weight in your stomach, panic clawing up your throat, heart in your mouth, racing, racing—

Swallowing, Nesta went to shake her head, but stopped herself before she came to regret it. “Just a shower.”

Again, she dissected an emotion in Cassian even though his relaxed countenance didn’t change - disappointment. 

But all Cassian did was nod. Slowly, he made to stand as if she might spook.

And the worst thing about it all, was that if he lurched forward, if he even just moved at a normal speed, Nesta knew she would.

“I’ll grab you a towel.”

***

The bathroom was as clean as the rest of Cassian’s apartment. Now Nesta was fully awake, she could see what she hadn’t been able to the day before. Then, she’d only seen the reflection of her pale face in the mirror, the cool metal of the black tap, the underfloor heating warming the floor beneath her socked feet. 

Now, she took it all in. Straight ahead, an exposed brick wall housed a charcoal grey sink unit and the mirror above it. Large warehouse windows, just like in the living room, flooded the room with natural daylight including the free-standing bath beside it. There was a large climbing Devil’s Ivy that Nesta only recognised because Elain had gifted it to her a few years earlier. Then, to her right, a walk-in shower partitioned by a black grid glass screen. 

Somehow, the room balanced the industrial-style of the warehouse loft without seeming cold. Nor did it give off the aura of a bachelor pad - the latter of which, Nesta didn’t want to think about.

Stripping off, she stood in the shower and brushed her teeth with the toothbrush Cassian had pointed her to the day before. Water cascaded down like warm rain and Nesta closed her eyes to it, gave way to the sensation as heat crept over her scalp, her shoulders, her stomach. The taste of mint in her mouth, the scent of warm wood, sweet notes of spice and resin, suds down the drain.

When she finally shut off the water, Nesta wrapped herself tightly in a towel that smelt like his bedding. Studied her face blankly in the mirror. Drawn, ashen, like she wasn’t really there. How she felt, really. 

She tugged on yesterday’s clothes, turned her underwear inside out, put the jersey that she’d taken from his drawers the night before into the rattan laundry basket. Ran her fingers through her hair, fingers snagging on the knots. 

Cassian was in the kitchen when she stepped out of the bathroom, her hair wet around her shoulders. His back was to her, and items clanked in the sink. A theme, it seemed.

The bedding was gone from the couch, his laptop was now closed on the dining table. He had changed into fresh clothes, ready for the day, the world, the people in it, like the Cassian she was acquainted with rather than the barer version of himself she’d seen moments before. Only his hair remained down, loose and wavy rather than tangled back into a topknot.

On the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living room was her satchel. Her phone charging to the right of it, the screen lit up.

Nesta began to move towards it when Cassian spoke over his shoulder— 

“I spoke to Emerie yesterday.”

Nesta had known he might speak. Had expected it, yet, the deepness of his voice startled her all the same. Quickly, she tried to recover herself, swallow down the heart pounding in her throat, even though she knew it was too late. Made her way round to the dining table side of the countertop, so there was something between them, something concrete, even though she knew he’d never hurt her. Never harm her like Tomas had.

But her body wasn’t cooperating with reason. She knew it and Cassian seemed to know it too - with his sad, troubled eyes and the way he’d grown very still, his hands still submerged in the bubbles. 

Reaching for the bag, unable to look at him, Nesta felt for the shape of her laptop within the material. Tried to calm the adrenaline that wanted to chase her out of breath. 

She didn’t touch her phone, even though she could see Emerie’s name lighting up the screen, message upon message upon message.

So, she replied. “You did.” 

It should have been a question, but it came out more like a statement, lifeless and unchanging.  

Cassian swallowed. Nesta watched his Adam’s apple bob, the way it travelled up and down the column of his throat. “I did. She’s back today.”

“I’m aware.”

There was a stilted movement, a dip of his chin as he processed the lack of bite in her delivery. He placed a mug on the drying rack, the expected clink of porcelain against metal. Him carefully reaching for the tea towel, casually drying his hands. “Well, she said she could swing by and get you.”

Dread was setting in now. The awful reality of it concrete in Nesta’s stomach. Here it was, a whole operation around her, the weak link. The person that was such a mess that everyone had to organise her life. Scared and brittle, pieces chipping away from her bit by bit until Nesta was nothing but that fearful girl from before, afraid to live her life, terrified to leave someone who treated her so abhorrently.

Nesta saw it all unfold in the same moment that she was dragged back in time, to a place she thought she’d clawed her way out of - painstakingly, agonisingly and utterly destroying in its slowness - as she tried to heal. To weather the storm that physically battered her, shaped her anew.

Consumed by it all, Nesta only realised it was too long since Cassian had spoken until the silence had carried on too long. He was watching her again in a way she recognised, reading all of her, too much, knowing that she was in her in head, too deep and couldn’t get out. 

The words came out even more limp now. If the way she spoke before was lifeless. Now, her words were dead, buried in the cemetery, lost to an unmarked grave. “She did.”

“Or if you want to stay…” Cassian began, even more unsure now, but Nesta didn’t allow him to continue.

“It’s fine.”

An uncomfortable silence issued and Nesta couldn’t bear it. So, she picked up her phone, moved to the couch. Sat in the exact corner that she’d been in yesterday, when Mor had sat on the coffee table opposite her and rifled through her medical bag. 

“Was it wrong of me to get in touch with her?” Cassian’s voice again, closer than the kitchenette. “I thought you might prefer her or Gwyn to me…”

He trailed off, uncertain. 

Was it wrong, Nesta wondered, as she stared blankly ahead at the television screen? For him to try and do what was he thought was right by her. To make sure she had her found family around her when she was like this - spooked and fearful. Even now, in his home, when he’d rescued her, looked after her, given her a bed, a warm place to stay when she’d treated him the way she had.

A sudden emotion clogged in her throat. Something she was unable to swallow down. The time in the alleyway, the coffee shop before it, was still a fragmented blur. But she remembered the wall. The jerk of her body as she’d been sick, her stomach lurching painfully. The violence of it. How she’d seen movement out of the corner of her eye and her body had reacted without her will. The all-consuming fear, the sudden terror screaming inside of her that made her bolt straight into the concrete. The way the pain that had come after it was nothing compared to the horror on Cassian’s face as he held his hands up in surrender and stepped back.

And Nesta already had so many ghosts in the closet she couldn’t keep track of them. But this would be one that haunted her as life continued to unfold around her. Something her mind would keep coming back to. 

Kind, dependable Cassian who would never, ever hurt her. 

Nesta wanted to die of shame but she was too tired.

So, she just said, “It was right.”

Cassian nodded, relieved and then neither of them said anything. He joined her on the couch, in her periphery, on the length that ran to her left, just far enough away that she didn’t feel the fenced in.

The television screen played out softly in the background and Nesta took that moment to finally check her phone. Sure enough, Emerie had left her more than one message. The first barrage had been cursing Tomas to a fate worse than death and declaring her love for Nesta. The second had been about reporting the incident to Nesta’s lawyer. The third set was all specifics, the tone carefully light:

Emerie-Board, 22:12: Plane gets in at ten, Loch Nessie. Shall I pick you up from Cassian’s? I can come straight from the airport and you can stay with me for a few days.

Emerie-Board, 22:13: Or would you like to stay in his bed apartment for the foreseeable future? Let a girl know when you can. Love you. 

Emerie-Board, 23:07: I’m taking your silence as a ‘yes, I would like picking up’. So, I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning.

Emerie-Board, 09:31: Just getting in the car from the airport. See you soon.

Quickly, Nesta replied to Emerie telling her to drive safe. Then, she messaged Gwyn wishing her luck for her exam, before discarding her phone beside her.

“All ok?”

Nesta swallowed again, but that emotion remained stuck, lodged in her throat.

“Emerie is on her way.” There was a pause, a beat where she tried to remain silent. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, just as she couldn’t help but steal a glance his way. “Did you have to cancel clients?”

For an instant, Cassian studied her. And Nesta could tell by his hesitation that he was considering whether to lie. Thought better of it. 

Steadily he met her gaze, locked onto her, those hazel eyes boring into her. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry—”

Slowly, Cassian tilted his head back until it met the couch cushion, but he was still looking right at her, when he echoed her words from earlier, “Don’t be.”

Nesta looked resolutely down. Played with a stray thread of fabric on the sleeve of her jumper that had come loose, out of place. Thought of herself, woven out of the fabric of her life again, another deep pothole in the road she needed to patch up, to mend.

And it was that thought, coupled with Cassian’s earnest expression, that made it happen. The stark, beautiful line of his eyebrows, the way the dark in them made his hazel eyes appear like sincere pools of swimming gold. 

It all happened without warning. A new wave of emotion surmounted inside of her, a deluge that was more forceful than before. It rose like a tide from her stomach up to her throat, the pressure of it dislodging what was already stuck there and suddenly Nesta’s eyes felt hot. Her eyelids burned, limned with tears even though she couldn’t feel the fullness of the emotions attached to them - the sadness, the shame, the guilt - just the force of it that wanted, needed to get out. 

Everything inside of Nesta tensed, clamped down. Ready to lock down that sharp rush of breath, the tears that were about to swell and spill over, slide down her cheeks like rivers.

But then Cassian said her name and it was all over. 

It was the weight in his voice that broke her—the unspoken understanding, the quiet knowledge that she now stood on the edge of something vast and terrifying. She was here, truly here, in this moment, even though the full gravity of it was still muted, muffled.

And still, it was too much.

Control slipped through Nesta’s fingers, and there was no point in chasing it. The tears came unbidden, silent and unrelenting, falling down her cheeks like lifeless rivers.

And she knew Cassian had clocked them. Knew because the silence carried too much weight to it. As if it were bulging at the seams, ready to spill open.

“I’m sorry.” 

The words slipped out of Nesta on a wavering exhale, pitchy and uncontrolled. And Nesta’s face crumpled at the sound. She dragged in another breath, trying to stop the flow of tears, but they were flowing independently from her will, her body and mind two separate entities, the latter unable to control the former. 

She raised her hands to cover her face, but Nesta forgot about her head and the painful reminder of it just made the tears come faster. Her breath hitched, sharp and strained, the pain twisting it into a higher pitch as her head throbbed relentlessly.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. Followed it with another strangled intake of breath that sounded too like a sob.

“Don’t be. Hey, you’re ok.” Cassian’s voice now, urgently quiet, desperately soothing. 

There was the rustle of fabric, the sound of the cushions moving beneath his weight, but Nesta didn’t look up. She knew he wanted to get to her, to comfort her but wasn’t sure if she’d flinch. 

That only made the tears come faster. 

“Nesta.” His voice even closer now. Pained. “Can I hug you?”

And again, that gentle patience undid her. She buried her face further into her left hand, her right hovering over the sore and bruised skin at her temple as she nodded, forgetting again, the pain it brought.

Then he was there. The couch cushions moving under his weight, as he sat down beside her. It was the heat of him first, then the scent of him winding around her. But then his calloused fingers were at her wrists, prying her hands from her face. Cassian’s arms came around her, the fibres of his sweater tickling her skin, his nose in her hair.

They stayed like that even when Nesta’s phone rang, her focus solely on the lulling rise and fall of his chest. When the ringing stopped, there was only a short reprieve, and then Cassian’s phone sounded. 

They ignored it all. Waited until Nesta had a semblance of control again, that surging wave inside of her having crested into quieter waters. 

Even so, Nesta couldn’t bear to answer Emerie. Instead, she groped blindly for her, handed it to Cassian when it rang again. Allowed him to answer, one arm still around her, holding her close. 

His chin moved against the crown of Nesta’s head as he spoke but she just squeezed her eyes tightly shut, allowed the last of the tears to escape. “Hey. Ok, one second. We’ll be down.”

Silence descended as he hung up. He didn’t pull away from her, didn’t do anything but give her time. 

Eventually, when her breathing had evened out to match his, Nesta straightened a little, pulled away, turned her head. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not when they were this close, even though his chin was purposefully tilted down to look at her, to try and catch her in the serious concern of his gaze. 

He gave her a beat. Two. But then his hands rose to cup her face. The movement was purposefully slow, giving her time to acknowledge his intention, to pull away, but Nesta found that she didn’t want to stop him. Tenderly, he brushed his thumbs over her cheeks, swiping away the tear tracks and the action was so pure, so gentle, so Cassian that Nesta found herself doing the thing she’d been so afraid of.

This close up, his eyes weren’t as gold. Amongst the amber, she could see the threads of green in them, the hazel, and she found herself leaning into his touch, wanting more of it. Needing to be reeled into the sudden reminder of the comfort he had always brought her, the safety. Something solid to hold onto, something dependable, something she wasn’t afraid of.

“Sorry.”

It came out hoarse. Cassian’s brows knit together but that calloused thumb continued to stroke at her cheek. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

His breath fluttered over her skin, another caress.  

“I can’t do it again.”

That thumb at her cheek stilled. Somehow, Cassian’s voice dipped into something even lower. “Do what?”

But the truth of it had hit Nesta now. Of what was to come. The thing she had not wanted to truly accept. Her isolating herself, ruled by a fear she couldn’t control. She heaved a breath, a suppressed, shaky sob stuttering out of her. Pressed her hands into her stomach, trying to hold in that fear. Stop it from spilling out of her.

“Put myself back together again. I’ve barely just done it and now I’ve got to do it all over and I just…” She stopped, tried to wrangle her breathing under control so she could continue speaking, but it turned out that she had run out of words. And what else was there to say, other than, “I can’t.”

There was a stillness, a few heartbeats where Cassian seemed to remain frozen.

And Nesta didn’t know what she expected from him now. By the end of her speech, she had mainly been talking to herself. Confessing this truth, this understanding that she had to begin anew. 

Gently, Cassian layered his hands over hers. And that was his only response. Silent support rather than a verbal one. Helping her to cage in the terror that resided in her stomach, lurking, waiting to leap out at her at any moment. 

Together, they walked down in silence. Down the hall, into the lift. Nesta focussed on the sensation of her feet on the ground, ignoring the dizziness, the way the world seemed to streak and whirl around her, unstable. 

As soon as Cassian opened the door to the front entrance of the apartments, fresh air rushed in on a fierce wind. It sobered Nesta up and she blinked, once, twice.

Patiently, Cassian waited, one hand propping the door. He raised the other in greeting to Emerie, who was just getting out of the car, before he turned his focus back to Nesta.

For a moment, he just stared down at her. Deliberated.

But then he said, quietly, fervently, “For what it’s worth, I know you can do this.”

Those eyes searched hers as if he was looking for something. A glimpse of who she’d been before yesterday, perhaps. 

“Can I—” He began, but then he broke off, unsure. His hair, snagged by the fierce wind, was pulled behind him. Nesta’s own wet strands whipped around her, across her face. It was punishingly cold, but she didn’t care. “Can I text you?”

Nesta bit her lip hard before she released it. Looked away. “Ok.”

“Ok, sweetheart.” His hand inched across the space between them. It hovered over her arm, tentative unsure, before it fell away.

The saddest of smiles ghosted Cassian’s lips, tugging at the corners but failing to blossom into something true. “Be kind to yourself.”

And that was it. 

Nesta walked away and didn’t look back.

Tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @wannawriteyouabook @lovelynest @melphss @a-trifling-matter @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @lavendergoomsltd @princessofmerchants-reads @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @amelie775 @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side

[murdleandmarot]

I don’t know what I want but it isn’t this. I don’t know what I want but it isn’t this. I don’t know what I want but it isn’t this.

[zerun0]

"Entropy’s Embrace" — Viktor x Y/N (Gender-Neutral)

English is not my first language. Feel free to comment on any of my mistakes and i will update the post, also I more than happy to receive suggestions, and advice on how to improve my work.

— ! WARNING NSFW(+18): ! — Sexual themes, Smut, Sex, Making out, Teasing, Biting, Fantasy sex.

— Word count: — 2.4k (Full uncut version on AO3) — SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 6 ACT 2 OF ARCANE —

By arcanegifs The world around Y/N was a symphony of shifting light and shadow, an endless expanse where the rules of reality seemed suspended. They hovered weightlessly, surrounded by the intricate fractals of the Hexcore's astral plane. Vibrant purples, yellows and blues pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat, as if this place was alive.

Viktor stood nearby, his lean frame bathed in the eerie glow of the Hexcore’s energy. His golden eyes reflected its kaleidoscopic light, and for the first time in ages, they were free of exhaustion, unburdened by the weight of his physical ailment.

“It’s… incredible,” — Y/N whispered, turning to face him, their voice reverent. The glow bathed both of them, rendering every curve and line of their forms more vivid, more real.

Viktor nodded, his lips parting to speak but faltering. His gaze lingered on Y/N longer than it should have, and in this place, where time seemed irrelevant, the moment stretched. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, brushing against theirs.

“I didn’t think we…we would see this together,” — he said, voice low and velvety. — “I feared I would be gone before… before anything meaningful.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. There was a vulnerability in his words that Viktor rarely let surface. They moved closer, their hands entwining fully now, grounding themselves in this surreal place. The Hexcore's hum grew quieter, as though it understood it was no longer the center of attention.

“You’ve always been meaningful, Viktor,” — Y/N replied, their voice steady but charged with emotion. — “I see you! I always have.”

His breath hitched, the tension between them electric. Here, in this untethered realm, his barriers seemed to dissolve. No longer the brilliant but withdrawn scientist; he was just Viktor… a man yearning for a connection.

Without thinking, Y/N cupped his face. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to the cold, biomechanical realm around them. Viktor leaned into the touch, his sharp features softening as his eyes closed. When they opened again, they burned with a quiet intensity.

“M-May I?” — He murmured, his voice a rasp.

Y/N’s answer was to close the remaining distance between them, their lips meeting in a slow, exploratory kiss. The Hexcore pulsed brighter around them, as if reacting to the surge of emotions. Viktor’s lips were hesitant at first, but as Y/N’s hands slid to the corner of his neck, tangling in his hair, he deepened the kiss.

The kiss grew fervent, their bodies pressing together as if the astral plane could collapse at any moment and they needed to hold on. Viktor’s hands found Y/N’s waist, sliding up their back, and they felt the strength of his grip despite its gentleness. He groaned softly against their lips.

In this place, their usual constraints, the fragility of Viktor’s health, the weight of their responsibilities, melted away. They were free to touch, to explore, to give in to the magnetic pull between them.

Viktor pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against theirs, his breathing ragged. His hands trembled as they traced the curve of Y/N’s jaw, as if memorizing every detail. — “I don’t deserve this,” he murmured.

Y/N silenced him with another kiss, this one more insistent. — “You deserve everything.”

Their lips met again, hungrier now. Y/N’s fingers slid down to the hem of Viktor’s neck. His hands mirrored theirs, exploring the contours of their body with a reverence that made Y/N’s heart ache. The touch of his fingers sent fire trailing across their skin.

The Hexcore’s light wrapped around them, illuminating every touch, every stolen breath. Their movements synchronized as if guided by the same rhythm.

The astral plane seemed to echo their passion, its light pulsing in time with their quickened breaths. The weightlessness of the realm gave a dreamlike quality to every movement as their hands explored each other with growing fervor. His skin was warm beneath their fingertips, the soft glow of the realm making every detail of him radiant.

Viktor exhaled sharply as Y/N’s lips moved to his collarbone, then lower, leaving a trail of heated kisses along the planes of his chest. His fingers tightened on their waist, pulling them closer.

Y/N looked up at him, their lips curving into a soft smile.

The light around them shifted, becoming softer, more intimate, as if the Hexcore itself was granting them … privacy

Viktor’s touch was reverent, his hands and lips painting a portrait of devotion across Y/N’s body. He moved with deliberate care, as though every kiss, every caress, was a promise… of love, of passion, of a future they had only dared to imagine.

In this timeless space, there was no rush, no outside world to intrude.

Viktor eased them down onto the soft, endless surface of the plane, his body following theirs in a fluid motion. His weight settled over them, grounding them in this surreal space as his lips continued their journey downward. He kissed a trail along their collarbone, pausing to worship the delicate rise and fall of their chest. His hands caressed their sides, his touch leaving a blazing heat in its wake.

Every movement of his was purposeful, a mix of care and longing as though he wanted to savor every moment. When his lips brushed the sensitive skin just below their ribs, Y/N arched into him, their breath coming in short gasps. Their fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on, and Viktor responded with a soft, low sound of approval that vibrated against their skin.

He pressed a lingering kiss to the sensitive dip of their hip, his hands smoothing over their thighs with deliberate slowness. His touch was light, almost teasing, as if memorizing the softness of their skin. Y/N trembled beneath his ministrations, their chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, each exhale carrying his name.

His lips pressed to the inside of their thigh, the gentle scrape of his stubble sending a shiver up their spine.

His hands spread their thighs gently, his touch firm yet tender, as though they were something precious. His lips continued their exploration, his kisses trailing lower with an exquisite slowness that had Y/N gasping in anticipation.

Viktor took his time, his every action laced with devotion, his lips and tongue exploring them with a precision that spoke to his brilliant mind and an emotional depth. He moved as if guided by instinct, his focus entirely on them, attuned to every sound, every tremor, every whispered plea.

Y/N’s head fell back, their eyes fluttering closed as their body responded to his attentions, the sensations cresting higher and higher. They couldn’t stop the soft moans that escaped, their hands gripping his shoulders, their legs trembling as the tension built within them. Viktor’s name spilled from their lips again and again, a mantra of pleasure.

When Y/N finally broke, their release crashing over them like a wave, the light of the Hexcore pulsed brightly, the realm seeming to echo their cries of ecstasy. Viktor didn’t stop, his movements slowing only as he carried them through the waves of pleasure, his hands caressing their trembling thighs in a grounding touch.

As Y/N’s breathing steadied, Viktor pressed one final, reverent kiss to their inner thigh before moving back up to meet their gaze. His golden eyes were filled with an unguarded tenderness, his lips glistening, his hair tousled from their touch. He leaned down to kiss them, the gesture slow and intimate, a silent sharing of the connection they had just created.

Y/N let out a shaky exhale, their chest heaving as they looked at him with wide eyes. — “Viktor…"

He moved upward, his lithe body pressing against theirs as his hands framed their face. The touch was gentle, his thumbs brushing over their cheeks as though committing the moment to memory. — “I need to see you,” — he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. — “All of you. I need to feel you… completely.”

The weight of his words sent a shiver through Y/N, and they reached up to tangle their fingers in his hair, pulling him down into a kiss. Viktor groaned softly against their mouth, his body pressing flush against theirs as his hands roamed their sides, their back, pulling them together.

Viktor's hand slipped between them, his touch gentle as he prepared them for what was to come, his fingers skilled yet reverent, eliciting soft gasps and moans from Y/N.

When he finally joined with them, the connection was slow and deliberate, his body melding with theirs in a way that felt as if the universe itself had aligned for this moment. Both of them gasped, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming, their bodies perfectly attuned to one another. Viktor’s hands gripped their hips, steadying them as he pressed deeper, his forehead still resting against theirs as his golden eyes held theirs captive.

“Y-You’re incredible,” — he murmured in a thick accent, his voice rough with emotion. — “You… you make me feel alive.”

Y/N smiled, their hands sliding down to rest on his back, holding him close — 'You are alive" — They reminded him as their bodies began to move together. Each motion was a dance of passion and connection, every touch, every kiss amplifying the bond between them.

Viktor’s breath hitched as their hips met, his fingers gripping their waist with a strength that surprised even him. The slick, intoxicating friction of their bodies made his restraint falter, a low groan escaping his lips as he began to move, each thrust deeper than the last. The weight of his body against theirs, the heat of him inside them, sent shivers through Y/N, their nails digging into his back as they arched into him, wordless sounds of pleasure spilling from their lips.

“Y/N…ah” — he gasped, their name breaking from his throat like a plea, his voice thick with need. His mouth found their neck, teeth grazing their skin before soothing the faint sting with his tongue.

Their legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, until there was no space left between them. Viktor’s movements became more desperate, the precision he was so known for giving way to raw passion. His hands slid down to grip the curve of their thighs, spreading them wider to take him fully.

Y/N whimpered, their fingers threading through his hair, tugging as their own pleasure mounted. “Viktor… please, don’t stop,” they begged, their voice breathless, trembling with the intensity of what they were sharing.

“I couldn’t… even if I tried,” he whispered hoarsely, his lips capturing theirs in a kiss that was as much hunger as it was love.

The Hexcore’s light grew brighter, its pulse quickening in tandem with their movements. The golden glow reflected the sweat glistening on Viktor’s skin, highlighting the tension in his muscles as he moved above them. Every thrust was a perfect blend of power and devotion, driving Y/N closer and closer to the brink.

“Viktor, I’m-” Y/N gasped, their words cutting off in a cry as their body tensed, pleasure crashing over them. Their release hit with an intensity that left them trembling, their cries echoing in the infinite expanse of the astral plane.

“M-Me.. Me ..ah.. too" — Viktor followed them moments later, his rhythm faltering as he thrust into them one last time, his body shuddering as he spilled inside them. A broken moan escaped his lips, his arms tightening around Y/N as he buried his face in the crook of their neck, their names a reverent whisper on his lips.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, their bodies still entwined, their breathing heavy. The light of the astral plane dimmed, its glow soft and warm, wrapping around them like an embrace. Viktor’s fingers traced lazy circles on their skin.

But as the golden light faded, the astral plane’s infinite warmth gave way to a cooler sensation. Y/N blinked, their eyes fluttering open to find themselves lying on a soft bed made out of scraps and some old cloth. Their body warm but covered by a light blanket. Above them, the faint glimmer of bioluminescent flowers cast a dreamy, azure glow, illuminating the sprawling garden around them.

Viktor was beside them, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm as he slept. His features were softened in the pale light, the sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbones bathed in a gentle, otherworldly hue.

Y/N sat up slowly, the events of the astral plane vivid in their mind. The memory of his touch, the light that pulsed around them, and the raw intimacy they had shared felt as real as the dew-kissed grass beneath their fingertips. They glanced around, taking in the details of the garden. Carefully cultivated biomechanical flora, the faint glow of Hextech crystals embedded in the stone pathways, and the distant hum of Zaun’s machinery muted by the sanctuary’s beauty.

This place was Viktor’s creation, his haven. It was a stark contrast to the harsh, industrial world outside, filled instead with life and light, his vision for a better future taking root.

As if sensing their movement, Viktor stirred. His kaleidoscopic eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep but bright with recognition as they locked onto Y/N. A soft smile tugged at his lips, and his voice, husky with rest, broke the silence. — “You’re awake…”

Y/N leaned over him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “We’re awake,” they whispered, their voice full of wonder. “This…That… Was so dreamy, this place too… so surreal.”

His gaze softened, his hand coming up to rest gently on theirs. “And it is… just the beginning,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a hint of reverence. “This is a place of growth, for change. For us… For the people of Zaun… For all who seek refuge.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at his words, the weight of everything he had created settling over them. “It a beautiful cause, Viktor"

He smiled faintly, his hand tightening around theirs. “You give me the strength to dream, Y/N. To hope for more.” His voice grew quieter, the vulnerability in it palpable.

The garden hummed softly around them, a symphony of life that seemed to mirror their connection. As they lay back together on the makeshift bed, the future stretching before them like an unmarked path, the faint glow of the Hexcore crystals above flickered, their light steady and full of promise.

— Thank you for reading. Shoutout for zaunitearchives, i never believed that "Celestial backshots" would inspire me to write this.

[sp00kymulderr]

it might be nice

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings/Tags/Notes: 18+. FEELINGS. Angst. love. just...feelings. Mention of f receiving oral, reader is a not a us-citizen (visa stuff), commitment and intimacy issues all round, did I mentioned feelings? This just kinda started writing itself, i appreciate there isn't enough Dieter in it but it is what it is. Unedited, unbeta'd.

Words: 1.1k

Summary: It's more than enough. Having what you have with him now.

"We could get married"

You look up from your book, drawn back from your far away to the sound of his voice. Dieter is looking at you expectantly.

Your eyes widen as you process the four words that just left his mouth.

"Dee, we…why would we…" You trail off, drawing your legs up and out of his lap, his thumb presses down on the arch of your foot once more before he lets it go.

The conversation had moved on hours ago. Over takeout you'd mentioned trepidation over being able to stay in the country, struggling with your visa and having no sponsorship since you couldn't seem to get a fucking job right now.

Dieter had listened, sympathised, and then eaten you out for dessert just to make you feel better about your situation.

It helped. He'd been pretty mediocre but extremely enthusiastic when you'd met, but now you'd taught him some tricks he knew just how to turn your mind off for a moment.

The conversation was finished the moment he put his mouth on you, or so you thought. He could help you pay for an extension but he wasn't influential or wealthy enough to sway the embassy into letting you stay longer.

"I'd bribe the fuck out of them if I could, you know that"

You did know that. You knew he'd do anything for you. He'd been saying it since the day he met you, once famous (more like infamous) movie star turned rehabilitated recluse with no one willing to be by his side until that day.

He'd met you in a Dennys, of all places. 3am waffles served to his lonely little corner booth because he found it hard to sleep these days, and he got hungry at random times. You took the late shifts because they paid the best, and you could be available in the day for calls from your agent that never came.

It hadn't been sexual at first. It hadn't been anything but a displaced, alone man and an exhausted, untethered waitress sitting in a booth and sharing free fries because chef made too many and they'd only go to waste. It had been whispered giggles, and sharing ridiculous Hollywood horror stories, and 'same time tomorrow' over and over again.

No one in LA had made you laugh. Not until you met him.

Dieter hadn't heard genuine laughter in years. Now he got to hear it every night.

Back in the now, you shake your head. He's being silly. He's trying to make you laugh again.

"Don't be stupid" You playfully shove his shoulder with your foot, but his face falls into a frown, and you feel a little crack in your heart at the sight. You watch as he stands, rubbing fingers across his forearm and muttering a little 'Stupid, yeah'. The tremor you feel inside you is nameless, and you will it to remain that way.

In the last six months of your knowing each other, there have been times when you've felt this same feeling. An ache at the thought that he could be anything other than happy. You'd long since left Dennys for the upward trajectory of the Cheesecake Factory but still when the late shift rolls around you feel a tug at your lips and a name on them, even when you'd seen him only hours before.

You're not an item, that's the thing. You're not a couple. Neither of you have ever said the words outright, no 'I want to be with you', 'I want to be yours'. Not to each other, at least.

It's more than enough. Having what you have with him now. It's enough, it's enough, it's enough. Enough that he will sit up all night long and read lines with you again and again and again. Enough that he tells you not to come over on his bad days but you do anyway, and hold him while he cries.

It's enough to be just this. Because more would only make it hurt more when he relapses, when you have to leave.

When you have to leave…

You close your book, set it down on the table that's strewn with pages for your latest audition. Last night he'd coached you through every single line, and then told you with passion just how perfect you were. You can hear him in the kitchen, and you know he's making himself a decaf latte with way too much caramel syrup and a dash of the kitkat sprinkles because that's what he always makes when he might be starting to crave something else.

That's how you know he wasn't making a joke. That's how you know your hurt his feelings. That and every look he's ever given you, every smile that lights up his eyes that's only been for you. That and the way his hands never stray far from you, always grounding himself with the touch of your skin to his.

"Dee…" You pad up to him slowly, watch as he tenses at your presence. Another prickle in your chest, you can't let him think you don't feel...what it is that you feel.

"Would it be so bad?" He asks without turning, the tinge of dejection in his tone making you reach out. "I'd treat you good, you know. We wouldn't even have to live together or anything…it can just be a way for you to stay. That's all. I didn't think it would be so bad for you"

God, you've had him right in your grasp this whole time. The two of you dancing around your feelings all because of fears you didn't even fully realise you had til now.

"I'd- I wouldn't even tell anyone you were my wife, if you didn't want me to. I wouldn't expect anything from it. I just…fuck,"

You turn him around with a pull to his arm, shake your head and bite back something hopeful and beautiful that inches up your throat,

"I don't want you to go"

Your arms are around his middle, a stifled sob as you bury your face against the soft, worn fabric of his favourite t-shirt - your favourite by extension because everything he loves you love too. He smells like him.

You breathe him in.

He smells like home.

You look up at him and smile. Not the pretty smile you give to casting agents - the one that makes you look perfect - but the big, happy, loving one he saw the very first night you two met in that Dennys at three in the morning on a random Tuesday. The one he gives you back is the same; he's smiled a thousand times on camera, in films and press appearances and award shows. No one else but you has ever seen this smile.

You take a deep breath. The crack in your heart starts in fusing back together.

"We could get married"

[literary-motif]

Modus Operandi

Alex x Reader

Alex is doing terrible after the breakup.

Warnings: references to depression and suicidal ideation

When you walked out, you took a part of his heart with you. Not a part, that would imply that there was something left in the gaping, aching void in his chest. 

Alex supposed there had to be. If you had had the grace to tear out his heart entirely, there would remain nothing to hurt, but he did. The burning in his chest spread all the way to his throat, pressing down, choking him until he could no longer see properly through blurry vision, and the feeling of utter desolation threatened to swallow him whole. 

He hurt. Every breath was painful, every glance around the apartment and the empty spots where your things had been before you left — before you left him — felt like a stab to his heart that tore its decimated remains apart more and more. 

You had slammed the door, leaving him sitting alone in the kitchen. A haze seemed to surround him, blocking reality from truly sinking in. He had expected you to come back any moment — “Alex, this is stupid. Come on, we have been together for two years, I know you. Let’s— let’s try to work this out, yeah?” — but you never did, and those words never left your lips. Instead, you shot him one last pained look through the tears that gathered in your eyes before the anger prevailed and you threw your key onto the kitchen table.

The evening turned to night, and as the realization that you were not coming back sunk in, Alex found himself slipping. You were gone. He had nothing now, nothing but his work. The overwhelming feeling of loneliness as he looked at your key choked him up, tears springing to his eyes as the illusion finally broke and he sobbed his heart out, his chest spasming painfully. 

You were gone. You had left. And the thought that hurt most was that he did not even have it in himself to try and stop you. 

Alex was shattered, spiraling into this feeling of nothingness, into regret until he felt utterly untethered from the world, wandering through life with his lifeline cut. 

How he wound up on Kayson’s doorstep he had no idea, but as his friend opened the door and his eyes widened at the sorry, pitifully sobbing mess he was, Alex was suddenly glad that he had found his way to him as he gathered him in his arms and ushered him inside. He did not need to utter a word, Kayson seemingly understanding the situation from a glance at him alone. Alex was glad for that, taking the steaming cup of tea with a small nod of thanks and nibbling at a cookie Kayson urged him to try. 

He carefully avoided telling Alex that he had baked them that day with the love of his life.

This shared night, with Alex curled up on the couch, tears still leaking from his eyes while a distraught Kayson tried cheering him up turned out to be the last time the two of them met for a long while. 

Come morning, when his tears had dried and the overwhelming hurt in his chest felt a little more bearable as he got used to its burning, Alex went straight back to work. There was nothing else he could do. Checking his emails and messages, he accepted every commission, beginning his work on what would be an exhausting schedule, clouding his mind with enough photography that thinking became a task and he collapsed into bed at night utterly spent and rose in the morning just as tired. 

It worked. Work was the best way to keep the pain at bay, and he would rather face the issues of overworking himself into an early grave than face the root of the feeling that drove him to it. He could not stand thinking about you. 

Remembering what he once had — what he had lost and now missed tore him to pieces. It made his eyes water, remembering your warm body curled around him in bed, your sleepy smile in the morning, finding you pouring over papers in the kitchen while dinner cooked on the stove, seeing your eyes light up when you found another one of his weaknesses, your playful grin as you teased him about it relentlessly. 

He missed your scent. He missed your presence. He missed your company on the lonely, dreary night when everything looked a little too dark. He missed your company on the bright, sunny days when he returned home with news of a new prestigious project that he was excited to work on. 

You were gone, and he felt your absence terribly. The apartment was a constant reminder of who was no longer there. It made him want to sob once your pillow lost your scent. It made him want to tear out what remained of his heart when he found one of the stick-it notes you had written him once, the simple words ‘I love you, eat lunch!’ cutting deeper than he had thought possible. It made him want to disappear, sink into nothingness knowing his life only consisted of work, knowing he had pushed away everything else. 

It made him want to die, knowing he had been going through the motions for half a year, waiting for a phone call that slipped further and further away with every passing day. 

His work did not suffer despite the breakup, and he could find at least some pride in that. Alex lost count of how many commissions he had done. How often he had gone to a photo shoot, how often he had toiled the night away editing the pictures he got out in the early hours of the morning to whoever had wanted them. 

He was continuously praised for his rigorous work ethic. People marveled at the breakneck speed with which he completed his work. He felt like he was drowning, and the only way not to sink was by speeding through work, moving from one to the other in the blink of an eye to keep himself afloat. 

The photo shoot in the park had nearly been his breaking point. 

He had tried looking at it through a professional lens. It was a scenery like any other. It was a setting like any other. It was a model like any other. And when that had not been enough to steady his hands and keep his eyes from watering and smearing the colors he needed to see clearly, he had tried thinking of it as a dream. A vision of what could have been, a manifestation of his imagination. Somehow that had been worse, and as his lower lip wobbled, he knew he could not keep it together anymore. 

Editing these pictures was hell. He kept breaking into tears, sobbing at his desk for half a night without getting anything done and he felt horrible in the morning, dragging himself to his next photo shoot with bloodshot eyes.

He felt faint. There was a distinct pounding in his head that made it hard to concentrate and as he fixed the details on the large table filled with food he was tasked to capture, the thought suddenly struck him that he could not remember when he had last bothered to make himself something nice. 

When was the last time he had made himself a home-cooked meal? Hell, when was the last time he had eaten more than crackers or a few slices of fruit while he edited? 

He sighed, wondering how he had managed to get caught up on the same person still half a year later. He had not seen you in half a year, he had not heard your voice in six months. It should not hurt as much anymore. He should not miss you constantly anymore! 

Especially not when you seemed to be doing fine. Pictures were an illusion, he knew that better than most, but on the ones you posted — with the new mug you had bought or the beautiful sunset behind you — he could not help but notice how your eyes sparkled. You were doing fine. Perhaps it could be better, but you were fine.

Meanwhile, he was still a wreck, filling his life with work and holding himself afloat with meager, superficial success in the world of photography to keep himself from collapsing into dust. 

Maybe it was time to move on. Maybe he needed to let go of you, send you the remaining things in the apartment, move somewhere new, and try again. Passing up the job offer in New York seemed like a mistake now, but he knew he could not have lived with himself if he had accepted. 

‘If you change your mind, I’m sure we could find a spot for you, Alex.’

Perhaps he should get back to them, see if they needed him after all. New York was like a dream come true, and while it would be lonely, he supposed anything was better than the way he felt now. He would reach out, he decided. Tomorrow. He would. 

His phone rang suddenly, and his heart stopped when he saw the caller's name. His hands shook as he reached out for it, taking a deep shaky breath and exhaling it slowly before picking up. 

“Hello?”

[boopshoops]

The Watcher of the Great Pine Tree

TW!!! this is fucked up- warnings for child death/injury, descriptions of decomposition with bugs- and just bugs in general. srsly gross I warned you. Also unreliable narrator. I do my best to handle these topics with respect!

Let's see... what year was it? Ah, yes.

I died in the late 1830s. A few years after, locomotive trains finally made their way to the Land of Dawning. I was a considered a lucky charm prior to that, all of my parent's other children had died. Now now, settle- that wasn't uncommon back then. Even up till the 1870s, half of the amount of children birthed died prior to the age of five. At least those from families without magic.

Lucky me, I made it to six.

Quite the oddity compared to today, no? Nonetheless, as you can see, I have long since made up for it.

I loved to watch the trains. They astonished my little mind. I wasn't a very smart one by any means, but I wanted to know everything about them. How the wheels turned, and the whistle blew... how something that big was able to move at all. In a way, I wanted to BE the train, hah! Me and the other children would always play by the tracks whenever we were free from our studies. Every time the train went past, I was there.

Then, I fell.

What, were you expecting something more climactic?

No. I got a concussion while playing by the railroad tracks like the wreckless scamp I was. It took me awhile to learn the terms to understand- as well as most medicinal studies at the time, but fluid pressed on my brain more as the days went by, and I had a stroke.

That was when I first became a spirit, but I was not dead yet. My brain was practically nonfunctional. I could see it all like it was from the eyes of another, tethered closely to my body.

My father put me out of my misery with a mallet.

I watched him bury my body by the railroad, and I remained tethered there as all the life in the surrounding woods hummed a tune.

How did I feel? Oh, why of course I was absolutely beside myself. I feel anyone would be, but I was lucky- I had a comfort:

The crickets.

Their lovely song thrummed through my spirit along with the whistle of the train. They were there the entire time, soothing me. Family and friends visited, of course, but the bugs... the bugs were the only ones who truly spoke to me.

So when they began to consume my body, I felt betrayed. However- I learned that this was yet another blessing in disguise.

They all carried parts of my flesh. I was valuable to them. I was such a divine blessing for them. To feed the hoard. The masses. To continue to hear them sing. To untether me from my grave. I was free. I had done something. For the first time in my life, I was something greater than myself. There was nothing left of me there, but I was more than I ever had been. Yet, foolishly, I still grieved.

I followed those bugs out into the woods, to the tree. The old pine tree- I believe it was later called the Great Pine in the years to come. With magic buried deep in its roots. I practically raised myself out there in an abandoned old cottage, a place where I could keep an eye on my nests of friends where my body sustained them.

Despite what I had done for them, as years went by, I knew I wanted to live.

I wanted to live more than anyone else who had ever visited that pine tree.

More than anyone who was already alive.

So I watched. And I learned about that tree. For decades.

At the time, I was quite a sentimental fool- I got very wrapped up in it all. In how I felt, so much so that I forgot completely the feelings of others. Not that I ever had much experience with it in the first place, having passed on so young. I truly only ever thought of myself or my small critter friends. I used to excuse what I did with my death. Now I don't bother. In truth, I don't regret what I did either way.

Because I get to live.

I get to live a life no one else can.

A life of feeling. A life of being more than simply myself. I get to repay the generations and generations of creatures that fed from me. Now I can care for them forever.

So, no, I don't regret taking that girl's wooden frame.

Because now, that exact frame is home to so much more.

Wouldn't she be grateful? To have your very being become an ecosystem?

To be reunited with the very being that once bit into you? To become a part of their lives?

Maybe not. Either way, I am happy. I did feel guilty, mind you, I wasn't completely out of my wits yet, haha! It did eventually happen, though. Wits have been loss, I'm aware by how you are staring at me. Feel free to hate me, I've long since moved on to bigger things.

Suppose around two hundred years will do that to you. I almost miss the guilt.

I almost miss the feeling.

*(sorta) prequel to "The Dolls of the Great Pine Tree" from the pov of that mysterious pal.

tags!

@lowcallyfruity @skriblee-ksk @justm3di0cr3 @cecilebutcher @kitwasnothere

@beneathsakurashade @qsoap @prince-kallisto @kathxrat-01 @twsted-canvas

@scint1llat3 @the-trinket-witch @thehollowwriter @distant-velleity @techno-danger

@sillyslipperybananapeel @gimmeurmoneyagh @tixdixl @twstinginthewind

[munson-blurbs]

@corrodedcoffinfest Day 17: This One's For You

Word Count: 541/Rating: T/Pairing: None/CW: I cried writing this, canon-compliant, breaking the fourth wall/Tags: Eddie Munson, love letter, fanfic writers

Divider credit to @silkholland

Hey. It’s me.

C’mon…don’t be coy. You know who I am. You’ve been with me for days, weeks, months, years. I’m your rockstar, your mechanic, your dad’s best friend, your best friend’s dad. I’m a vampire, a werewolf, an ordinary guy from small-town Indiana. I’m a virgin, a sex god, a daydream, a nightmare.

I’m Eddie Munson.

Ironically, I started on a page, just some dialogue and vague gestures. A drug dealing freak with his wild curls, a love of heavy metal, and a penchant for creating sadistic D&D campaigns who somehow got dragged into a government-sponsored alternate dimension–as if one Hawkins wasn’t bad enough. But when my story was supposed to end, a chapter quietly closed amongst a sea of loss, you had just begun to pick up the pen.

Suddenly, I found myself thrust from death back into life. So many lives, as a matter of fact. Lives I never even imagined living during my long, lonely nights in the trailer park. 

From the safe haven of your hearts, I watch as you weave tales where I fall in love and achieve my wildest dreams. I cocoon myself in a light that you’ve turned on as you let me succeed, fail, and learn from my mistakes. Where I’m untethered from the judgment I’ve faced my whole life, finally free to be myself.

Some parts change: my profession, my age, my location, my sexuality, even my middle name. Other parts remain constant: my gratitude for my uncle Wayne, my love of pretzels (you eat a snack one time…), my kickass guitar playing skills. I never have to choose, because every opportunity is finally within my grasp. 

I thought it was all over on that fateful March evening. As I laid on the ground and took my final breaths, all I could think about was how I wouldn’t be able to look after my little sheep. Jeff, Grant, and Gareth would be without their lead guitarist. Dustin, Mike, and Lucas would be without their Dungeon Master. How could I leave them like this?

But then I saw it. I saw you all, a herd of lost little sheep that became shepherds. You tended to your flocks by unspooling stories. Stories that began as a whisper in your ear but found immortality because of the life and love you breathed into them. Just as I pored over song lyrics and meticulously planned campaigns, you write your stories. You write my story. My existence was never futile because it brought you all to each other.

And I’ve come to realize this: there is life after death. That cheesy saying about not truly dying until the last time someone says your name? I never understood it until I saw my name written millions of times, across one thousand universes. 

Now, my uncle may have raised a drug dealing, Satan-worshiping freak, but he also raised a gentleman. I know how to say thank you. And since I have a lot of time on my hands in the afterlife, I figured I’d learn your favorite song. All you have to do is close your gorgeous eyes and imagine my voice, just as you do when you write me. 

You ready, Sweetheart? This one’s for you. 

--

[accidentally-in-fictional-love]

📖🤹‍♂️🔞, pretty pleeeaasee ?

Collared But Untethered - Abner Krill/Reader

Warnings: No use of Y/N, gender-neutral reader, slowburn, slight exhibition (Belle Reve), touch-starved induced desperation, making out, sudden smut, handjobs.

Wordcount: 2970

Summary: Even with every personnel in Belle Reve questioning why you wanted him, you kept coming back for more so long as they kept letting you touch him just out of sight.

Notes: Even when I try to drabble I still can't resist the buildup cause I love him so much oop- This is the first request I've ever gotten/filled so here we gooooo :'D I hope you like it, thank you so much for sending something in 💗💗💗

You were 100% certain that everyone had caught on by now to what you two were doing, but it was hard to care when orange fabric was bunched under your hands and the sound of his poorly quieted voice was in your ear. Belle Reve was well known for its lack of care towards its residents, so at first you’d both assumed that someone would barge in at any second to tear you apart, ban you from ever returning, but you were going on your fifth visit now with no one disturbing you, so even if you weren’t as perceptive as you’d thought and they were watching on a camera you’d missed no one made it known.

You’d first seen him on TV, shakycam footage barely capturing him as he and the other prisoners briefly designated as ‘Heroes’ made quick work of the current bigger threat destroying the city, and the way his powers had lit up the area in a rainbow of colours had instantly drawn you in, made you forget all about the danger as you hid in your apartment and waited in terror for it to be over, trembling hands clasped together in front of your heaving chest as you prayed you’d be safe. He’d destroyed that threat singlehandedly the second he was sure no one else was in his way, the others chiding him in the footage as he’d closed up on himself and apologized, having forgotten their goal of taking the villain alive so he could join them in their home. 

He was so unlike anyone you’d ever seen before, a timebomb of danger wrapped up in a polka-dotted bow, hands fidgeting and head downturned nervously while the destruction of what he could do showed all along the street up to where gory remains decorated the open main road.

As the reporter took over the submitted shakycam with her own live footage, people circled the villains to thank them, albeit keeping their distance even as they reached out to shake hands, pat backs, give gifts that would definitely be confiscated as soon as they returned. No one thanked him for killing their target, everyone too afraid of the gauntlets holding back bright lights and coloured dots, worried that he’d turn them on the crowd next even as the infamous Harley Quinn herself showed off the gun she’d stolen from one of the fallen policemen to a couple kids who’d wandered up to praise her without their parents’ permission.

That wasn’t fair at all, he’d needed some thanks too.

So you’d left your apartment and hurried down to them, the fight just a couple blocks away, the still burning circles in the buildings and pavement growing in number the further you got. They were already starting to get into the armoured vehicle that brought them there by the time you’d arrived, and you didn’t know his name so you could only call past the gathered guards making sure they didn’t run before he disappeared out of sight. He turned to face you, one of his teammates elbowing him to go when it became obvious that you were there for him; he walked back down the lowered ramp to approach, looking apprehensive that you’d want to talk to him when the others were right there, so you’d extended your hand to shake his, prove that you weren’t afraid but rather thankful for his help as you reached as far as you could between the two guards keeping you at a distance for your own safety.

The moment his hand touched your own you knew that you could never let him get away again.

Visitors to Belle Reve were always heavily inspected and supervised, no one ever allowed to meet face to face for fear of what could happen to either party as well as those around them, and they made that explicitly clear to you as you passed their inspections and were ushered down the hallway to the partitioned phones. The moment you told them that you were there for the Polka-Dot Man so they knew who to get they’d hesitated, turned halfway down the hallway to look at you like you were crazy, some weird thing to be studied for wanting to see him of all people. You’d just simply shrugged and told them you wanted to thank him for the other day.

He’d never had a visitor in all his time being there, and the moment he’d seen you holding the phone opposite of his own he’d gone red in the face, a mix of embarrassment for the continued support and obvious confusion as to why you’d sought him out a second time. It was cute, and while the conversation had been short, his voice low and answers coming out in single worded sentences as he thought about what to say, it still brought butterflies to your stomach until your time was up, your final question asking for his name before you were forced to hang up.

‘Abner…’ he’d told you, like he hadn’t said it in a long time. ‘Abner Krill.’

The second time you visited you asked for permission to talk to him face to face, as his voice barely carried over the phone and he had a tendency to forget he was holding it as he talked to the desk. Request denied, but they’d think about it for the right price, it wasn’t like he was going to escape his birdcage when it kept him safe from himself, the shiny collar around his neck stopping the kaleidoscope from painting the walls in cinders. That conversation had come easier, the guards getting bored and pulling out their phones as you talked about everything and nothing at all, his words flowing a little more freely.

The third time you’d gotten your request with the handing over of a few steep bills slid under the table, Abner looking around at the room before seeing you and smiling. There was a little more space between you compared to the phones but the wall was gone, and you almost missed his questions about your life as you watched his mouth speak, hands rubbing and fidgeting on top of cold metal in his persistent nervousness. The moment you’d started talking about yourself the guard watching over you had sighed loudly in annoyance and walked out, leaving the two of you alone to both of your surprise, the camera whirring in the corner telling you that they were still watching from afar at least.

You shook his hand again when time was up, and he trembled a little less as he stood before you, your bodies dangerously close for a quick moment before the guard rushed in to put a little space between you with an utterly confounded look shot in your direction.

The fourth time you looked around to see if there were more cameras than just the one over your shoulder before he was brought in, his eyes instantly brightening in your presence as they’d recently started to do. He looked more alive, his face less sunken like he was taking better care of himself so you wouldn’t worry, and you longed to hold him as the table became a deep crevasse between you. He wasn’t chained to it this time, they didn’t care enough and he knew better, he was well trained by now, and the moment you were left alone again you’d moved your chair to the empty space on the side, a little closer but not touching, testing the waters as you shot a glance to the camera to see if this was okay.

Nothing happened. No one came. Hands rested in sight as they reached but never touched, the crevasse a little smaller as the space between turned from feet to inches, then centimeters.

When your pinkies linked together it was like a bridge formed instantly, the two of you meeting in the middle as he closed his eyes and just breathed, completely calm as his free hand ran over his arm to make sure the gauntlets were gone, make sure he wouldn’t hurt you. He was touch-starved, that much was apparent as long fingers crawled over your own to create more points of contact, Abner fully holding your hand and forgetting that you were supposed to be talking. Your heart raced as you wanted more, wanted to see what other reactions you could pull from him if just this was enough to make him lean towards you, eager to invade your personal space, or perhaps invite you to invade his.

It was a space he guarded dearly, you’d learned as much over your visits as he told you about how the other inmates treated him, your touch so gentle compared to their punches, both of your chairs sliding over the floor as you closed the gap even more. Still no one came, your eyes going to the door to make sure they weren’t watching you through the wire-meshed glass to see what would happen next but the space on the other side was empty, the camera blinking red high above you as your legs made contact, a buzz of electricity shooting up your spine.

He tried to pull away, surprised by his own brazenness, or maybe it’d been an accident since he was so much taller than you, but you refused to let him, your leg pressed into the cold table leg almost painfully as you pulled him right back. The knowledge that you wanted him close, wanted to touch him even though he could burn right through you in an instant without the collar controlling him, made his chest start to heave then, eyes searching your face for fear but finding none.

Your hand unlinked from his before sliding up his arm, feeling the way he shivered as you reached his elbow, his bicep, muscles tensing under loose fabric just out of sight, a sigh leaving his lips as your fingers carefully trailed over his collar up to his cheek. He leaned into you, slowly at first, like you might change your mind and pull away at any second, his eyes closed tight as chair legs scraped over the ground. The gap closed more and more as you stood, leaned in close enough to see the scars of his time in this place, the way his lips parted ever so slightly as he let out shaky breaths, how long his lashes were as they fluttered in anticipation of what you were going to do next.

The door opened before you could make that final leap, the men who rushed in looking just as confused to your actions instead of angry, and while they weren’t rough with you they did tease him all the way down the hallway as he tried to hide the fact that he’d wanted you in those last seconds, your face flushing as pure longing rushed right to your gut at the sight of something hidden behind shaking hands as he was led to the showers to cool off.

The fifth time you’d come in you’d stared down everyone you passed as they whispered and nodded in your direction, not caring as you headed for your visiting room, no one stopping you even as they shook their heads and questioned your life choices. They still let you wait by yourself, your heart pounding as he was brought in and the door was closed behind him, the guard locking it muttering to himself about how he didn’t get paid enough for this. Abner didn’t even get a chance to sit down as you stood up and grabbed onto his shirt, pulled him down to continue what you’d started with a chaste kiss, testing the waters as he let out a surprised noise against your mouth before it turned into a moan, his hands hovering over you as he tried to decide what to do.

‘Touch me,’ you told him as you parted for a breath, the end of the collar pressing into your own throat as he groaned and kissed you back, dry lips parting to let you in as you ran your tongue experimentally over his bottom one. His hands wandered all over you, touching whatever he could now that he knew you wanted him to, his back hitting the wall and the collar scraping against the brick as he arched against you wantonly. It was like the floodgates had been opened, touch-starved desperation making him want more before you were separated again, your body ready to follow his every command should he ask, wanting nothing more than to make him feel good before he was forced to go back to his solitude. 

You palmed him over his pants and he keened needily, hips moving to feel you more before he stopped himself with a choked whine, he was asking too much too soon, surely you couldn’t want him that badly, surely now would be the time you’d come to your senses and see him like everyone else did. You nipped at his bottom lip, got him to look at you before you glanced up at the camera; it was facing the table, the two of you probably just in frame, so you led him to the corner directly underneath it, in its blindspot as you played with the hem of his pants.

‘Do you want this?’ you whispered, voice low so anyone outside wouldn’t hear, Abner’s eyes shut tight again as he nodded his head, slowly at first and then a little quicker as you made contact against his bare stomach. He was breathing so heavily, the growing tent just under where your hand rested making you lick your lips; they were bound to stop you before it got too heated but you could at least give him this, all your fantasies from the past month coming to life as you felt hot skin under your fingertips.

He sighed and let his head fall back, hands gripping you like a vice as you touched him, and you couldn’t help but wonder when the last time anyone else had touched him like this had been, if anyone ever had; it made you a bit jealous to think about the former, of someone else making him look this way before you, so you couldn’t help but selfishly wish you were the first as you wrapped your hand around him. His knees shook, he wasn’t used to it, your name falling from his lips as he started to buck desperately into your hand. 

He was beautiful as his jaw went slack, so open with what he wanted as he held you close, your own pleasure building just from watching him come so easily undone like it was the strongest aphrodisiac. His quiet voice came in handy as he moaned out his desires, how good it felt, how he needed more, pleas to not stop sending shockwaves all the way down to your toes as the words started to cut off the closer he got. You felt your throat tighten as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, needing to taste him again as you swallowed and leaned up to capture him in a deep kiss, his tongue dancing over your own and refusing to let you get away in such a lewd way that it made your head spin.

He didn’t last long between your kisses and your hand attacking him at the same time, his hips jutting with a broken cry of pleasure into your open mouth as he came into your fist, palm gathering as much as you could for his sake. You didn’t realize you were panting as well with how turned on you were as his expression softened into one of pure bliss, a need filling your gut and making you burn with desire unlike anything you’d ever felt before as you wanted more. You pulled your hand free, mouth watering as you felt the sticky substance leak through your fingers, Abner just staring at you through half-lidded eyes as you raised your hand to your mouth, tongue darting out to taste when the door suddenly opened, two guards rushing in.

‘Alright, that’s enough of that,’ one of them said, your fist held by your side as you were pushed out of the way, Abner letting out an actual whine at not being able to return the favour before he was dragged out the door. Once he was out of sight you were led to the nearest bathroom, the guard not fooled at all by your attempted nonchalance and letting you wash up, your hand shaking as you still felt his heat against your wet skin. You wouldn’t do anything about your own situation until you were home, the guard just shaking his head as you rejoined him and followed him to the front doors, the detour allowing you a glimpse of Abner as he walked down a connecting hallway.

Despite the cuffs around his hands and the collar around his neck he looked relaxed, free, not even reacting as one of the inmates passing by tried to insult him, sharp canines biting his lip as he just stared the men down. You grinned, proud of him as you walked out of sight of him again, the highly protected doors leading to the outside world coming into view moments later. You didn’t leave right away, turning to talk over your shoulder as your escort waited impatiently for you to go, a gleam in your eye as you stared into his mask.

‘I’ll be back again next week,’ you promised, everything that came with that unsaid but understood, and he sighed before giving you a shove, everyone around you already whispering about the day’s visit as you just grinned and walked out into the warm Louisiana sun.

[underyourbedtoday]

I think Price would appreciate how unhinged you might be. Not just in a normal kind of “you’re a bit weird” way but in like a “there’s definitely something wrong here”. He likes the way you snarl and snap and bite but also how you seem to wobble in life sometimes, as if you’re untethered from the world while he remains ever grounded. Where you’re moments from flying away, he’s hooked himself into you because there’s no way he’d let you go just like that

[odetolithium]

Cosy - Snapetober Day 8

Severus cannot cope in the aftermath of Lily's death. Grieving in his bedroom, he is visited by an old friend.

TW: suicide ideation

Prompts by @superfallingstars

Severus had completely unravelled. He was tightly wound around the promise that Lily would be safe, that maybe he’d have the chance to undo the damage. Her demise was the undoing, and Severus was trapped in a web of tangled ends, bound to the fragility of his meagre existence. He didn’t understand how he could live a life burdened with such regret. How he might get through each day, each hour, even down to the second, with the crushing weight of Lily’s death.  

He wrapped the thick duvet around his shoulders and hugged it tightly. Huddled at the end of his bed in a cocoon of safety, the feathers were heavy against his back, carrying the load of his grief. The shadows glared from all corners of his bedroom, feeding on his misery. He would stare at the formation dancing across his walls, wishing for that same untethered freedom. Severus was bound to Lily’s memory, and now, the life of her only child. Severus wrapped himself tighter, bowing his head as the grief manifested into pain. His face tightened as the ache wracked his body, he started to breathe a little heavier just willing everything to stop.  

A heavy knock sounded from the door. Severus ignored it. He lay down, face first into the pillow. The knock sounded again, echoing from the living room. Severus ignored it and groaned into his pillow. He had no desire for company. He wanted to remain alone and unbothered, to fester in his cave. Today’s visitor would not wait for Severus to let them in. Severus heard the unlocking of his door and the giant footsteps across the stone floor. The large, bearded face of Hagrid peaked through the gap in his bedroom door. The flash of light from lake beyond the windows illuminated him.  

“Alrigh’ Professor?” smiled Hagrid, it was a grin that stretched uncertainly across his face. The half-giant's eyes were full of concern as he scanned the room and the figure on the bed. Severus didn’t reply, he pulled the duvet higher, so it smothered his face. Severus could not bear to look at anyone. 

“Come on, lad,” cajoled Hagrid, he inched closer into the room. “Ye need to take care of yerself,” he lowered himself down at the end of the bed, sensing his weight might break it. “Ye need ter eat somethin’,” he finished, pressing a warm hand to Severus’s back.  

“I’m fine, Hagrid,” Severus muttered, unconvincingly. “Please, just leave me be.” 

“I’ve known yer for years, lad. I know how ye get,” Hagrid started to rub small circles on Severus’s back. “I won’t let ye wither away down ‘ere like a plant in the dark,” Severus felt a wave of pain that forced his eyes to become watery, he buried his face into the duvet to stifle the sounds as he wept. 

“I wish, I wish I were dead,” he choked out. 

“I know, lad,” Hagrid murmured, “But I’m very glad yer not. Yer only young, ye have time to put yerself back together again. I’m not going to say it’ll be easy, or even quick, but yer’ll get there. One day, lad, you’ll get there.” 

Severus sniffed and looked up at the round face of his oldest friend. Hagrid beamed down at him. 

“Let’s get yer up and get a cup of tea,” he said, leading the way out of the bedroom. Severus, not ready to shed the cloak that enveloped him, shuffled out of the room, swaddled in a cosy green duvet.  

[flowercrowngods]

“How could you speak of love?” the Lord asks him with such fervour in his voice it startles Eddie.

His heart falls into the pit of his stomach where guilt still reigns over his every waking hour, and he moves to step back, out of the Lord’s space to give both of them room to breathe again — but Lord Harrington forbids it. His hand flies up from where it was previously clenched into a tight fist, opening just briefly to bury its fingers into Eddie’s soaked chemise. Not letting him budge an inch.

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat.

“My Lord, I wasn’t— You have my deepest and sincerest apologies for—“

“No,” Lord Harrington interrupts him, and the darkness in his voice takes on a more desperate edge that seeks to tear Eddie in two. “How could you speak of love, how you claim to have loved him, that knight of yours? How, when you… When you knew what he’d done.”

Oh. Harrington is not accusing him, not right now. He is not demanding an explanation or an apology. He’s… Beseeching. That’s what that fervour is, that’s where that intensity comes from.

He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t see what Eddie sees.

And he’s hurting.

Eddie reaches up his hand, longing to feel the heat of Lord Harrington’s cheek against the palm of his hand even as the rain drenches them further. But the very second he feels Eddie’s touch, Lord Harrington recoils as though he were burnt.

He lets go of Eddie’s chemise with a slight gasp and seems to come back to himself, his expression shuttering for the briefest of moments he lays eyes upon Eddie before turning his back to him.

And Eddie makes it all worse, for the words choose this moment to escape him. As he regards Lord Harrington’s broad shoulders with desperation in his every fibre, as he uncovers another layer to the errors of his ways, he can only open and close his mouth dumbly. No words come out.

He feels cold without the Lord — without Steve so close to him. He feels bereft. He feels untethered knowing the Lord sees no lovable shred to his own self. How does one do that? How does one project onto a person everything good about them without overstepping, without smothering them again knowing one’s love is one-sided and unwanted.

His heart, torn in two on the Lord’s behalf, is not quick enough in mending itself and pour out of his throat everything it holds so dearly.

He is not quick enough.

And he watches the Lord tilt his head, uttering an apology, before he takes flight. Leaving Eddie once again, alone in the pouring rain as a sob escapes him, as his knees threaten to buckle, caught between running after Lord Harrington and running home. Stuck between remaining here until the end of his days, hoping that his words might come back, and sinking into the ground beneath if only so he would never have to hurt ever again.

In the end, he sinks to the ground a shivering mess, thinking of all the reasons he spoke of love, and finding none of them worthy of the past tense.

[bestworstcase]

half a thought. the cat, "i need to know why my maker has left me here"—singular. "only to leave and make all of [you]." either:

light carved and animated the cat alone

light took all the credit and dark let him

this is soft confirmation dark ascended

jabber is the prototypal human; the brothers made him together, to "finish what the cat started." but he came out "brutal" (uncontrollable) so light decided to unmake him. dark refused. the brothers fought. jabber remained in the end—either dark won that argument or jabber returned on his own, like humans would after him.

in brother-cult doctrine, the god of darkness "forgot" the grimm after he and his brother made humans together. we know from the lost fable that this is not true, that darkness lived among his grimm, and even in the myth he refuses to destroy them and it hurts his feelings when light disdains them as creatures of pure malice. however,

that is precisely what the god of light did to his first creation: the cat figures in the blacksmith’s tale only as the inspiration for the brothers’ creation of jabber. the cat has no relevance or presence in the story after jabber is made. the god of light forgot them.

likewise the motivation ascribed to the grimm by brother-cult doctrine, that they hate humankind out of jealousy because their creator forgot about them in his fascination with humans, is the cat’s motivation exactly.

the cat is the prototypal grimm

light controlled the narrative back in the day, and the story he told about the grimm was a projection of his own failings in regard to the cat

hm. hmm. the cat–

hm. the cat "finds the broken parts of the ever after." in other words, they’re drawn to negativity. empathy. they seek out pain and offer comfort—but, but. jabber was meant to "finish what the cat started" and although he came out more "brutal" than the brothers anticipated, he was "effective" for this purpose. the cat was to find the broken parts and jabber was to act as the reaper, sending them back to the tree for ascension.

and that’s why jabber turned out wrong. the cat became a healer and the brothers created an executioner to "finish what they started," because they didn’t understand what the cat was really doing.

snaps fingers. pattern theory. the cat is untethered from the tree until they’re killed, and then they wind up in the blacksmith’s workshop. the god of light feared they had disrupted the balance and tried to destroy jabber, but darkness remade him, and jabber remained—not a monster but a creature desperate to "fix" his home.

for it is in passing we achieve immortality. fuck. we all got it backwards: ascension didn’t exist—couldn’t exist—until the brothers created HEALING and DEATH. true balance finds its own equilibrium. what was the ever after like in the very beginning? "[the brothers] were given creativity, to imagine what—and who—could replace the wilderness… the brothers built homes for them and gave them roles to play." that isn’t how ascension works! that isn’t how the ever after is anymore! the brothers were children playing with dolls until they disrupted the balance. ascension coagulated in the wake of that disruption.

oh. OH—ambrosius. destruction to clear the wilderness and creativity to replace it. that’s how light thinks it should work because that’s how it DID work before he and his brother changed things. every time they made something new they began by destroying what had been.

so– so the grimm—

hm.

like the cat, grimm are empathetic beings drawn to painful emotions. like both the cat and jabber, they’re predators. like ambrosius’ creations, they crumble into ash and smoke when they die. "you may bask in the powers of creation, but you do not own them" and "this force of pure destruction could not destroy […] so it created." their true purpose cannot be to kill humans, because they were created first; the mythical conceit that they envied humans because darkness forgot them is contradicted by the reality that he didn’t.

they are "manifestations of anonymity."

if i’m right on the origin of ascension and how the ever after worked before, then the rules the brothers set regarding life and death in their new world mimicked the original conditions of the ever after—but only imperfectly, else there would be no afterlife.

the planet’s core is liquid grimm.

the faunus came into being when salem combined the waters of life and grimm into one being and remade herself into something new. the god of darkness made the grimm to find the broken parts of this world, like the cat had done in the ever after, and then…

…either destroy or create.

the pool of grimm creates salem. or else she used it to recreate herself. either way the grimm have the capacity for it.

darkness refused to punish jabber for being what they made him. and then, in the new world he and his brother created together, he… made a new iteration of the cat with jabber’s destructive nature woven into the design and also gave humans a powerful weapon in the form of magic, protecting them from his other creations.

which sounds like a purposeful attempt to recreate the conditions that shifted the balance in the ever after, without being too obvious about it. and that tracks with what we know about him—his contributions outlined in the myth suggest that he set out to make their world into an ecosystem that could exist without them—but hm. still cooking.

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Strong Language, Smut, Violence, Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Injury Detail, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

Word Count: 6.1K

October 1940

The bombardment started the second he rounded the corner.

“Got time to play?”

“Maybe later, Joseph.” Joseph Mason, his older brother Albert and little sister Betty ran along the ginnel in Tom’s wake. A few of the younger children, which were Mrs Mason’s Tom didn’t know, struggled to keep up on their chubby legs.

“Haven’t you got anything else to wear?”

Betty shushed her brother. “It’s his uniform!”

“Well?” Joseph ignored her. “Haven’t you?”

“Free sweets and tram tickets with the uniform, Joseph.” Tom continued ahead, his little battalion of children trotting along beside him. He smiled.

“What’s that?” Betty pointed to the silver coin pinned to his navy shirt.

“Distinguished Service Medal.”

“Are you a hero?” Albert suddenly seemed interested. Tom smirked.

“Always was, always will be.” Thank God Bess wasn’t here to hear him say that. Or Albie. He’d have laughed himself into next week.

“What you doing here then?” said Betty.

“Hitler sunk my ship, gotta find me a new one.”

“Did you kill any Germans?” Albert was still awed by Tom as he tried to keep up.

“Loads.” Tom said, turning on his heel. The children stopped abruptly and stared up at him. A wry grin quirked the corners of Tom’s mouth. “Killed a few kids an’ all.”

They shuffled back in fear. Mrs Mason told them to keep away from Tom Bennett before the war. Now he was back, and he’d actually killed people! Joseph found his quavering voice. “What for?”

“Asking too many questions.” Tom left them behind in the ginnel and turned into the street. The smile faded from his face. The kit bag on his shoulder fell to the floor and, for a brief moment, his mind stilled. The house. What had happened to the house? Why was there rubble across the road? His mind sped up, images flashing like a zoetrope through his mind.

“Lois?” he croaked, running to the house. “Dad!?” His feet carried him up the pile of bricks scattered outside the front door, and he peered into the kitchen. The table and chairs had splintered, fragments of them remaining, and he saw it. The bomb. Its inactive shell lying before the fireplace. Pressing his face against the little glass that remained in the window, Tom looked up. His father’s iron bedframe dangled precariously from the hole in the kitchen ceiling, and above it, the cold and grey Manchester sky stared back at him.

Tom slipped as he took a step back. His chest was rising rapidly, the panic that accompanied him every day since the Exeter awakening every nerve. Blood pumped through his fingers. He balled his fists a few times to regain their feeling. Find them. He was as untethered here as he was at sea. Find them. An image, Vera in her little cot, gazing up at the ceiling as it came crashing down around her, flashed into his eyes and he rubbed it away. Find them. He slid down the rubble pile and before he’d taken his first step towards the abandoned kit bag, terror froze him once more.

The Vaughn house. It was intact. Still standing, but the windows were boarded with black-painted wood. Tom hammered on the door. “Fergal? Dot?” He waited. Nothing. Not a sound. Not a whisper.

“Fuck.” The word hissed from his mouth in panic. He grabbed his kit bag and raced to the only place he could think of. The hospital. If anything’s happened, they’ll be at the hospital. And Bess – fuck – Bess will be on shift. She would have been on shift, why would she be in Longsight? Please let her have been on shift.

“They found you a ship then?” Joseph shouted with a smile as Tom ran past. He didn’t hear. All he could think about was his family. His little family, shrinking. I can’t lose anyone else, not after mum. Not after Vic. Not after Albie. Already, the world felt smaller as he ran towards the Royal Infirmary. Through the parks, ginnels and scrapyards, the world was the hiss of his breath, the thundering of his heart and thoughts of his family. He rounded into the dockyard, sprinting towards the canal bridge that led to the city’s centre. The dockyard.

In an instant he changed direction, pelting along the dockside between engineers and labourers. Some tipped their caps to him, offering their thanks and “welcome back”, others hissed at him to get out of the way. Still, Tom thought of only one thing.

“Fergal?” He called as he pushed through the crowd of workmen. “Fergal Vaughn? Does anyone know where I can find Fergal Vaughn?”

“Tom?” The rasped Cork brogue cut through the clatter of metal. Tom launched himself at the squat man in relief, his arms wrapping around Fergal’s broad shoulders. Fergal barely had time to comprehend this out of character display before Tom pulled back and unleashed a tirade of questions.

“The house-I-I went home and the house-” Fergal placed his hands on Tom shoulders to calm him but the young man continued. “Bess? Bess? Is she ok? And Dot? And-”

“They’re all fine, my boy. Just fine.” Fergal rubbed his shoulders soothingly. “It was the same strike as what got your place. Only blew the windows out, thank the Lord.”

“And Lois and Dad? And the baby? Where are they? I-I don’t know where to go,” Tom’s voice cracked, thinking of his childhood home destroyed, the last place that held any concrete memories of his mother. Through his panic, he saw a piece of Fergal’s lightness dissipate. The round and reddened face of Fergal Vaughn, the man Tom had known since childhood, displayed that one thing he had never seen cross it before. Pity.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Fergal said softly, taking Tom by the hand to sit between the metal sleepers and tell him everything.

Bess was in no mood to stop and chat. Sister Stern had given her a bollocking for not changing the beds quickly, and Joan was in a foul mood because the soldier she was seeing had dumped her unceremoniously. So when she approached Carver Mills to see Mrs Russo waving, her cigarette leaving a trail of smoke in the air, Bess groaned. The silk scarf wrapped about Mrs Russo’s head took flight on the autumn wind and bustled towards Bess’ feet, and she knew a conversation was unavoidable.

“Ta, Bess.” Mrs Russo said brightly, holding her hand out for the scarf.

“Hiya,” Bess rubbed her eyes and fussed with her keys.

“Had a good shift?” Mrs Russo’s voice was offensively loud.

“Yes, fine.” Bess shifted uncomfortably under Mrs Russo’s watchful gaze and tried to squeeze past the round woman to reach the door.

“I’m expecting best behaviour from you girls while I’m away at my daughter’s,” Mrs Russo said, tying the scarf around her permed hair. “Caught Joan trying to sneak in that new beau of hers-”

Bess pushed the door open wearily. “They aren’t together anymore.” Mrs Russo paused her bustling.

“Poor girl. I’ll see if I can get some chocolate at the corner shop. Try and cheat my ration book.” She winked and tottered away. “Ta-ra, Bess.”

The door to the old mill swung shut heavily behind Bess, and she trudged up the stone stairs towards her flat. A glint of light cut the gloomy stairwell in two, and Helen poked her head out of the door to her own flat.

“Bess! A few of us are going to The Crown tonight for a lock in, do you want to-” She stopped as Bess turned to face her. “Christ, you look awful. Tough day?” Bess could do naught but nod. “Tell you what. You stay home and rest, I’ll take Joan. Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else and all that. There’s bound to be a desperate soldier looking for an easy girl.” She laughed and closed the door.

A moment later and Bess was in the welcome peace of her little home. Smalls were strung across the kitchen on a length of rope. The morning’s empty cup of tea still sat on the rickety table beside an old copy of Vogue, the christening dress she was making for Vera abandoned on the armchair by the window. Since the start of the war, fabric was hard to come by, lace and silk especially. Douglas let Bess take a cutting from Marie’s wedding dress. She wanted something from each side of the family, and parting Robina from her store of antique lace had been a challenge, but she persevered. Still, the gown was almost complete. Bess removed her nurse’s wimple and placed it by the garment, running her fingers over the ivory silk. Darling Douglas. The christening couldn’t come soon enough. After everything, Lois needed some happiness. It would be even better with Tom on leave. Bess’ heart skipped and she padded to the bedroom. She perched by her simple vanity, a mirror balanced on a school writing desk, kicked off her shoes and took the stack of Tom’s letters out from the drawer.

October 16th can’t come soon enough. Lois’ food, Cora and Dot making a fuss. Little Vera and you.

The last letter was dated early September. Bess knew Tom couldn’t write all the time. He was either too busy onboard or, on occasion, they were prevented from writing during particular missions. Her only knowledge that he was ok were the continued reports of the Navy’s skirmishes on the wireless and in the newspaper. The HMS Keith had sunk, but Lois received a telegram that Tom was fine and awaiting the next ship home. Bess looked at the calendar on her wall. October 15th. Tomorrow. God willing, he’d be here with her, tomorrow. Instinctively, her hand reached for the photograph of Tom, now propped against the mirror. Every morning and every night, he watched her in sepia as she dressed and undressed. She kissed it and, placing it back, caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Helen was right. She looked awful. The swift removal of her wimple caused tufts of the hair to stick up at odd angles. The uniform she wore was bloodied and dirty. Her hands, hard now from hours work at the hospital, were grubby. She wiped them on her face. Her dark eyes were framed by circles of purple and grey, and her usually plump cheeks were gaunt and pale. The only thing that remained were her full and pink lips. Against the dullness of her skin, they looked garish. Bess sighed and one by one removed her hair pins. Watching her hair come undone, in some places curled from the pins, others straight and frizzy, she wondered what it was that had so changed the Longsight boys towards her. How she went from “witch” to something desirable. What drove Walter Watson from bullying her to forcing himself upon her behind the Palais.

It wasn’t as though she had changed all that much from those difficult years to now. When presented with the option to speak or remain silent, Bess always chose the latter. That is, unless someone cast insult over her chosen few. Then, as Cora said, “there’ll be none so fierce as Bess on judgement day”. She wasn’t as kind as Cora, with her thoughtful gestures and selflessness. Nor did she have her gentle charm and beauty. Dot, on the other hand, was an entity unto her own design. Despite her tendency for the flighty and sudden outbursts of judgement, wherever Dot went, the sun seemed to follow. Funny and light, the world seemed brighter in her company. Bess still stared at her reflection. What did she bring? A haughty quietness that most found intimidating? Her use as a seamstress and pianist? Over her shoulder, she caught sight of the photograph pinned to the wall by her bed.

It was at Albie’s birthday celebration in the summer. Dot had taken it with the camera Harry gave Bess in the spring. In it, Tom and Bess stood side by side. His arm was gripped tightly around her middle, pulling her to him and highlighting the slightness of her waist and fullness of her hips. The blouse she wore, tucked into her slacks, curved around her breasts. At her ear, Tom was whispering something sinful; Bess could tell by the girlish giggle captured in celluloid. For the first time, she was embarrassed by the image. Her womanhood was so wantonly on display. So, that’s what the boys saw in her, that summer she came back from Manchester.

“Never thought I’d be in this position with Bess Vaughn. That little freak from school.”

Vomit rose to her mouth as the memory of stale smoke and alcohol flooded her nose. Bess’ eyes snapped from the image to her reflection. Gaunt face, dark eyes, grey skin.

“Then you came back from Manchester with this. And these-”

Bess rubbed her hand across the bodice of her uniform. Her chest felt tight. Heavy and not her own.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

The memory of Walter’s assault on her was plaguing Bess of late. With Tom at war and Douglas-. And Douglas-. Her two defenders were gone. At night, alone when she imagined Tom with her and her hand slid beneath her nightdress, Bess recalled the way his neck strained as he screamed at the man. The crack of his fist against skin. But no sooner had the memory of Tom’s dominance warmed her cheeks, chest, thighs, was Walter’s sweaty face swimming into view and ruining her bliss.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

Her near lifeless eyes blinked back at her in the worn mirror and, body humming with hatred, she pushed herself away from her reflection. The stool fell backward with a thunk onto the wooden floor and Bess stood motionless. The day had been full of misery at every turn. Bloodied soldiers to be sewn back together. Wrecked buildings pouring onto Manchester’s streets. Her own self-loathing. Too tired to drag her body to bed, Bess hovered at the centre of her room, lulled into an imitation of sleep somewhere between lucidity and nightmare.

Downstairs, the front door of the mill crashed closed, and she jolted from her half-sleep. Joan was obviously back from the infirmary and still in a foul mood. Bess sighed, ran a hand through her tangled hair and uncovered the duvet. The clock read 6 o’clock and she hadn’t even removed her apron. Beyond the door, Joan was tearing up the stairs of Carver Mills, her heels sounding more like jackboots as she pounded the steps. Bess stomped across the floor. Her hand closed around the doorhandle, ready to slam it shut-

BANG BANG BANG

She froze. From her spot in the bedroom doorway, Bess watched the front door rattle on its hinges. On tiptoe, she edged forwards. The thundering fists hammered on the door again.

BANG BANG BANG

She tried to remember if she had locked it behind her. No, of course she hadn’t. Shit. Only Mrs Russo and the other nurses had access to the flats; there was no need to lock it until curfew. Not even Helen or Joan, in her anger, would bang down the door. Bess rushed forwards, ready to bar the intruder as best she could. She knew there was little she could do to stop them. Even with her nurses’ strength and steeliness, an intruder would overpower her. Walter Watson flashed across her vision. What if he was home? What if Queenie or Frank told him where to find her?

BANG BANG BANG

Hang on. An intruder wouldn’t knock. Again, she froze, this time in confusion. The last knock had barely rung out when, as if in slow motion, Bess watched the handle turn. The door flew open and the person on the other side stormed in.

It was like watching a cat stalk its prey. The whites of his eyes burned like a wild beast’s, the blue at their icy centre darted around the room madly until they landed on her. They widened, then narrowed. A predator locking onto its next meal. For them, everything faded from view. The peeling wallpaper, the laundry, the few scattered belongings. Everything, except for Bess. Excitement, or was it fear, fluttered in her ribcage. The pathway to her was blocked by the kitchen table and, striding towards her, he threw it aside in one swift motion. She shivered, swaying where she stood at the flex of his hands. Bess barely had time to register his thin cheeks, the lines that framed his eyes, before those same hands gripped her face hard.

“Tom-” His mouth crashed into hers. It was hard, a clash of teeth and tongue. With her words stolen, Bess grew light-headed and struggled for breath between Tom’s harsh kisses. A hand moved from her face to her neck as she tried to speak, keeping her head in place against him. The other fell to her waist and gripped the flesh there roughly.

“Tom, I-” He silenced her. Swallowing Bess’ words, he roughly tugged the hair fisted in his hand and bit the exposed flesh of her neck with a growl. She whimpered, hand gripping onto his shoulder for support. For something real. Surely this wasn’t real? “Tom,” His assault on her neck was rough and through it, still Bess struggled to speak. “Tom, I thought-I thought you weren’t back ‘til tomorrow-”

He ignored her. The hand holding her waist moved to grope the fullness of her bottom and pull her harder against him. The strength of the action forced the breath from Tom’s chest in a huff as, overwhelmingly, his world became Bess. The scent of her sweat. Old perfume. Her pathetic whimpers. The small hands clawing at his body. The swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. The ripe flesh of her bottom. The smell of her sex. He was an animal on the hunt. Uncontrollable. Terrified. Surviving. Hungry. He bit the meat of her shoulder and she cried out, at last pushing him away. Tom’s hands flew once more to the sides of her face and held her in his vice-like grip.

They stood watching each other. Beneath the furrow of Tom’s brow, the hard crease of his forehead, the usually bright eyes that Bess so adored, always full of mirth and mischief, were desperate. If she looked closely, she swore she could make out tears, taunting him. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, the air passing through his flared nostrils. The line of his mouth was shut firm, though swollen from the way he kissed her, and his jaw- fuck, that jaw, was set hard and strong. Bess should have been worried. Scared even. Instead, her heart flooded with unease.

The dark eyes that Tom so adored, always full of certainty and knowing, were searching. Not disgusted by his depravity, or the violent lust with which he needed her. Her hands wound up his arms and grasped the hands still on her face, and Tom watched as the same emotion that had washed over Fergal’s face, washed over Bess. Pity.

He didn’t need fucking pity. He needed stability. Comfort. Home. Something real. One of Bess’ thumbs stroked the side of his hand and he snapped at its tenderness. Tom brought his face to hers, devouring her in a hungry kiss. He walked them backwards until Bess hit the bedroom door. Breaking momentarily from her lips, Tom bent down, a hand sliding up one of Bess’ stockinged legs, and hitched it around his waist. She barely had time to steady herself before he thrust his groin against hers, his hard length pressing against her through the sturdy cotton of his bell bottoms.

Still, he didn’t say a word. As Tom’s hands roamed greedily across her backside, her hips, her breasts, Bess tried not to think about his silence. It was true, she had imagined the devouring ferocity of what having him would be like when he returned home. But each time, it was bookended with tenderness. Whispered adorations and gentle devotions. Not this…anger. The first prickle of fear ran over her. Not at what he would do, but why he was doing it. She tried to reach out to him. To caress his face or run her hand through his hair. He batted it away, gripping her wrist and pinning it to the door as, with ferocity, he ground his hips into hers. The movements were hard and desperate. Whether by the hand caught beneath his bruising grip, or the urgency with which he rubbed his clothed length against her, Bess’ mind went blank and she moaned. At last, Tom spoke.

“Fuck.” His head lolled to nuzzle at her neck, and when she met his hips with the thrusting of her own, he growled. He could take no more of this. He lifted Bess over his shoulder and kicked the bedroom door open. It banged against the wall, and when Bess shushed him, he ignored her. Tom threw her down onto the bed and knelt between her parted legs. Without hesitation he tore at her uniform. Tom pulled the apron so hard its bow gave away, and he tossed it aside. His hands fisted her layers of skirt to reach her suspenders. He unhooked them roughly and pulled down Bess’ woolen stockings. The second ripped, and through the haze of her increasing arousal, Bess noted that they’d need darning. The thought vanished when Tom pushed her knees away and rolled her suddenly onto her front.

“Tom-” Whatever she was going to say died in her throat at the sound of ripping fabric and buttons hitting the floor. Tom tore the back of her bodice open, kissing the skin there as he pushed the sleeves away from her shoulders. Bess slipped out of her uniform, squealing when Tom let go of her. Her body fell forward onto the bed and he roughly pulled the skirt away from her legs. Bess was near nakedness now, and excitement warmed the apex of her thighs. When Tom pushed her small chemise over her bottom and smacked the skin there, she burned.

“On your knees.” His voice was low and cracked, as though his throat were full of gravel. Her cunt clenched. Immediately, obediently, Bess pushed her body off the bed. She was too slow for Tom. He grabbed her by the hips and wrenched her towards him. Resting on all fours, Bess tried to look over her shoulder. Tom pushed her face away. “Don’t look at me.” The darkness of his order made her shudder. She faced forward, toward the damp-stained wall and the photograph of her and Tom. The one she’d been gazing at mere moments before he arrived.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

No. She shook Walter’s words from her mind. This was Tom, not Walter. Rough and angry and needy, yes. But Tom. Not Walter.

Tom’s hands rested on the apples of Bess’ backside, and she felt him lean his weight there a moment. Heard him hit the ground. He was kneeling, wrenching the now soaked knickers she wore down her thighs and, before she could comprehend it, lapping greedily at her core. How long they stayed there, with Tom’s arms wrapped around her thighs as he worshipped her cunt, Bess couldn’t say. Only that with every grunt of his throat, every suckle at her sex, every eager flash of his tongue against her folds, the tension in her abdomen increased. The worry she could not put aside, did the same.

If the callous and unashamed way Tom devoured Bess caused her arousal and anxiety to grow, his next movement all but obliterated any thought of him regaining his senses. With one last smack to her bottom, Tom departed. Bess’ thighs clenched. His sudden absence was frustrating. Infuriating even. She knew she needn’t wait long for him, though. Atop the mussed bedding, the navy of his uniform shirt landed. A thud on the ground indicated he had abandoned his boots, and the hush of fabric and panted breaths told Bess he was battling with his slacks. She yearned to help him. To turn around and with fast hands rid him of his last barrier of restraint. But Tom knew Bess. He’d known her long enough, well enough, to recognise her craving for control and independence. Not today. Not now. She was alive. She was here before him, bottom raised, sweating gleaming at the dip of her back, panting with need, doing whatever he asked of her. Just as she began turning her head, he ran two long fingers through her wet slit and she moaned his name, pushing backwards against his fingers for relief.

“Sheath.” Tom grunted, taking himself in hand. He was painfully hard, precum already weeping from the angry head of his cock. His eyes roamed over Bess’ exposed heat, pink and slick and waiting for him. The urge not to drive forward, full into her, was overwhelming.  

“We used the last before you left,” Bess was breathless, waiting. A hard warmth brushed against her entrance and she groaned. “Please, Tom.” He wasted no time. That was the certainty that the sheath didn’t matter. One hand one the small of Bess’ back, the other gripped at the base of his cock, Tom thrust forward, heading falling at the tight heat that welcomed him. Both hands holding the flesh of her hips, Tom withdrew himself from Bess before slamming forward. Bess buried her face in the bedsheets, muffling her cry. She had missed him these last months, and though her fingers temporarily satiated her longing, nothing could prepare Bess for the sensation of Tom Bennett filling her completely.

Over and over, Tom’s hips snapped into Bess’ cunt. His sandy hair was plastered to his forehead, sweat pouring from his brow. The hands that held Bess in place were unmoving, the nails biting into her tender skin. Over and over, Bess moaned his name. When she tried to reach a hand back, desperate to touch him, Tom seized it and, body bent low across her back, held it against the bed. His breath was hot in her ear, hard with pants and grunts of what should have been desire. Between her paroxysms of pleasure, Bess thought they sounded angry.

Like all these other thoughts, they disappeared with every thrust of Tom’s cock into her. His passion was confirmed again when he gripped the auburn hair at the base of her neck and bit her pulse point. Pain fluttered through her veins and excitement lit her core. When Tom did it again, she sped towards painful release. Her hip was burning under his hand, the skin of her buttocks sore from the continued slam of his hip bones. Her back, bent and pressed against the bed, ached and the pulse of a headache crept under the spot were Tom pulled her hair taut. Tears were beginning to prickle her eyes, and when Tom pulled again on her hair, a mangled sob of pain and pleasure ripped from her throat as her walls spasmed around him.

That was it. With a final few violent thrusts, Tom spilled himself inside her. Blinding white light flashed across his eyes and his whole body seemed to crackle with electricity. This wasn’t a release of passion or love, but something more depraved. A violent shock to the system that proved he was still alive. Could still feel. He’d seen men charred beyond recognition, heard the tear of bombs through the sky and torpedoes in water. The groaning of metal as it gave way to bullets. Feared drowning, being mown down or else ripped limb from limb by enemy explosives. Come home to find his childhood didn’t exist and missed the death of his father, years after he watched is mother slowly succumb to nothingness.

Tom looked sideways at the body beneath him. Though her face was half-hidden in the bed, hair frizzy and in disarray, there was no mistaking the tear tracks that ran down Bess’ face. Her breath was ragged and erratic, the small whimpers she made so different to her usual sounds of pleasure. Tom pulled out of her suddenly and though she didn’t move, she gasped. He looked at her lying there, so still and vulnerable. With tentative hands, he caressed her legs and knelt on the bed to lie beside her body. She didn’t look at him, even turned away once he had brushed the hair from her face and, crumbling with shame, Tom buried his face in her neck and began to cry.  

7 o’clock. The sun had just descended below the Manchester skyline and only Tom and Bess’ laboured breathing could be heard throughout the flat. Bess hadn’t moved. Not for a long while. Against his thighs, Tom could feel the gentle shake of her legs. Breath still shuddering from their exertion, her back occasionally brushed against his hard chest. The sight of her like this, quaking because of him, should have made Tom proud. But when she shivered, actually shivered, he felt nothing but disgrace. He should have ravished her when he got home. Instead, he'd used her. And she’d let him.

“Are you cold?” he whispered in her ear.

“A little, yeah.” Grabbing the quilt from the floor, Tom draped it over Bess, his warm hand beneath the patchwork rubbing lazily at her side. It was only then did she roll over to face him. Her small hand, with its long, dexterous fingers, brushed across his cheek. Tom knew she was studying him. “You’ve become a man far too quickly,” she said. Tom didn’t need her to explain. His hair was lighter, already on a stress-induced course to grey. The youthful fullness of his cheeks had gone, and now the skin stretched too tightly over his prominent cheekbones. Sometimes, when he caught sight of himself in a mirror, he could see his skeleton sitting just below the surface of his pallid skin. He knew too, that the hardness had settled not just about his face, but in his soul. War had sunk its terrible claws into him, and the man he swore he’d never become, his father, was beginning to appear. Tom brushed some sweat-stuck hair from Bess’ forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She continued to stroke his face, and Tom placed a palm there to stop the action. If she carried on with this gentleness, he’d cry again.

“I just had to make sure you were real,” At this, Bess laughed.

“What do you mean?”

Tom sat up, leaning on his elbow and, distracted by the hair wrapped around his finger, hurried his words. “When I saw the house, I just panicked-And I didn’t know where to go and then I went to your dad-I was thinking-I was gonna come here but I didn’t know if you’d still-and then I went through the dockyard and your dad-your dad told me everything-and when he said you were ok I-I,” he took a shaking breath. “I had to come and see for myself. That you’re still here.”

Bess was silent. Her eyes darted about his worried face, unsure of what he meant. “Did you think something had happened?” It was Tom who looked confused now.

“Bess, I went home and the fucking house had been blown up and neither you or my family were anywhere to be seen.”

“But, I thought-”

“No. I didn’t know.” Tom spat. His anger was flaring again as he swung his legs off the bed and pulled on his bell bottoms. What he was planning to do, he didn’t know, and when Bess quietly said his name, he deflated, slumping back onto the bed. “I didn’t know,” he said weakly, and immediately Bess was at his side, rubbing circles on his back and kissing his bullet wound scar. He collapsed against her, and slowly she pulled him back under the covers with her, his head resting against her naked chest.

There was nothing to be said. What could she say? Tom Bennett had been away at war and come home to learn his father had been killed by the very thing he was fighting. As if reading her mind, Tom spoke quietly into her chest. “What’s the point? We go and fight, to keep you all safe, and it doesn’t fucking work.”

“That’s not the only reason-”

“It is for me.” Tom said firmly. “I’ve got nothing else but my family, and you. You’re what makes this bastard war worth fighting.” Bess looked down at him. At his elegant nose and furrowed brow. At his lean and muscular body curled around hers, and her heart swelled with enormous affection for Tom Bennett. She kissed his head and he settled for a while. Content to have him home, nose buried in his hair, the first comforts of sleep beckoned to Bess.

“Your dad said you were there.” Though quiet, she jumped at his voice and, swallowing the lump that appeared in her throat, she murmured that yes, she had been there. Tom chewed his lip, considering his next question. After Bess, it was all he had thought about since Fergal told him of that night’s events. “What did he look like?”

Bess froze. “Tom, you don’t need-” He cut her off.

“It can’t be anything worse than what I imagine.”

He had a point. Gripping one of his hands in hers, she told him about the events immediately after the bomb detonated over his childhood home.

“Dadda was trying to get us back to the shelter, it was difficult to see because of all the smoke, but when the ambulance arrived, I could see it was Lois and Connie. And when Dadda came out of your house, there was blood on his uniform. I didn’t know what state your dad was in, but I knew that whatever it was, Lois couldn’t see him. So me, Connie and one of the paramedics went in to get him out.”

Tom sniffled against her chest and Bess hugged him tighter.

“He looked so peaceful, Tom. I won’t lie to you and say he was perfect; a beam from the ceiling got his arm so there was a messy gash there, lots of blood, and what I assume was falling rubble had caught his head. Nothing dreadful!” she quickly said when Tom flinched. “Just a few little cuts around his face. But he was sat in his chair by the fire, newspaper hanging out of one hand. Like he’d just drifted off to sleep. Thinking of you, I expect.”

“Shut up,” Tom wiped his nose. “He was probably thinking about Mrs Chase’s smalls-”

“The sooner you realise that your dad adored you, Tom Bennett, the better!” She pinched his arm. “You know, him and Lois had a fight that day. She’d gone off to work and he was so down in the mouth about it, we said we’d look after Vera that night.” Tom said nothing and she continued. “What did Lois say when you saw her?”

“Eh?” Tom looked up at her through his long lashes.

“Lois. What did she say when you saw her?”

Tom’s arm around her waist grew tighter. “I came straight here.” Bess hid her smile from him, trying not to let her joy show as she ran her hand again through his hair.

“I think perhaps you should go and see her. Now,” Bess added when Tom tried to argue. “Tom, she’s so unhappy. Missing you, and your pa, raising little Vera alone. I suppose Dadda told you about Vernon?” Tom nodded. “Go. Now.” She kissed the top of his head and shooed him from the bed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Notes: I read an article about a gunner who fought in the Battle of River Plate getting the Distinguished Service Medal, so I figured Tom would get one too. The HMS Keith actually sunk during the evacuation of Dunkirk but for the sake of the story, I made its sinking a little later.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @heimtathurs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @allthefandomtherapy @reblogedworks @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel@greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring @fangirlninja67 @evita-shelby @cherievictore @shmexie @ewanmitchellcrumbs

[topwan-obikin]

SECOND DEADLINE REVEALS ARE UP!

Here it is, the authors reveals for our second deadline of our fest, and the official conclusion of the first edition of our fest!

We are so happy about all the engagement and love you have showed us!! We are so grateful for it and we hope to come back for a second edition too. For now we declare our fest over, but we will still accept post-fest submissions (more details will be added later on this week.)

From this moment on, the authors mentioned in this post will be able to promote their creations however they like! You are free to post your work on your own social media and we will promote it alongside the reveal of your fic. You can include moodboards or other creative images in your promotion! Just be sure to tag the fest in some way.

If instead you didn’t have the chance to look through the creations revealed, now it’s a great time to do it. Give them some love and share the ones you loved more!

From next week, the blog will restart our weekly recs friday and wips wednesday, plus our games. And look out for this weekend because we will drop some content to celebrate the end of our first edition!

Now let’s dive in!

☆ I Bring You With Reverent Hands by Aigoo (Tara) @aigoos

 [Explicit - 5,067 w]

It is supposed to be an easy mission on Lenahra, but things go haywire when Master Anakin Skywalker’s unknown microchip is damaged and causes him to present as an omega. He needs to mate or he will die, is what Padawan Kenobi is told, and the young alpha has to make a choice with the man he’s loved for years.

☆ Eight of Cups by Exonerin @exonerin

 [Explicit - 40,058 w - chapters 8/8]

Anakin’s knighting ceremony is canceled. Somehow, Qui-Gon Jinn has joined the land of the living again, and the Council is too busy figuring out what to do. Washing their hands off the matter, the Council decides to make Qui-Gon Anakin’s and Obi-Wan’s problem. For Anakin, this is a dream come true (minus the mishap with his knighting). He has always wanted Qui-Gon as his Master. Unlike Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon would understand him. This is his chance to experience what having Qui-Gon as sort-of-Master would be like. The answer is as surprising as it’s disappointing. It sucks a lot. Rather than understanding, Qui-Gon misunderstands everything. Half the (disparaging) stuff Qui-Gon says about Obi-Wan flies over his head, too, but Anakin’s convinced Qui-Gon’s trying to drive a wedge between Obi-Wan and him. So, on second thought, Anakin prefers to remain Obi-Wan’s Padawan. Really, there’s no need to reschedule his knighting ceremony.

☆ Untethered Tongues by ashes0909 @ashes0909

 [Explicit - 5,851 w]

“Thank god you got off my lap. You stink more than a trash compactor.” Anakin laughs like he’s said the most amazing joke in the entire galaxy. “The only person I want in my lap is a bit tied up at the moment.” Obi-Wan freezes. Anakin freezes. Then turns a spectacular shade of red. Korrax laughs. “The truth serum always works quick.”

☆ ART by @yatsukisakura

OWK Obi-Wan accidentally time travels back to TCW era, Post-Rako Ardeen arc, hours before Anakin broke up with him that day. He plans to stop that from happening.

☆ Tame ART by @blue-lumen15 (also on ao3)

 [Mature - Fanart]

post-ROTS mustafar fight anakin/vader, limbs chopped off, is immediately saved by obi-wan.

☆ Kalos Kagathos by intermundia @intermundia

 [Explicit - 7,220 w]

At the Battle of Potidaea in 432 BC, Anakin Skywalker and his former tutor Obi-Wan Kenobi served together as hoplites in the phalanx, sharing a tent and meals, living side by side. During the siege, Obi-Wan was drawn by Anakin into a relationship where erotic attention and physical intimacy is mixed into their old, strong mentorship bond. After returning to Athens at the end of the summer campaign season, Obi-Wan distanced himself, refusing to put Anakin’s reputation at risk. Anakin doesn’t take rejection well, and refuses to give up on their love without a fight. He acts out, making Obi-Wan jealous, and gets what he wants in the end: Obi-Wan’s cock inside him.

☆ Tethered and Bound by jiminthestreets_bonesinthesheets @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets

 [Explicit - 20,241 w - chapters 6/6]

Anakin and Obi-wan can never catch a break, and this mission is no different. Unfortunately this time their misfortune comes in the form of three Dathomiri witch sisters, a seemingly unbreakable spell with a potentially fatal outcome, a very short time frame, and an extremely oblivious Jedi Master.

☆ After School Special by hopeforchange

 [Explicit - 23,618 w]

Anakin Skywalker learned how to lie before he knew how to tie his shoelaces. He wouldn’t be able to lead a successful double life if he couldn’t. At the age of twenty-two, he is the most popular stripper at the Starfall Club, the most skillful informant of the Naberrie family, and – the best liar in the world. There’s only one lie he can’t pull off - pretending he feels indifferent toward his drop-dead gorgeous professor.

♥ Ama'ya’s Dance by UsakoStar @usakostar

 [Explicit - 2,162 w - chapters 1/?]

Jedi Dragonrider Anakin Skywalker never expected his Dragon would rise during a planetary battle of all places. Or that his Master’s would answer her call. With the sacred bond between Dragon and Rider extending to shared mating dances, Anakin and Obi-Wan are repeatedly forced to confront the ways their Master-Padawan relationship has changed since Anakin was knighted.

♥ Home by UsakoStar @usakostar

 [Explicit - 3,609 w - chapters 2/?]

Fleeing a dark past, single omega parent Anakin Skywalker moves back to Coruscant in the hopes of giving his young family a fresh start. Alpha Obi-Wan Kenobi has just returned to teaching his kindergarten class after a whirlwind year abroad that ended in disaster. A second chance at love was something neither of them expected.

☆ My Son; My light by Snuggles_in_a_Starfighter

 [Explicit - 4,541 w]

Prompt fill! Single father Obi-wan has spent the past 17 years making sure his beloved boy is raised happy and though they’ve struggled a bit making ends meet when Anakin was younger, Obi-wan always tried his best to make sure he could give everything he could to Anakin. Nowadays, his baby is nearly all grown up and getting offers from universities all across the country, and he’s not feeling ready for the empty nest. To his surprise, his boy doesn’t want to leave his daddy, ever, Anakin decides to seduce the only man who’s ever made him happy into his childhood bed.

☆ Too Hot To Handle by dragons_and_angels @heaven-hell-and-humanity

 [Explicit - 3,607 w]

Obi-Wan and Anakin are in a tight spot. It’s even worse when Anakin suddenly presents as an omega.

♥ Lace by UsakoStar @usakostar

 [Explicit - 1,891 w - chapters 1/2]

When Obi-Wan and Anakin are sent undercover to a high-end slave auction for a vital mission, Obi-Wan had thought it would be a straightforward affair. He hadn’t counted on the lingerie.

♥ the muse: pleasure in bloom by boguspreston & innominatta (ineptia)

[Explicit - 4,166 w - chapters 1/8]

What would the artist focus on? Because so far, Obi-Wan had surprised him. The artist had focused on the sharp of his Adam’s apple, the muscularity of his back, the sullen scowl of his brow. Anakin didn’t know what he’d expected, unsure what about him would be defined as beautiful or interesting. He knew, faintly, that he was considered attractive, and that the artist was too, but if he analysed it, he came up empty. With the belt off, his jeans fell to the ground. Or, Obi-Wan is an artist who finds his muse.

 ☆ Serendipity by Darkwhisperings @dark--whisperings

 [Explicit - 6,032 w]

An accidental discovery on the holonet leads Anakin to a personal discovery about himself. And his Master. The rest, well, that's a happy accident.

☆ The Divinely Made by silkenlysleep @silkenlysleep

 [Explicit - 6,142 w]

Anakin has a choking kink. Or, until Obi-Wan decides he doesn’t.

♥ Electric Buzzing on Your Fingertips by deathbyobiwan @deathbyobiwan

[Explicit - 3,656 w - chapters 1/2]

As his Padawan grows into a man, Obi-Wan begins to be driven mad by the amount of unwanted attention that he receives. So does Anakin — the only upside is his former Master's increasingly displeased reactions. Surely it's not Anakin's fault, then, when he starts flirting with his suitors just to see what Obi-Wan will do?

♥ Like mine by Himboskywalker @himboskywalker

[Explicit - 3,027 w - chapters 1/2]

Anakin has never known his own scent after presenting as an alpha. Jedi use blockers to protect themselves from the dangerous pulls of instinct,and the even more dangerous pull of scenting one’s soulmate. More importantly he’s never known Obi-Wan’s scent. An important treaty with a culture who outlaw scent blockers changes everything.

♥ Curriculum Vitae by StrangeLilBat

[Explicit - 2,948 w - chapters 1/3]

Relationships come and go for Anakin Skywalker like the changing of seasons. Not by his choice, but through some cruel trick of the universe, he supposes. Enter Obi-Wan Kenobi - actor, millionaire, and all around good guy who also hasn't had much luck with his past endeavours. Will their relationship finally be the one they've been waiting and hoping for?

☆ the taste is oh so sweet by amadwinter @amadwinter

[Mature - 3,209 w]

Obi-Wan’s unimpressed glare wasn’t enough to shake Anakin’s resolve, nor was the purse of his frown, the way he folded his arms tightly over his chest, or how he looked seconds away from biting Anakin’s head off. Anakin knew what he had to do. What they had to do. He just hoped his racing pulse didn’t betray his true feelings. “I want you to feed from me directly.” Obi-Wan hasn't taken very well to his new diet after becoming a vampire. He would rather suffer in silence. Anakin won't let him.

☆ This Sacred Skin by silkenlysleep @silkenlysleep

[Explicit - 6,069 w]

Obi-Wan never knew Anakin could look good in white. Or, that he would lose his mind over it.

☆ ART by @yatsukisakura

First part of a obikin Agatha Christie style adaptation

♥ designed for cruelty by spitfired @spitefyre

[Explicit - 1,937 w - chapters 1/?]

And maybe the world was ending, maybe he was losing his mind. His gums ached and his vision was swimming. From the back of his throat, he choked out a growl, a groaning whine of need and confusion. But Anakin was by his side, and so he was sure they would be okay in the end. Or: In which Obi-Wan and Anakin are not alphas or omegas, because those don‘t exist. And then suddenly, they are, because why not?

♥ How Civilised by Quastake

[Explicit - 1,557 w - chapters 1/?]

Anakin thinks he’s ready to be knighted. His master, Mace Windu, does not agree. To prove himself, Anakin challenges a strange creature that has been kidnapping civilians. However, his normally flawless strategy of attack first, ask questions later may not be so solid after all.

☆ So Good For Me by dragons_and_angels @heaven-hell-and-humanity

[Explicit - 3,854 w]

Obi-Wan wondered if it was possible for someone to lose their mind over being denied an orgasm.

♥ A slip of the tongue by Viraha @virahaus

[Explicit - 1,835 w - chapters 1/2]

Two years after the end of the Clone Wars and the unmasking of Sidious' identity, Obi-Wan and Anakin are in what other people would call their 'honeymoon phase'. It would be better if they'd actually listened to Mace's advice and took a vacation months ago instead of thinking about it now, for the all the other Jedi peace of mind. After all, Obi-Wan (and half the jedi council) is about to discover what an half asleep, half horny Anakin is capable of to keep the attention of his Master on him all day long. Or, what happens when Anakin calls Obi-Wan 'daddy' in public and pretends to not know what he's doing.

If you know the handles of any of the authors we revealed today we did not tag, please let us know and we’ll add them!

You want to join our community and chat a bit? Join our discord server, invite here.

Twitter thread Pt1 - Pt2.

[stnichols]

Whuff (untethered.)

1.2k

a firstprince in a green creek world ficlet. because I want to.

tags because im an attention whore @bigassbowlingballhead @taste-thewaste @mossy-fae @eusuntgratie @onthewaytosomewhere @thighzp

There's a wolf at Alex's chest.

Alex didn't know wolves got quite this big - like, the size of a small horse kind of big - but its nose is buried in Alex's chest and he can feel its hot breath soaking through the material, settling tacky on his skin.

The wolf whuffs, its eyes closed, taking another deep breath.

A wave of confusion and fear rolls over Alex. The wolf whuffs again, blinking up at Alex, purple bleeding into its eyes until its gaze is bright and unnatural with it.

But somehow it's reassuring. Somehow his fear dies, even if the confusion remains.

"Okay?" Alex laughs, the sound more tremulous than he would have liked, but the wolf doesn't react to it. It breathes into Alex's chest as though that's all it has ever wanted to do. They're still for long minutes, Alex's hand finding its way slowly into the fur on the back of the wolf's neck and then the top of its head between its ears. They flick as he drags his fingers through the ruff, his nails scratching from time to time, and the wolf yips and Alex knows that it's a good sound. It's pleasure. The wolf likes it.

"Where did you come from? How did you get so -- big?" He asks, quickly chasing his own words with more since the last thing he needs is to offend a wolf, teeth and all, "not that you're- y'know, but like, you're big for a wolf. I didn't even know there were wild wolves in England. Are you wild? Are you a Royal wolf? Like the swans? Oh my God, am I gonna get arrested for touching you? Please don't get me arrested."

It all bubbles out of him in his usual lack of brain to mouth filter fashion.

The wolf shifts, it's nose lifting from Alex's chest and it sits on its haunches slowly, as though trying not to spook Alex away. It let's its tongue loll out of it's mouth in a pant that looks like--

"Are you laughing at me?" Alex asks, shrill, pouting.

The wolf bounces its nose gently off Alex's hip, yipping again.

"I don't think I was being stupid," Alex justifies, as though he could understand the wolf perfectly - he almost felt like he could, which is weird but okay.

He says as much.

The wolf sits and stares at him for what feels like an eternity, until Alex starts to shift uncomfortably.

The wolf sneezes.

----

Henry's tether snapped the day his dad died.

He sat in a room surrounded by his pack and breathed as his human father slipped away. Ravaged by illness. Too weak to take the bite. Too stubborn to have taken it years ago despite the amount of times he was asked.

Death stinks. Sickly sweet and putrid.

Cancer stinks too. Sour, in direct contrast to death, overripe and rotting.

The mix of the two made Henry's stomach roll over with every inhale. He wanted to shift. He wanted to become wolf and never return, but his mother had told him that he'd want to be human for this because he'd need to say goodbye. His mother said they'd sing together later. They'd sing as wolves to guide him over the bridge.

They had.

But not before Henry's tether cut his palm at the speed with which it flew out of his hand, even as he tried to hold on, even as he tried to delay the inevitable.

He shifted. They sang. They howled and Henry screamed at the moon. At the mother of wolves.

He didn't shift back.

He didn't remember Henry.

He was wolf now.

He remembered the word they used.

Feral. Feral. Feral.

His eyes were purple now. His sister had told him so.

She hurt too. He could smell it all over her. She was blue and blue and an ocean of blue. Sometimes she smelled as though she had hurt herself somehow. A bright, cloying tang amongst the blue. He whined at her and nipped at her fingers, sending his love through the bond between them.

Pack. Pack. Pack.

For the most part he stayed in the grounds of the palace, acres of land to traverse. He slept in the hollows of trees in the clearing where his father had burned. A wolf's funeral. Sometimes he can still smell the smoke. He wakes up growling, teeth bared.

He was looking at the stars when the door opened. He was searching for Orion as his father told him to do. There was light and the creek of a door, There was shadow and the silhouette of a man. There was scent, overwhelming and bright. So bright his blue heart could barely take it.

It was coffee and thyme and the air before sunrise while the dew falls.

He is sunshine and sunshine and sunshine.

The wolf stayed low as the man approached, out of sight for a time. He heard the moment the man saw him.

"Holy shit," he'd said, "I should go back."

The wolf whined and took a step toward him.

"Or not-" he'd said, and let the wolf come closer and closer, until his nose was buried in his chest and he breathed and breathed.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

----

Alex talked.

He was talking to a wolf. About everything. About anything.

Mostly how he didn't really want to be here but he had to support his mom because he couldn't let her lose a second term of presidency. She was the first female president, a white woman with a Mexican family, it was a miracle she was there at all. She deserved a second term. So he came to fancy dinners in fancy palaces with snotty royal families.

The wolf snorted. It's ears cocked. It listened to every word.

“I’m Alex, by the way,” Alex said, sitting down on one of the benches dotted around which he didn’t think were there all the time, they weren’t fixed to the ground. The wolf sat in front of him, eyes huge, glowing, and purple.

That wasn’t normal, right?

It - Alex looked over the wolf, its fur thick and silver, streaked with black and gray, it almost towered over him while he was sat down but it was a perfect opportunity to check - he, the wolf was a he, pressed his nose to Alex’s knee.

Nice to meet you. Alex’s mind supplied.

Maybe he was going crazy.

“Maybe I'm going crazy.” Alex said.

The wolf sneezed, his head shaking.

“It’s like you’re human or something. It’s like you understand.”

Whuff.

“Do you have a name? Wait, you can’t answer that, you’re a wolf, what am I saying?” Alex looked up at the sky.

The wolf rumbled low in his throat, an attempt at getting his attention. When Alex looked back at him, he was standing, massive and imposing, his breath grazing Alex’s cheek. He pressed his nose against Alex’s forehead.

Oh.

“Henry,” for a moment, Alex’s brain is blissfully blank and then, “how the fuck did you do that? Wait, what are you? And why the fuck are you called Henry? Don’t you have wolf names? Awoo? Henry’s a royal name, i’m gonna get arrested aren’t I?”

Whuff.

[pilesofpillows]

First Comes Marriage (We're Already in Love, Keep Up) || Attoye Excerpt

Attoye Week Day 3: Fluff/Comedy

A/N: Peeks in... Hi, it's been a minute 😅 I do have updates to deliver and I will get there, I promise. For now though, here's a quick snack from one of my Attoye Week fics...

A snackie for @attoye-week

This is the premise and I know the title is long, but it'll make sense later 😂

Attuma stood at the edge of N’Tando’s property, taking in the sprawling expanse of Okoye’s family land. Herds of goats, sheep, and horses grazed behind deceptively frail-looking fences. A round house sat on top of one of the hills, simple in its outward appearance, but Attuma knew better. 

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. It was strange, this disquiet coursing through him. His feet felt rooted in place, yet his soul felt like an untethered island drifting in the sea. Attuma did not get nervous. His assurance in who he was had carried him through many of life’s highs and lows. Even on the eves of great battles, Attuma remained steady. 

But this was not battle. At least not one he was familiar with. 

As if sensing his nervousness, Iktan grabbed his hand in both of hers, squeezing slightly. “Ko'oten, nacom. K ilej wa Chaac ka Bast u séen kaxa'antbil ti' le eek'o'obo'. [Come, general. Let us see if Chaac and Bast have met in the stars.].”

Attuma chuckled, “Yaan ti' leti'ob [They have]. No other could compare. You will soon see.”

“Then let us go and meet your wife, General,” Iktan smiled.

Attuma nodded and gave a low whistle, calling his múuch to attention and instructing them to wait at the bottom of the hill while he and Iktan spoke with his love’s father. Hopefully, the man would not reject the gifts or his proposal. 

N’Tando greeted them with a wide grin, waving as Attuma and Iktan made their way up the hill. Attuma waved back, a small smile lighting his face at the baby goat in the man’s large arms.

“Molo, General Attuma! This is a surprise!” N’Tando said jovially, shifting the small animal in his arms to give him the Talokanil salute. 

Attuma’s smile widened, and he crossed his arms over his chest, returning his salute with the Wakandan variation. Ignoring Iktan’s surprised glance, he asked the elder Wakandan if he had a moment to talk.

“Of course!” the man answered, leading them toward the house. “Let me get this one settled with his mother, and we can speak inside. I should warn you, though, Okoye isn’t here. She mentioned a new trail she wanted to hike, out in the thicket.”

A quick sigh of relief left him, and Attuma silently thanked Chaac for the serendipity of this moment. It would be awkward to ask permission to marry Okoye in front of her. If she was traipsing through the jungle, there was little chance of interruption. And when she did return, she would likely be wearing one of the sinfully tight outfits she called workout gear. The gods were indeed smiling on him today.

Attuma could picture the maddening amount of rich, brown skin that would be on display, glistening with sweat from her exertion. The deep cleft of her breasts pressed together by her top. The sumptuous curve of her behind outlined perfectly in skin-tight shorts. His thoughts nearly ran away with him when Iktan cleared her throat, drawing him back to the present.

“That is fine,” Attuma replied, clearing his own throat. “I did not come to speak with Okoye.”

N’Tando’s smile faltered as he released the goat behind the fence. A brief look of confusion graced his face, but he shook his head and pressed on. “Well, no matter. Let us go inside.”

As they entered the main living area, Attuma was once again fascinated with the ingenuity of the Wakandan people. The outside and upper level of the house was simple. The hut was round with a sloping thatched roof, appearing simple and innocuous. The upper level was the same, a modest living space with a small kitchen and two bedrooms. However, a hidden panel in the kitchen revealed a set of stairs leading to an underground structure every bit as advanced as Okoye’s sky-high home in the Golden City. 

N’Tando invited them to sit at the table in his dining room, offering them drinks of water before taking a seat across from them.

“So, General, what brings you here today?”

Attuma felt the same nervousness from before take hold of his tongue, sticking it to the roof of his mouth. Being nervous was not unthinkable; this was a monumental moment. But his silence was quickly making it awkward.  He gulped and removed his rebreather to take a drink of water. 

Sighing, Attuma looked Okoye’s father in the eye. “I would like to introduce you to Iktan. She is an atanzahab. A matchmaker. She has divined matches in my family for three generations.”

N’Tando once again looked confused but smiled at Iktan. “It is good to meet you, Iktan. I am N’Tando, son of N’Jabulo. I imagine you must be very good at what you do to have the General’s trust.”

Iktan smiled warmly. “I do nothing but consult the gods on behalf of those who seek to join their souls eternally. But yes, I do consider myself quite good.”

N’Tando laughed at that, loud and boisterous, and Iktan joined him. 

Okoye’s father was a joyful man, always ready with a bright smile and an easy laugh. He took pride in his work and in his family, unafraid of making difficult choices or confronting hard truths. When Okoye had introduced them the first time, Attuma feared the man wouldn’t be receptive to the one directly responsible for his daughter’s demotion. However, N’Tando greeted him like an old friend and commanded him to help wrangle the goats back into their pen. Attuma had done so, half-shocked by the ease with which the proud man accepted his presence in his daughter’s life. The one time Attuma questioned N’Tando’s approval, his love’s father had answered simply. “You make her happy.”

Attuma fully returned the sentiment. He’d been captivated by her battle prowess on the bridge, enchanted by her ferocity when they’d faced each other aboard the Wakandan Sea Leopard, and enthralled when she’d demanded to be taught water combat after the alliance between their people was formalized. When they’d begun sparring regularly, trading combat techniques and family remedies, Attuma found himself falling more and more in love with each passing day. They built trust, stone by stone, laying an unbreakable foundation of friendship. And eventually, when the formidable woman allowed him past her defenses and into her heart, he knew. 

There would never be another for him. Okoye brought a joy to his life like he had never known. A light and warmth to his soul he’d never felt. 

As their laughter died, Attuma straightened in his chair. “I have brought Iktan here in hopes that we can begin the conversation to formalize Okoye and I’s courtship.”

N’Tando was silent. 

The man’s blank stare sent a trill of panic through Attuma, and words began to pour from his lips in a rushing tumble of air. “I realize she has been married before, but I still wished to follow tradition. It is why I brought Iktan. I was not sure of Wakandan traditions, but still, Okoye deserves the respect of a proper proposal. I asked Aneka and she mentioned an exchange of aalak’, so I brought goats raised in a small village by the surface dwellers near Talokan. I brought other gifts as well, hand-plucked pearls, and even a fertilizer that my chiich created for your squash and melon plants.”

N’Tando sat back and crossed his arms, stroking his beard. “You have come to ask if you can marry Okoye.”

Attuma nodded, “Yes. It is my belief that our destinies have been twined since the moment she spilled my blood.”

~ magis postmodum ~

A/N 2: That's all for now folks... I'll see y'all next week sometime with a chapter of at least one of my WIPs that needs updating 😅