#reader is in big trouble

[zephyrchama]

I hope demons have sayings that sound really weird and messed up to humans, just as there are many diverse sayings across varying human languages that don't always translate easily.

---01

Lucifer looked up warily as you entered his office before breathing a sigh of relief. "I thought you were Mammon, here to give me another headache."

You strided over to his desk to take a peek at what he was working on. It looked boring. "We both know you love your little brother. What could be so bad this time?"

Lucifer buried his eyes in his hands, brushing his hair aside with the tail end of a pen. "He's been gnawing on my toenails all week."

You coughed in surprise, smacking your chest to loosen up the muscles so that clarifying questions could be asked. "What? Why? How?"

"Just general Mammon buffoonery as usual. For some reason he's especially persistent this week."

"I have literally never seen Mammon chewing on toenails..." Your lip curled back in disgust just imagining it. "Has he... done this before?"

"What?" Lucifer narrowed his eyes, puzzled. "Oh." His gaze softened once he realized what was happening and he huffed in amusement. "Mammon hasn't actually been gnawing on my toenails. It means he's getting on my nerves, as you might say."

You clasped your hands together and sighed, letting a wave of relief wash over you. "Please. Just say that next time."

----02

"C'mon, c'mon! If ya move any slower I'm gonna exfoliate Diavolo!"

You were running as fast as you could, despite Mammon being the reason for your tardiness. You didn't have much to lose, but Mammon could be in deep trouble for missing another morning class.

You wheezed and almost ran into him, not realizing he kindly came back to carry you. "Wh..." After a few deep breaths, you choked out your question. "You're gonna what? To Diavolo?"

Mammon thrust his bag in your arms in a rush and picked you up instead. He spoke as he began running, "yeah. He's gonna have my neck if I'm late again!"

"I get that, but is Barbatos gonna make you wash him...? Or...?"

"Wha? Are you still half asleep? Is that why you're runnin' so slow?"

You leaned your head back against his upper arm to stare up at him in frustration. He couldn't ignore your pouty face inches from his own. Mammon's ears grew red. "Knock it off!"

"Tell me what you mean!" you ordered.

Mammon growled and ran even faster. "What do you mean? I'm just tryna get us to class!"

---03

You scooted your seat closer to Leviathan. He perked right up and froze as you approached to whisper in his ear.

"Levi, XYZ."

"W-w-what? Is that a code?"

"No, XYZ. PDQ."

He reached for a pen and began noting the letters down. "P... D... Q... Got it. What's next?"

You shook your head. "No, Levi, your barn door is open."

"What game are we talking about? I haven't picked up Moondrop Basin in a few weeks."

You made a zipping-up motion with your hand. "Your fly!"

"Oh." Leviathan ruffled the back of his hair and swatted the air around his head. "Is it gone now? I didn't see any bugs."

Though reluctant to be so blunt, you were out of euphemisms. "Levi, your pants' zipper is open."

With an "eep!" he turned away to fix his problem. It took a few seconds. In his haste, the zipper kept getting stuck. He was mad when he turned back around, his face colored crimson. "Why didn't you just tell me? Without turning it into... into some game!"

"I did! XYZ, PDQ, That's what we say in the human world! Examine your zipper, quick!"

"That's so dumb!" he seethed, punching his knee. "What a spumid flaming cabbage. Your sayings are so weird."

---04

"Ready for the next one?"

"Hit me," you told Satan.

He grimaced from across the desk, raising his eyes from the paper to look at you in concern. "What? No, I'm not going to do that."

"Not literally, it's a human saying. It means 'give it to me,' or something like that."

"Oh." Satan jotted that down in the margins of his own notes before reading off the next phrase on his list. "This is one of my favorites. It's a colorful saying, but if you're really mad at someone you can call them a snot-cobbling banshee. I like to say this while cursing their next three generations."

You wrote that down. "How often do you use this saying?"

"Not too often. Well, maybe once a week with my brothers. It goes along with this next phrase which implies someone is dangerously stupid. Barbed dingbat."

You nodded. You were truly learning so much on this cultural exchange program.

---05

Asmodeus came into the kitchen as you were preparing dinner and wrapped his arms around your neck. He looked exhausted.

"Careful, I've got a knife, don't want to accidentally nick you," you warned. "What's up? Long day?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Asmodeus peeped over your shoulder to look at the vegetables you were cutting. "I'm so glad you're home. You know, all day, all I could think about was..."

He proceeded to say some incredibly vulgar things. Detailed depictions of debauchery. Irredeemable acts of indecency that cannot be repeated on this blog. It made you put the knife down in a tizzy.

"Are those more demon idioms?" You snickered awkwardly and wiped your hands on a towel. "I've been learning about your sayings recently. Can't say I've heard those ones yet."

"What? Oh, no." Asmodeus lifted your hand, raising it to his lips to lick a stray fleck of vegetable skin off your fingertip. "These aren't sayings, this is just stuff I've wanted to do all day."

---06

"I could just eat you up."

This was something Beelzebub said often, and something he repeated again today. His hands were occupied with a fresh four-pounder with cheese, but his eyes kept drifting from it to watch you shoot paper balls into a wastebasket.

"You know, humans have the same saying. Isn't that funny?" You bounced up to grab some of the wads on the floor that didn't make it into the basket, to try again.

Beelzebub swallowed the mass in his mouth. "Really?" he asked between bites. "I thought you guys stopped doing cannibalism, mostly."

"Uh." You missed your throw. What should have been an easy shoot bounced off the edge and rolled away from the wastebasket. "Yeah, we did. Just so we're on the same page, you're saying I'm cute, right?"

Beelzebub was concerningly quiet as he chewed.

---07

"Are you on your way back to class?" Belphegor stopped you in the hall. You hadn't even seen him there on the ground, curled up next to a shady pillar.

"Skipping class again?" you asked. "I thought you liked magic theory."

"Maybe," he yawned. "It's too easy sometimes."

Belphegor fished around in his pocket for a second before pulling out a tightly folded-up sheet of paper. He offered it up. "Can you turn this in for me? I don't want my grades dropping over late homework."

"Sure thing, but it might be better to turn it in yourself. I heard Barbatos is doing random checks in all classes this week. He'll notice you missing."

"Nah." Belphegor's head drooped down as he prepared to doze off again. "If you see him, just tell him I'm being flerchen in the garden."

That sounded innocent enough. "Okay. What does that mean?"

"Means I've got the sniffles," he lied.

---08

Barbatos' eyes grew big and he placed a hand over his heart, furthering crumpling Belphegor's homework sheet in the process. He looked around to make sure nobody overheard before leaning in. "I must ask that you never say that again."

Behind him, Diavolo's palm was clasped over his mouth as he struggled not to draw attention with loud guffaws. He had his back to the classroom, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"Why not?" You nervously shifted from one foot to another. You'd been had.

"It's not a topic I can explain here. Perhaps you and the Young Master should excuse yourselves for now. I'll come collect you both later."

Barbatos readily escorted you and Diavolo out of the room, shutting the door behind you so that class could begin without interruption.

"I'm just the messenger," you tried to defend yourself. Diavolo's fit of giggles was renewed. He grabbed on to your shoulder for stability while doubled over, trying to ride out the laughter.

"Did... did Belphegor tell you to say that?" He wiped a tear running down his face. You furiously nodded.

"Haha! Do you remember where he's hiding? I'd sure like to have a word with him."

You couldn't tell if Diavolo was going to praise Belphegor or tear him a new one. Perhaps a mix of both. However, the curiosity over what you said was overwhelming. You wanted to know the full extent of what it meant before seeing Belphegor again.

You decided to bargain with the prince. "I'll show you, but first you have to tell me what that means."

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter 4 - Runaway

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized reader, female reader, Poorly thought out action sequences, Guns, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me. No promises for future chapters though I might even tell y'all her name.

~3.8k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

You wake in the morning with your nose buried in a thick patch of chest hair, and strong arms around you. Your legs are hooked around one of his thick thighs, and something hard digs into your stomach. You start to inch away, but his arms tighten, and his hips cant against you, a thick, sleepy groan rumbling in his chest. It would be a nice way to wake up, if not for the circumstances. It’s been ages since you slept beside another person, let alone someone that feels as comfortable as John does.

“John,” you say softly. You don’t want to fully wake him up, just get him to let you go. “John, please let me go.”

He hums, one hand sliding to your waist, and then down to your hip, pulling you closer, grinding you against his thigh. You squeak in protest, becoming aware that you’re already wet, like you’ve been unconsciously humping his leg in your sleep for some time. You push your slightly freer top half away a little, so you can look at him. He’s still sleeping, a little frown on his face as he’s pulled unwillingly toward consciousness. He really is handsome, especially like this, all his defences down, grumbling like a hibernating bear.

“Don’t wake up,” you tell him, as if it’ll make any difference. “I just have to pee.”

One of his blue eyes cracks open, a little unfocused. “You comin’ back?” His voice is rough from sleep, rasping like sandpaper.

“Sure,” you say, even though you have no intention of doing so. Your body seems as eager as his is for something you’re sure is dangerous. Maybe he smells good, like tobacco, warm, boozy spices and something undeniably male, and maybe he feels warm and solid against you, but you don’t want to encourage this. You just want to enough space to clear your head. His admissions last night still have you spooked, John’s words not tempered by a night of surprisingly good sleep. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He loosens his hold on you enough that you can wiggle free, his eyes opening a little more so he can watch you slip out of bed. He rolls over onto his back, and starts snoring gently before you’ve even made it to the bedroom door. You take the opportunity to snag one of the bags stacked in front of the closet and your purse off the dresser and bring both to the bathroom with you. You’re not sure what’s in the bag, but you know the larger suitcase has things from your closet in it, so you’re hoping this one has more from your dresser.

You get dressed, glad that most of your underthings and a comfortable pair of jeans and a thick sweater are inside and pack your toothbrush and makeup bag into the larger one, and creep downstairs carefully. One of them is snoring gently on the couch, but otherwise, the house is silent. You carefully fish a set of keys off the hooks by the door and sneak outside. You don’t know where any of your shoes are except the red heels, so you just leave in your sock feet, and pile your things into the pick-up truck. You’ll drive it into town and leave it there, buy a ticket on a train or a bus, and get the hell back home.

It sucks to have to leave everything you own, beyond the clothes in the one bag and the contents of your purse, but maybe you can call the cops— Well. Probably not. Better to just start over anywhere else. You have digital copies of a few pictures of your parents, and that’s better than nothing, even if their wedding album is sitting on a shelf in John’s living room, along with all the family photos that your parents took of you and them while you were growing up. Your mother’s sketchbooks too, and her camera, and your dad’s guitar.

You bite your lip, holding back tears, and start the truck.

No sense mourning things. The memories are in your head and your heart, not trapped in the pages of books or twisted into the strings of the guitar. You don’t need them.

You haven’t driven in a long time, and the truck, unfortunately, is a manual, which you haven’t driven in even longer, but you manage to pull away from the house without revving the engine too hard, and pick up speed once you get to the road, only just remembering to hit the clutch with your left foot before you change gears. You’d feel pretty pathetic if you only made it to the road before stalling out the pickup.

You’re not sure which way town is, but you figure the road has to lead somewhere no matter which way you choose, so you navigate blindly, turning onto a bigger road a little ways down the gravel one that leads to John’s house. Bigger road means more people, although the hour is still so early that there’s no one around yet. The sun is barely up, and it’s still shadowy in the woods on either side of the road. The woods give way to fields suddenly, the sun making a too-bright debut, shining right into your eyes. You flip down the visor and adjust the rear-view mirror, wincing when you see a blue car a ways behind you, approaching fast.

You didn’t notice the car when you were leaving— It must have been parked behind the bigger van that they’d used to move all your things— but it looks sporty and fast, and judging by the way it closes the gap, there’s no question that it’s them. You push the truck harder, squinting against the light, heart hammering. The car’s engine roars, loud enough that you can hear it over the blood rushing in your ears, and pulls into the lane beside you. Gaz motions for you to pull over from the passenger seat.

You slow up enough that they pull ahead a little, and you yank your steering wheel to the side and stomp down on the gas and the clutch, shifting into third gear and nailing the side of the car, shattering a tail light and making it spin, stopping just shy of the ditch.

For a moment, you’re still close enough to see the shock on their faces, but you’re moving fast and leave them in the dust, at least momentarily. It won’t take them long to recover and catch up again, and if they hit you with the same maneuver, there’s no way you’ll be able to get the truck under control. There’s not enough weight in the bed of the truck to compensate, and you’ll wind up in the ditch for certain.

Funny, how it comes back to you. Learning to drive along mountain roads way outside Aberdeen, either in your dad’s little car or your mom’s old truck (usually the car, which was the easier one to drive. Your dad was the safer driver too, the better parent to learn from), and you can almost imagine your mother in the passenger seat, laughing her head off at the insane circumstances, encouraging you to throw caution to the wind, to get a feel for the road under the wheels and the way the old truck handled. She always laughed when she was under stress, but it’s comforting to think of. Your mum would never let a couple of thick-headed military assholes get the better of her.

The car is catching up again, so you floor it and smash through a fence gate into a muddy field, where the car won’t handle as well, and speed your way across the stubbly remains of wheat, already harvested. The car follows, and, predictably, struggles, the low frame too close to the muck, bumping unhappily over the soft, uneven ground.

Laughter bubbles up in your chest, relieving some of the built-up anxiety. You smash through a segment of the fence on the other side and yank the truck back onto the road, giggling when the truck fishtails a bit, mud slicking the tires on the pavement. There’s so much adrenaline coursing through your system that you feel like you might be sick the moment you let any of this catch up with you. So you keep driving, and pray that it doesn’t.

The car gets close again when you reach another wooded section of road. Through the rearview mirror you can see Gaz pop out of the window, gun drawn, but you don’t hear the crack when it fires, you only feel the impact when the bullet strikes one of the rear tires. You shriek, slamming on the breaks as the truck spins out of your control and off the road, slamming into a tree head on.

The lurch forward as the airbags deploy, your body hitting them hard, knocking all the air out of your lungs as you’re slapped back into he seat. The seat belt bites into your shoulder painfully. You unbuckle yourself quickly, ears ringing too loudly for you to hear the screeching tires of the pursuit car. You fall to the ground when you try to get out, head spinning.

You stumble into the trees, still blinking away double vision. If you can find a good spot to hide— Maybe you can double back and take the car while they chase you blindly through the trees. You cast about, feeling every rapidly forming bruise, wishing desperately that you had shoes, and dive into the underbrush, scooting forward on your belly, brambles catching in your hair as you curl up, out of sight.

“Please come out, doll,” you hear Gaz call out, boots crunching through the woods, closer than you would like. “It’s okay, we’re not mad. Just come out and we’ll take you home, yeah?”

Johnny is yelling further off, his voice incomprehensible but sing-song, mocking. Gaz moves further into the woods. You wait until his voice grows a little more distant before you drag yourself back out, sweater streaked with mud, leaves in your hair, and quickly sneak back to the road. The car is still running, the driver door left open. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“There you are, bird.”

You scream. A gloved hand drops over your mouth, cutting off the sound, and an arm loops around your waist, picking you right up off your feet.

Fuck.

"Look what you did, bird. Wrecked up Price's truck. 'E's not goin' to be 'appy about that." He turns so you can see the slightly smoking truck, the front half of it crumpled beyond repair.

You shake your head until he pulls his hand away from your mouth. "Its not my fault I crashed. Gaz shot the tire out. I wasn't even going to steal it, just leave it in town once I'd gotten to a bus stop."

He hums. You hear the slight crackle of a radio. "Got 'er, lads. Come back to the car."

"Rog."

"Aye."

Ghost shoves you into the back seat. "Stay put," he says sternly. "You're already banged up, don't want to 'ave to tackle you."

You sigh, all the fight leaving you. You feel awful, bruised and shaken up and trembling, and you do nothing but watch as Ghost gathers your things from the truck and puts them in the boot of the car. You slump back in the seat, inspecting the scratches on your hands idly. Your head hurts, and your shoulder aches, and you feel a bit like you've been stepped on, but nothing feels broken, just bruised and tender. You got lucky.

Well, not lucky. There's very little about any of this that counts as luck. Especially considering the look on Johnny's face when he jogs out of the trees. At first he looks stormy, but he grins when he sees you and opens the back door to crawl onto the seat and on top of you.

"Steamin Jesus, where'd ye learn ta drive like tha'?" He asks. "Didnae ken ye were a racer."

"Outside Aberdeen," you reply. Your ribs hurt. Soap’s weight makes every little ache more acute.

"Price isn't gonna be happy about his truck," Gaz says, tossing himself into the driver's seat. "What were you thinking, doll? You could've been hurt."

"You didn't have to shoot the tire." You try to push Soap off, but he wraps himself around you, a bit tight, but bearably so. You’re trembling, and he’s trying to help, in a thoroughly unhelpful way. "I was just trying to get home."

"That's the wrong way. Your home's with Price now." Ghost gets into the other front seat, and Gaz reverses back out onto the road.

You sigh, leaning your head against the window, watching the countryside flash by. It takes an embarrassingly short time to get back to John's house. You didn't get as far as you would have liked, hardly got anywhere at all. Your eyes prickle with tears, but you don't want to cry in front of them. You want to go back to bed, maybe back in time to the morning. You would have been wiser just to curl up next to John again.

Soap drags you from the car, hands a bit rough on your bruises, and pulls you back to the house. John rushes out, worry creasing his face, blue eyes sweeping over you and turning furious. "What happened?" he barks, not at you, but at his men.

"Bird was makin' a run for it," Ghost says.

"Wrecked your truck," Gaz adds.

"That's not my fault!" you protest. "You shot at me!" You glare at him, frustrated tears overflowing down your cheeks. It’s like they have no idea what kind of stress they’ve put you through.

"Woah, woah, c'mere, doll." John pulls you against his chest, wrapping strong arms around you, stilling some of the tremble in your limbs. "You broken?"

You shake your head, leaning into him, gripping his t-shirt tightly. You breathe in raggedly, trying to steady yourself.

"Lads. Why did you shoot at her?"

"Trying to stop the truck."

"She's a civilian you muppets. I take it that the truck's in no shape to drive, or you would've brought it back. You could have killed her." He pets a hand over your head, plucking out a few leaves. "You should’ve let her go."

"She stole your truck!" Soap protests.

"So what? It's wrecked now anyway, innit?" The silence behind you speaks volumes. "Alright, doll, why don't you go get cleaned up? " he murmurs against the top of your head. "I need to talk to the lads, and what I have to say is not fit for a lady's ears."

He gently ushers you into the house and closes the door firmly behind you. You trudge upstairs, feeling utterly pathetic, and lock yourself into the bathroom. Still sniffling, you comb sticks and leaves out of your hair with your fingers and put yourself into a hot shower, where you give yourself the freedom to cry your eyes out, hoping that the sound of water drowns your stifled sobs.

The house is quiet when you shut off the shower and dry yourself off. You wrap the shirt you'd slept in around you and poke your head out into the hallway. John is right there, holding out a bundle of clothes. "Here, sweetheart," he says softly, like he's worried a sharp word will set you off again. He must have heard everything. "I sent the boys to deal with the truck and that tail light, so it's just us. Just come on downstairs when you're ready."

You open the door wide enough to accept the clothes, and he turns to leave again, content to leave anything else to be said when you make it downstairs.

He'd obviously taken his cue from what you'd been wearing already, because he gives you a sweater and jeans again, comfortable worn in things. You go downstairs carefully, every joint and muscle in your body aching, even after the shower.

"How do you take your coffee?" he asks. "Or do you prefer tea?"

"Coffee, please. I can make it. I'd feel better if I did, honestly." You skirt around him to the cupboard where you'd seen Gaz take mugs out, recognizing your own nestled among John's mismatched ones. You put milk and sugar in your favourite mug, and pour in coffee, stirring it throroughly. The clink of the spoon is loud, and so is the pan he sets on the stove top.

"Eggs and toast okay?" He asks.

"Um, yeah. That would be nice. Over easy?"

"Yes ma'am." He looks at you over his shoulder while butter melts in the pan, blue eyes all worry. "Did I say something to you last night? Maybe the sort of thing that made you feel like you needed to steal a truck and run as fast as you could away from here?"

"Um. Yes." You hold onto the mug with both hands. "Some stuff about wanting to start a family. With me."

His ears turn pink. "I see."

"I suppose this is where you tell me it was just the whiskey talking, right?" you ask hopefully. You like him, even if it’s ill-advised, maybe even dangerous to do so.

"Wish I could."

Your stomach twists. “Oh.”

John turns around fully, guilt and sadness written all over his handsome face. He steps closer and touches your arm gently. “I’m so sorry about what my boys have put you through, sweetheart. None of this has been right.” He sighs, brushing a few tendrils of still-wet hair away from your face, studying you, those intense blue eyes focused on you intently. “But there’s something special about you, doll. I really do want to keep you forever. Not if you’re scared, and not if you feel forced— It’s just, the thought of you leavin' and never wanting to speak to me again is— I don’t want that.”

You swallow nervously. “This is just really overwhelming.”

“I know. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let this happen. Soap really could have just given you my number.” The smile he gives you is hopeful, and you can’t help but return it, just a little. “Now go sit down, doll. Let me take care of breakfast, hm?”

You nod and move to the table, sitting where you can watch him, and peek out the window too. The car is gone, but the van is still there for the moment, sitting idly to the side. You consider making another run for it, but your aching limbs protest even the thought. There’s not enough fight in you, and you’re not even sure you want to fight John, not the way you do the other three. His only crime has been wanting you to stay, and being a bit overzealous about it. You can’t be mad at him for that, can you? It isn’t really his fault.

Well, it might be his fault, in a roundabout way. He trained them, taught them how to ruthlessly pursue an objective. It’s just not his fault they can’t keep it from coming home with them. That’s a clear failure of whoever does their mental health assessments.

You sip your coffee and watch John crack eggs into a pan. He keeps glancing at you, and his smile flickers on a little longer each time that he catches you looking back, until he doesn’t stop smiling, and just looks happy, glad to have you there, even if you’re just keeping a silent vigil on the other side of the room.

It's not like you have anywhere to go. It'll take days at least to feel like you haven't just been in a car crash, and days more to locate everything to pack it back up. So long as you don't have to share a bed with John again, you think you could live with this, for at least a week. It can't be that terrible, so long as the others leave you alone. You rather hope they just leave. If you asked, would John send them away?

"John," you say as he sets a plate with buttered toast and a couple of eggs on it in front of you, and sets a couple tablets of paracetamol beside your plate. "If I stay… Will they be staying too?"

"I'm going to have them leave this afternoon. That alright with you? We can go for a walk to the neighbours while they pack up, if you're up for it. Maybe dr-- Well, not drive." He sets his own plate down and sits next to you, handing you a knife and a fork. “Have to get that sorted out. But the neighbours-- Rob and Melissa-- Their dog just had puppies a few weeks ago. Do you like dogs?”

You nod, breaking the yolks of one of the eggs with a corner of toast. "My parents had a dog when I was growing up. Some kind of German shepherd cross. Best boy. His name was Rob Roy, because he was a wee outlaw. Mam found him digging in the trash and--" you stop and give John a baleful look. "Sorry. That was more than you were asking."

"No, that's the most you've said at once this whole time. I'd listen to you talk all day, doll. Don't ever apologize."

"Sorry I-- Oh, shit, sorry--" you press your fingers to your mouth, cutting yourself off. "Force of habit."

"I'd like to see you lose that one. You have nothin' to apologize for. Not one damn thing, and especially not talking. I think you have the prettiest voice I've ever heard."

You roll your eyes, but you can't help smiling. "You're just saying that."

He touches your arm lightly. "You don't know me too well yet, doll, but I never just say anything."

Yet hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate. He wants you to know him, wants you to stay with him, wants you to like him. Even if it makes no sense, the offer is tempting. It's been a long time since you've let someone get close— You've had the occasional fling, and the odd reunion with an ex that you’d stayed friends with, but grief is like a canyon you can't bear to cross. What if you love someone and you lose them, the way you lost your parents? How could you live with that all over again?

Still, there's something that feels like warm sunlight in his smile, and you can't help but incline toward him, slowly but surely reaching for the light. No one can live in the shade forever. There’s no nobility in suffering.

So you let yourself talk, at least a little. And he listens, hanging on to your words like they're precious, gazing at you with something unfurling in his expression that you can't name. You're almost afraid to try.

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[cozylittleartblog]

small PSA: if you shop at craft shows or artist alleys, please bring more than apple pay or a virtual card - especially if you're not comfortable entering your card number manually. not all of us have fancy card readers, so please also bring your physical card or cash, even if it's only as backup 👍

[starrspice]

Hey! Been a minute since I've come up with a new AU

Tbh this was kind of a chain event started by @ayyy-imma-ninja 's very own Fairy AU ( please go check it out their Fairy AU is so crazy cute)

It kind of reminded me of Tinkerbell and The Great Fairy Rescue Which culminated in my own Fairy AU that's a mashup of all of my favorite fairy (and fairy adjacent) movies from my childhood

So think Tinkerbell mixed with Fern Gulley and Thumbelina

[missmaywemeetagain]

A Pink Scarf Thanksgiving 💗🧣🦃

A very happy Thanksgiving weekend to those who celebrate! ❤️

This blurb came out of nowhere, in a fit of Thanksgiving inspiration (and a special thanks to Norah for inadvertently nudging me towards a Thanksgiving prompt)! Because of this, it is not overly edited or revised. I will say, I'm not sure yet just how canon I want this to be in terms of the PS Universe, but I figure it came out of me for a reason, so I decided to go with it for now. 

I think my current moody headspace influenced the vibe for this--for us fans, it's a slightly indulgent "what could have been" scenario. But that's PS in a nutshell, isn't it?  🥹

Anyhoo, I hope this hits you in the feels! And I hope you know just how much you matter to me, even though I've been a bit MIA recently. 

Much love xoxoxox, Madi 💗

TW: It's 1977, so...medical issues/trauma/strife. Panic attack. Thanksgiving stress. A little hint of sexy at the end bc I couldn't leave you on a melancholy note! 💋

A Pink Scarf Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving 1977

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. P, but the oven is out. Lamar took a peek, but the thing is as cold as ice and don’t look like it’s gonna be warm any time soon,” Mary says, looking as distraught as you feel. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch it sooner.”

The naked, trussed, and cold turkey on the counter mocks you.

“No, no, it’s not your fault, Mary. We’ll…figure something out,” you try and reassure her, but it feels like a weight has just been placed on your chest. You pinch the bridge of your nose to stave off the massive headache that began early this morning when Nicky barged into your room at the crack of dawn sobbing because he’d had a nightmare that Mr. Gobble Gobble, a monster turkey, had eaten Daddy instead of the other way around.

This was one of many nightmares that your poor little boy had suffered since August, but certainly the first starring a murderous Thanksgiving turkey. He’d barely been consolable and neither of you had gotten back to sleep.

You take a deep breath, holding back the tears that threaten your vision.

Today needs to be perfect. It was supposed to be perfect.

But you should have known. After all, this year has been far from perfect.

You force yourself away from the wave of despair trying to overcome you. No, we’ve been lucky, you think. It could be so much worse.

Unfortunately, your nerves are shot, which makes sense considering the last few months you’ve had. You’ve kept it together so well. You’ve had to. For Nicky. For Elvis. But that tried resolve begins to crumble with the pressure of it all, as though everything that has happened is hitting you all at once.

Now you have a house full of hungry people, Elvis will be home any minute, and your usual quick-footed problem-solving skills have flown out the window. Your hands begin to tremble.

The panic swells as the kitchen swarms with people looking to you for direction, and in that moment, Nicky runs through the adults, chased by one of the other kids. It happens so fast—you barely have time to register the commotion before disaster strikes.

You watch in horror as the kids fly into the sideboard, knocking the precious side dishes and desserts onto the floor with a resounding crash.

The collective gasp of the adults in the room sends your panic into overdrive.

Thanksgiving is officially ruined.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you shout. The entire room goes silent. It’s not everyday Elvis Presley’s calm and collected wife loses her shit. No, that is something usually reserved for the man himself.

“Well, that’s not quite the welcome home I was expecting,” a familiar baritone chuckles from behind you.

You whip around, your bottom lip quivering. “Elvis?” you whisper.

He’s standing right here—standing! On his own!—leaning on his cane for support, a twinkle in his eye that you haven’t seen in ages. One you weren’t sure you’d ever see again. And the sight of him finally being home again after so many months in the hospital is more than you can bear. After standing tall and strong for him for so long, you crumble into a thousand pieces. An uncontrollable sob chokes out of you, your tears overflowing.

“Aw, honey,” he says quietly, slowly making his way to you, waving everyone else out of the room with the commanding flick of his hand. They exit in a flash with their concerned and pitied looks. Not that you care, because the second you can, you are falling into your husband’s open arms.

“I’m so sorry…your homecoming…it’s all ruined,” you sob into his chest, being mindful of the long scar down the center. Feeling the warmth of him engulfing you is overwhelming. His scent, untainted by antiseptic and hospital smells for the first time in a long time, swirls around you, caressing your senses.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay. Let it all out, Satnin,” he coos, stroking your hair with his free hand. “Hers has been so strong for hims, but hims is home now.”

The tenderness of his baby talk in your ear sends a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, staining the silk of his blue dress shirt. He’s dressed up, you think absently, knowing this is a huge thing. Even before that fateful August morning, he’d been mostly wearing his tracksuits when he wasn’t performing. He’d been so uncomfortable and in pain, you’d understood why.

You bury your head into his neck, pent up emotions violently shuddering through your body as you let your tears fall freely for the first time in months. You can barely breathe with how you wedge yourself into him, with how he holds you tight. He’s so much slimmer now that the edema is gone and his colon has been tended to, you realize, but he’s still soft in all the right places. You still fit against him perfectly, and his grip on you makes you realize he understands just how raw you are.

You cry more, thinking about how the last time he was here was when you’d found him unresponsive on the bathroom floor. How you’d never been so scared in your entire life, not even when you yourself had brushes with death.

It's a miracle he’s here at all. None of you, doctors included, were sure if he’d ever step through the doors of Graceland again. Not after the heart attack, or the coma, or the complications from his various surgeries. It had been one blow after another, for weeks, months. But somehow, in true stubborn Elvis fashion, he’d pulled through.

He’d gritted his way through healing, through physical therapy, through weaning off so many of the meds he’d been on before and during his hospital stay, and he hated every second of it. He’d been livid about the colostomy, but you’d had no care for his vanity when you’d had to make the decision to save his life. You didn’t care if he hated you because at least he’d be alive to tell you so. He’d gotten past it, mostly, especially once he was feeling better.

The entire ordeal had terrified him. Something had changed in him in those weeks he’d lingered between life and death, something he wasn’t ready to talk about just yet, but even with all the setbacks, his determination to come home was intensely motivating.

Which is why you’d wanted it to be special, and why it being Thanksgiving had so much meaning. Elvis was finally coming home. Then everything had gone to hell in a handbasket.

“I wanted everything to be perfect for you. You deserve it,” you say quietly, sniffling, holding him as tight as you dare without wanting to hurt him.

“Darlin’, just bein’ back home with you and Nicky is more than I ever dreamed of. I don’t need no big fancy dinner or welcome home committee. I jus’ need you.”

You pull back then, your heart about ready to burst, and look at him. He looks downright debonair with his silvery hair (which you’d convinced him not to dye back after it had grown out during his illness), freshly cut and shorter than it had been in years, fluffy but brushed back off his face in a style reminiscent to when he was younger. His apple cheeks are full and have more color than they’ve had in months.

“What?” he asks looking down at you, almost bashful under your gaze.

You reach up and cup his freshly shaven cheek, smooth and soft under your palm. Those deep ocean blue eyes of his threaten to swallow you whole. Staring into their depths, you don’t want to imagine a world without him in it anymore.

“I just love you,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out without choking up again. “So much.”

Eyes shining, Elvis pulls you up and into him. His lips are as sweet and as soft as you remember when they press into yours. The kiss is full of yearning, of love, and of everything you two have been through the past twenty years. It’s truly like coming home.

The kiss turns hungry then, more so than you expect. It’s been so very long since you’ve had each other in this way and it surprises you how readily your body remembers, despite all the pain and trauma you both have experienced. You open for him, and he moans when his tongue brushes against yours. A fiery wave of heat blisters through you then, hastily banishing away your tears.

Despite all the challenges you’ve faced over the years, you’ve always felt the pull of him in your soul. You’ve always wanted him, neededhim, even when you convinced yourself to forget because you thought you couldn’t have him. And now, after almost losing him for good, you can think of nothing else but him. The warmth of his body pressed against yours causes you to melt. The way his lips and hands roam over the curves of your body sends you soaring.

You thought you’d never have this again. It had almost broken you.

“I’m here, baby. I’m home, I promise,” he mutters into your skin, as if reading your mind.

You kiss him deeply, yanking him into you by his pretty shirt, taking his breath away.

He pulls away and presses his forehead to yours, and you can feel him sway on his feet, a little unbalanced.

“Good news—looks like Little Elvis is back in working order,” he says breathlessly, pressing his thickening erection into your belly. He seems pleasantly surprised.

Honestly, with everything dire that happened, it hadn’t even crossed your mind as a concern, but it makes sense that it could be an issue. You grin up at him with the knowledge that it isn’t, then roll your hips against him.

He groans. “Bad news—not sure I have the energy to do all the things I wanna to ya, and we got a house full of people.” Doesn’t stop him from grabbing a handful of your bottom, however.

“Oh, that’s never stopped us before, now has it?” you muse, walking your fingers gently down his chest and over his belly to palm his length.

“Lord have mercy, woman,” he moans, his eyes fluttering closed. You notice him lean more heavily on his cane and instantly ease up. One blue eye opens with a quirked brow. “Hey now, I din’t say stop.”

You laugh. “Well, it seems dinner is ruined anyhow,” you say, surveying the disaster of broken dishes and scattered food all over the floor, and the cold, raw turkey on the counter. “Maybe we better get you upstairs to rest.”

Rest is, of course, the furthest thing from your mind now, which you let him know with a little squeeze to his butt.

“Mmhmm, yes, I definitely need to lie down,” he mumbles as he peppers you with kisses. Suddenly, he freezes against you. “But, honey, I-I-I’m not sure how much I can do,” he whispers, a wave of uncertainty washing over him.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll take it slow. Real slow. One step at a time, like fumbling teenagers,” you say lightly, cupping his face and looking up into his eyes. “Or we can just kiss and hold each other. I’m just happy you’re here, baby.”

He nods, seemingly reassured by this. “I know I don’t say it as much as I should, but I thank God every day for you and for what we have together, Satnin,” he says quietly, brushing your hair behind your ear, kissing you gently. “I love you.”

Your heart and body ache for him. “We better get you upstairs to “rest”before I start crying again,” you snuffle, laughing, slowly walking with him toward the stairs.

“Well, tears aren’t entirely off the table…I can think of a couple good ways I can make you cry,” he teases, nibbling at your ear.

“Elvis Aaron, you did not just…” you gasp.

“What??” he says innocently. “Am I wrong?”

A shiver runs down your spine and settles in the heat of your belly.

You’ve missed him. Terribly.

But you do have so much to be thankful for this year, namely for the infuriatingly talented, generous, and stubborn man you married and are gingerly leading up the stairs for the first time in months.

In fact, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

*

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

That is all.

[naffeclipse]

In Light (Double Toil and Trouble)

Familiar!Sun x Witch!Y/N (SFW)

In the heat of the afternoon, you admire meadow flowers with Sun.

Word Count: 2,400~ Warnings: Slightly suggestive and heavy kissing.

A/N: Back at it again with the self-indulgence that is my personal kryptonite fluff. It's Sun's time to shine! Once more, this does contain slight spoilers for Double Toil and Trouble.

[aria-chicken-flugget]

Me, drafting Dinner with the Birches: Part II:

Y’all are either gonna love me or chase me with a pitchfork. There will be no in-between slfjehdj

[yeyinde]

NO BUT YOU ARE SO RIGHT ABOUT ALEJANDRO OMG? that literally makes so much sense cause let’s say he owns a ranch in the mexican countryside and it’s far away from people so he can keep you safe and you both own a fuck ton of land and take evening trail rides around the property and maybe y’all own a few goats and chickens and it’s just a nice happy farm family 🫶🏻🫶🏻 -‼️

My headcanon is that Las Almas is actually Guanajuato or close by. Maybe, he lives on Carretera A Dolores, Guanajuato or something similar. You raise animals together, and he works on the farm when he's home.

You bring him coffee, maybe atole one balmy morning. He smells of myrrh, sweat, and the sun. You hand him the glass, and he gazes at you, sweat on his brow.

His eyes are heavy with affection. (As always, as always-)

"Gracias," he says, the corner of his mouth curled up in a toothy grin. You go to walk away, back into the house. His warm hand on your wrist stops you. He motions to an upturned pail beside him when you turn. "Ven aquí, cariño. Sit with me."

You spend your days beside him as he works, talking about everything and nothing. He looks at you, and you can't imagine being anywhere else but under the Dragon fruit tree as he chases chickens around your yard. You sip agua frescas and wonder how you got so lucky.

[givehimthemedicine]

Big(ish) Analysis 4 (it's shorter than the rest I promise)

I have a huge question about gravity, mirrors, and El having seen the Upside Down prior to 1x1

you know how we have some fun in S4 playing with reversed gravity when the gang climbs through Chrissy's gate? I was like "haha, how would they have reconciled the gravity situation if the gang came out through one of the other gates in a wall?" and then I realized - none of the s4 gates were in walls.

Chrissy: ceiling. Fred: ground. Patrick: ground. Max: floor.

if Max had died in either of the places Vecna tried unsuccessfully to kill her, she still would've made another ceiling or floor gate.

Vecna only makes vertical gates. while all the gates we've ever seen previously - El's and the laser ones - were made in walls and therefore horizontal.

is that important? I think it's potentially world-endingly important.

there's sooo much mirror imagery associated with Henry, and it's no coincidence that gates act like mirrors.

imagine a mirror hanging on a wall, if you could step into it - you could walk in there just fine, the room would look backwards, but gravity would remain the same.

hang a mirror on the ceiling, though, and the room flips upside down, reversing gravity. ditto a mirror on the floor. exactly how Chrissy's gate and water gate work. I'll come back to this.

we're shown without a doubt that season 4's Upside Down is literally upside down.

but was The Upside Down upside down in 1-3?

we were given a couple of camera-rotating-upside-down shots, like when Hopper and Joyce start walking around in the UD. but there's much stronger evidence the 1-3 UD was not upside down:

when the gang climbs through the Chrissy gate in 4x7, the gravity reverse takes effect before they've even passed all the way through. Once Robin's center mass hits the midway point, she just falls the rest of the way.

compare to 1x4 and 2x2 when they show us lab guys stepping into the (horizontal) mother gate. if it was upside down in there, we should see both start to fall up before the membrane seals around them. one guy is even attached to a wire that should fly up to the top of the hole as soon as he gravity-flips in there. it never does:

we also saw El and Nancy go through demogorgon portals with no gravity reversal, and Will looking through the portal in his living room wall was rightside up.

unless someone can point out evidence that those rotating shots are more than symbolic due to the name, I'm pretty ready to say 1-3 UD was not depicted as literally gravity-reversed.

and if that's true, it leaves me with a humongous question:

if the Upside Down wasn't upside down until 1986, why did El describe it as upside down in 1983?

El wasn't the one who named The Upside Down, as I hear so often in fanon. all El said was "upside down." she wasn't saying it as a name. Mike ran with it as a name.

listen to the context of the boys' conversation before she says it. she's not interjecting "fellows, allow me to inform you that the place you're discussing is called The Upside Down™."

she just says "upside down" while they're listing adjectives Will had said (cold, dark, empty). her vocabulary is very limited and very literal. she's adding to the description of the place, not naming it.

if she knows what it looks like, it means she's seen it.

the only parade-raining-on answer I can think of is if El's remote viewing somehow shows her that stuff in the UD is flipped. but there was no gravity issue shown when she visited Will and Barb in the UD in the void, so I kinda feel like not? and she can't be referring to the '79 gate because she didn't see through it, and doesn't remember that anyway.

either by piggybacking, time fuckery wherein young El saw the future or past, or by the existence of another gate we don't know about... something... this kid has clearly seen more than we know.

maybe the gravity reverse is key to taking over other worlds

Vecna's 4 gates join, making one humongous X shaped gate into this gravity-reversed world. X gate will undoubtedly want to keep spreading like the mother gate did. what happens to two opposite-gravity worlds when the gate connecting them spreads so big that there's not enough separating them? at some point it will all just *CRUNCH*.

sounds like a great way for one dimension to take over another, no? to absorb it, like Henry absorbing his victims?

Brenner explains it pretty plainly (btw how does he already know this?🤨)

you know all those floating rocks in the yellow UD wasteland? gravity's screwy in there, apparently. it reminds me of the debris of one shattered planet orbiting another after a collision.

is the yellow UD a serial dimension-eater, and those rocks are the remains of whatever other other world it most recently absorbed?

what if that mirrored double-horizon red hellscape was something to do with those two worlds in the process of colliding? and then the yellow-floating-rocks wasteland is the result? we aren't given much idea of how much time passed in between.

utterly spitballing here, absolutely not a hill I'm dying on, but:

what if the wasteland/hellscape UD and UD Hawkins are in fact not the same place remodeled, but two (or three?) worlds or dimensions or whatever that both exist concurrently with RU Hawkins (in addition to however many more, theoretically).

if these are all separate places, theoretically that means you could open gates between any or all combinations of them.

what if you could have a gate open between UD and RU Hawkins (mother gate), AND a gate open between yellow UD and RU Hawkins (Rainbow gate), AND a gate open between yellow UD and UD Hawkins (theoretical gate through which the Mind Flayer got from yellow UD to UD Hawkins. I think it could do that; we saw it reach through the gate to try to get El)

and if all three such gates were open at the same time... could dimension 1 sort of reach through dimension 2 and grab dimension 3 and try to pull it through like a crochet hook?

more about gates and gravity

the 4 UD map must have to wrap around like an Escher drawing to connect gates sandwiching the RU into one single "map" - and I know this is fiction and to a certain degree we just have to play along.

but s4 clearly demonstrated that watergate and Chrissygate connected to the same "map," and so, presumably, did the others. if all these gates lead to the same place, does it make sense to have some gravity flip and others not?

here's all known gates, separated by "batches" to posit that once an initial gate is opened, all the other ones that open at the same time seem to obey the gravity established by it.

Rainbow (Sep 8, '79): horizontal (to be fair, I don't know wtf to call the gravity situation in there.) - Mother (Nov 6, '83 - Nov 5, '84): horizontal. demonstrably rightside up. Classroom (Nov 12, '83): horizontal. probably rightside up. Russia (June 28, '84): horizontal. probably rightside up. - Starcourt (June 28-July 4, '85): horizontal. probably rightside up. - Chrissy (Mar 21, '86): vertical. demonstrably upside down. Fred (whatever. you get it): vertical. probably upside down. Patrick: vertical. demonstrably upside down. Max: vertical. probably upside down.

we haven't been shown normal-gravity and reversed-gravity gates open at the same time.

is this evidence that gravity stays consistent with whichever way the initial gate establishes it? or, evidence of 1-3 UD Hawkins not being the same one as 4 at all? I know some of you think this already and I'd love to hear more evidence on that.

a final crackpot idea to wrap this up - help me on with my straitjacket -

pondering the idea of piggybacking, or time/memory fuckery enabling El to have seen an upside down Upside Down somehow before 1x1.

when have we seen an event in the past that, every other time it happened, created a vertical gate?

and we know gates leave scars. and I know this ceiling is all cracked by '86 just for disrepair reasons but.. (this shot conveniently doesn't show us the exact spot where Virginia died, or "died", but you see my idea)

and you know how gravity is also screwy in the mind lair version of the Creel house, looking like it's in the process of exploding? almost like a mind-gate is spreading and destroying it outwards. I wonder what the origin point could be?

anyway the part of this post I'm really interested in is the El part, so please talk to me about that. the end!

[thepatronsaintoffilth]

Hello, rereading anon here again,

Spoilers again hehe,

I would kill to see an alternate timeline where she does try to leave, (this is chapter 4 I believe? When he’s off doing his sabbatical) and gets pretty far too, only to find that he’s been on her heels for awhile and will drag her back kicking and screaming and,,, other things lol

And I mean it in a ‘I’m not actually asking for a fic I’m mainly just daydreaming’ way ofc but that just shows how good your writing is 💕

Oh, you won't have to rely on an alternate timeline for this one, anon 😊I've framed reader as a wanderer/nomad, after all. Plus she's very skittish, so it's inevitable that she'll try to run.

It's only a matter of when, why and (maybe) how.

❣️Saint

[cosmos-coma]

Hello My Old Heart- Part 1

A/N: So... I had a hard heartbreak this past summer. and this was after closing myself off for quite a while from things like this, so this fic is a labor of love to myself. As the title alludes to, this is overall based on the song ‘Hello my old heart’ by the Oh Hellos (which I strongly recommend).

Pairing: Eskel x Reader

Warnings: blood (nothing outside of canon level), fem!reader,

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: You’re a retired sorceress who has finally settled down outside of the blue mountains where you made your living as a local healer. Your heart has become tired over the many years of your life. The endless emotional blows have forced you to build large walls around your heart. But that day... that day someone came and cracked your walls

____________________________________________

You are a Sorceress, well- you used to be at least; you mainly operated as a local healer now. 

You had moved to the northern reaches of the realm when you retired your services and settled into a little cottage situated between several small towns and the Blue mountains not far in the distance. Though not continuously ravaged by war like many areas in the lower continent, these people were still in need of both medicine and coin.

That morning came to you quietly; your chickens clucked amongst themselves as you let them out and the sheep followed suit. The grass and clovers bowed softly at your footfalls as you traveled about your property, performing your morning chores.

The ever-growing sun slowly warmed your skin as you moved then to the edge of your garden bed gathering herbs, flowers, and roots for your upcoming orders that day. Out of nowhere, you felt a forceful tug on the hem of your dress and you couldn't help but laugh. “Sweetheart…” you coo’d with a smile, turning to the young lamb nibbling and tugging at your clothes. “You’re a handful, Ivy….” Shaking your head you pulled her up onto your lap so she wouldn't cause any more trouble as you worked. 

Once your morning chores were mostly taken care of Ivy followed you inside to sit on your comfiest chair while you prepared breakfast. Most of the morning was normal; your regulars came by, along with a few fresh faces, but it was almost noon when your day- and life- took a turn. For the better or the worst, you had yet to decide.

The heat of the day loomed overhead and a long lull drew out your workday when a broad and bloodied man came stumbling in your door. 

“Are you- are you a healer?” He grunted out, doubled over in pain as his hand clutched his stomach and blood dripped down past his fingers. 

Your shock stilled you for half a second before you rushed to his side. “Yes, Yes, Here. Lay down here...” Quickly, and with a hand on his shoulder, you guided him to the guest bed and laid him down quickly. 

“Ran out of potions…. What an Idiot” he muttered to himself as he laid back, a hint of pain flashing over his face as he tried to settle down. He grunted in mild protest as you moved him about to untie his armor. His golden yellow eyes watched your face with both clear need and clear caution as you began to get to work. 

“Happens to the best of us, Witcher…” You offered him a small smile as you placed the damaged armor aside and lifted his shirt to look over your work area. “Fuck…” you whispered and turned around to grab a few things. It looked as if something tried to gut him, not even counting the rest of the claw-like scratches covering his arms and legs. 

The short laugh that came in response from him surprised you- not for its deep warm rumble, but for the lightness it made you feel in such a tense situation. 

“That bad, huh?” he asked, glancing down at you with a small smile that tugged at his scarred lips. 

“Well, I won’t lie… But let’s just say you're lucky to be a Witcher. Can’t imagine anyone else surviving something like this…” you trailed off in a concentrated mumble as you began to dive into your work. 

You could feel the Witcher’s eyes watching you with a certain curiosity and softness as you worked on him. Magic streamed down your arms to your fingertips as you pressed your hand to his bloodied skin, healing the most urgent injuries and trying to offer a little pain relief. You weren't really sure how much pain Witcher’s felt, but you figured it could only help. 

Eskel wasn’t sure if it was your magic, or simply your touch that sent a jolt through his body. It was a warm sensation that swam down each limb and digit, somehow both electrifying and relaxing his every nerve. 

You toiled away with an expression of such concentration and commitment that he couldn't help but watch. Your long fingers worked with expertise as you stitched up the open wounds and your brows drawn together in full focus. 

“Like what you’re looking at, Witcher?” You asked and finally turned to catch his eyes.

Your eyes held glowing compassion and softness that  Eskel had not seen in a long time. But he could only catch a mere glimpse before he was closed off by the cold stone walls you put before it.  Despite the walls, he still felt that jolt again and he knew this time that it was no magic; it was just you. 

“Well, I won't lie…” He started, laughing a bit at his own jest. “They call me Eskel.” He rumbled out and followed with a warm smile, something your own expression couldn't help but reflect. 

You snorted out a bit of a  laugh and nodded, putting down the final bandage before wiping your hands on your already dirtied dress. “They call me Y/n, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Alright, Eskel- it looks like you're all patched up now, but you’ll need to sleep off some of that blood loss, okay?” You stood to grab a blanket for your guest, but it seems he had other plans. 

“I’ll be fine. I should get back out there anyways…” He began to sit up, ignoring your advice and going to grab his things. 

“Hey-” you said shortly, holding a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “you're going to pop your stitches going back out there so fast. Lay down, okay?” 

“Y/n, It’ll be okay. I’m a Witcher-” He started, but didn't have the chance to finish his full thought before you placed your hand on his chest.

“I said rest, Eskel…” your hand grew warm with magic as you firmly but gently pushed him back, suggesting his body into sleep- not unlike using Axii. His body grew limp with little resistance and soon was fast asleep against the pillow.

“I hate doing that…” You sighed. You abhorred forcing patients to sleep, but knew sometimes it was for the best- and Witchers were almost always too rowdy to stay still of their own accord. 

With a soft sigh to blow the hair out of your eyes, you cleaned up your area and got the large man a blanket. Coming over once again, you took a moment to pause and really look over your patient.

His face was… well he was actually rather handsome. His cheek was pulled tight by scars that ran from his eye to his mouth, pulling his lips up in what some might think looked like a sneer, but to you, it looked almost like a permanent little smile. Your hand reached out unconsciously to run your thumb across the long scar on his chin, sending its own wave of warmth through your body now that you weren't clouded by the urgency of the situation.

You ripped your hand back as the wave of feeling reached your heart. From the outside, it might have looked as if you were being burned, but you knew it as a whole other type of pain. 

You had closed off your old heart long ago, built tall stone walls around it so that no one could see inside. You were tired- tired of being hurt every time you gave your heart away, every time you tried to let someone inside. 

‘It’s not your fault, it's me.’

‘ it just wasn't meant to be.’

‘I just can't give you what you deserve.’

You despised that last one and just thinking about it made your teeth grind. But you just… you couldn’t do it again- hell, you didn’t want to do it again. It always ended the same anyways. Eventually, Eskel would leave and he would forget about you and the small towns out here and life would move on like normal. 

Yes, Eskel’s touch had cracked the foundations surrounding your heart, but those walls can be fixed with time. 

All things can.

_______________________________

Taglist: @writingmysanity @open--till--midnight

(wanna be added to the taglist? taken off? no worries! just DM me and let me know!)

[lilacevans]

can’t stop thinking about vampire ari chasing you around his manor, having too much fun with the sound of your desperate cries and whines after you try locked door after locked door. maybe he’ll keep you forever. 🫠🫠🫠

[wander-over-the-words]

I've said it before, I'll say it again (multiple times):

I fucking love writing scenes where Delta comes running cause Sinclair is in trouble

[todayisafridaynight]

uhhh something something 'the only time a yakuza should laugh with his teeth is when he's with family or in trouble' something something arakawa gradually doing so more and more when hanging around jo something something Uh Oh™️

[katya-goncharov]

i wonder if it's an adhd thing that even though i read a massive amount of books, definitely more than the average person, i absolutely can't handle books with small font