#sometimes i forget ember's last name

[alohajix]

꒰ masterlist ꒱

— a quiet collection of stories told in soft sighs, messy hearts, and lingering touches.

| “give me all of your love, give me something to dream about…”

stories spun from daydreams and midnight thoughts—organized below.

————————————————————————————————

Yep, I caved. Made a taglist. Wanna be spoiled with fresh filth (or fluff)? Say the magic words and I’ll add you like the VIP you are.

🔥= smut | ☁️ = fluff | 💔 = angst | 🎭 = drama

✧ SERIES

stories that stretch across time — unfolding slow like honey.

• When You’re Ready 🔥☁️💔🎭 (on hold)

“Healing isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it sounds like a little girl’s laughter, a quiet classroom, or a man learning to hope again.”

In the quiet town of Holmes Chapel, Amara—a gentle, nurturing kindergarten teacher—lives a life built on routine, safety, and quiet strength. She’s not looking for love, especially not after the scars left behind by someone she’d rather forget.

But when Harry Styles walks into her classroom carrying his three-year-old daughter and a heart still grieving the loss of the woman he loved, everything changes. Neither of them is ready. Neither of them is looking.

But sometimes, the people who change your life don’t knock first. They just… show up.

↳ Part One

↳ Part Two

↳ Part Three

✧ MINI–SERIES

a little more than just one chapter.

• No Strings… Right? 🔥☁️💔🎭 (ongoing)

It was supposed to be one night—just sex, no feelings, no consequences. But the second Harry touched me, I knew I was lying. He’s my brother’s best friend. Off-limits. Dangerous. But he fucks me like he owns me, whispers things I’m not supposed to hear, and looks at me like I’m already his.

We said no strings. But we’re tangled in every way that matters.

↳ Just This Once

↳ It’s Just Sex

↳ I Can’t Lose You

↳ "You're Fucking Harry?"

✧ ONE–SHOTS

single nights. stolen moments. stories that begin and end with a touch.

• Just Like That 🔥☁️ (Word: 4K)

When Emma meets Harry—a charming, British bartender—on a night out in New York City, their instant connection lingers long after the music fades. A few days later, one simple text turns into a date neither of them can forget. What starts with soft conversation and lingering looks quickly builds into something deeper, more electric… and maybe even real.

• First Time for Everything 🔥 (Word: 6.2K)

When Nora finds out her best friend Harry makes adult content, curiosity turns into something much more. One video leads to another, and soon they’re filming, posting, and falling into something hotter—and deeper—than either of them expected.

• Until I Break 🔥 (Word: 5.5K)

When Ember comes home from college, the last person she expects to fall for is her brother’s best friend. But one stolen kiss turns into something neither of them can walk away from.

• Room 1014 🔥(Word: 12K)

Freshly single and craving something reckless, Cassie meets a soft-spoken stranger in a hotel lobby. One look turns into one night—filthy words, slow touches, and a room she might never want to leave.

• The Casting Tape 🔥 (Word: 7K)

She said she wasn’t nervous. She said she'd never done this before. But then he walked in—and made her forget every lie she told herself.

↳ Off the Record 🔥🎭 (Word: 5K)

A few days after her first casting, she gets a message. No name. No warning. Just an invitation to watch the tape back—with him. But this time, there’s no crew. No red light. No director calling the shots. Just the two of them, a couch, and everything they left unsaid.

• Late Shift Lust 🔥(Word: 6K)

Working the late shift at a nearly empty diner isn’t glamorous—but it pays the bills. Savannah’s used to the quiet, the tired regulars, and the occasional flirt. But when a tattooed stranger with a slow smile walks in after midnight, the tension builds fast and burns hot. One cup of bitter coffee turns into a filthy, unforgettable encounter behind the counter.

• You Were Made for Me 🔥💔🎭 (Word: 6K)

He took me. Locked me away in a beautiful room and said I was his. Not because I asked. But because he swears I was made for him. And the worst part? I think he’s right.

• Room With a View 🔥(Word: 11K)

A luxury hotel. A secret club. A glass wall and one-way invitation. I came to watch—until he looked right at me and walked into my room without asking. Now my hands are tied, my body’s on display, and he’s fucking me like everyone’s watching—because they are.

• The Interview 🔥(Word: 2.3K)

A late-night interview with Harry Styles turns into a game of control, filthy whispers, and desk-fucking in a locked studio where the mics are off—but the heat’s just getting started. (Words: 2.3K)

• Private Lessons 🔥(Word: 7K)

When I show up at his door with a college essay and a short skirt, I tell myself it’s just for feedback. But Mr. Styles isn’t my teacher anymore—and the moment his hands find my skin, it’s clear we’re both done pretending.

↳ Private Lessons [2] 🔥☁️ (Word: 8.9K)

Four days after their first night together, she shows up on Harry’s doorstep again—no excuse, no plan, just the memory of what he said and the weight of everything she’s still craving. But this time, he doesn’t hold back. He pushes her to the edge—ties her wrists, makes her beg, and shows her exactly what it means to be wanted too much.

• All Night Celebration 🔥 (Word: 2.2K)

You meet Calum Hood for the first time at the 5SOS5 afterparty. You weren’t expecting his attention. You weren’t expecting Harry to offer you up. And you definitely weren’t expecting both of them to ruin you upstairs before the night is over.

✧ requests

written just for you — born from curious minds and quiet whispers.

• Say My Name 🔥(Word: 8K)

Based on this request. You’re new on the tour’s sound crew—professional, focused, and definitely not interested in falling for Harry Styles. But Harry? He takes one look at you and decides you’re his new favorite game. He calls you “new girl,” taunts you during sound check, and won’t learn your name… until you snap. And when the tension finally breaks? It’s filthy, rough, and everything you didn’t know you needed. Turns out, Harry’s mouth isn’t just good at running—it’s good at ruining you, too.

• Shhh… They’ll Hear Us 🔥(Word: 4.4K)

Based on this request. I wasn’t supposed to be here again. He wasn’t supposed to notice. But when Harry pulls me onto his tour bus after the show, things get filthy fast—and staying quiet is the one thing he can’t do.

• Sir, Yes Ma'am 🔥(Word: 5K)

Based on this request. He’s my bodyguard—tall, strong, and always in control. Until the door closes behind us. Then he kneels. He begs. And he takes everything I give him. He lives to be used, to be praised, to be ruined—just for me. And tonight, I don’t plan on going easy.

• The Note ☁️ (Word: 4.5K)

Based on this request. You used to write “Mrs. Y/N Styles” in pink gel pen, convinced you’d marry your celebrity crush one day. It was harmless, teenage daydreaming—until it wasn’t. Years later, standing across from Harry Styles on your wedding day, you find out he’s known about that childhood fantasy all along. And somehow, he saved a piece of it for this moment.

(requests: open — feel free to drop something in my ask box)

————————————————————————————————

“so glad you’re here. hope you find something you love.” 💕

[keferon]

Let there be angst. Let Jazz's world crash and burn as he realizes the old Prowl will never be back. The frustration of caregiving for someone you love, watching them go from being fully capable to unable to even clean themselves, their body failing them even as they are forced to exist.

Can Prowl still even feel his hands? Or can he just see them, unknowing of how much pressure he is exerting with them. Have you ever woken up with your hands numb? Unable to feel them even as you flex them, clenching and clenching hoping for that rush of sensation, of warm and cold, of rough and soft. What if you knew that sensation will never come back, that you will never feel your partner gently intertwine heir hands with yours ever again.

Make it hurt as Prowl recovers. Slowly, excruciatingly. Does Prowl's body even recognize empurata as the torture it is? Or will it heal like a bone that was broken. Sometimes fractured bones will heal wrong. It's called malunion and in order to fix it the bone must be broken once again. Will Prowl need to broken again to heal?

Of course he won't ever be like the old Prowl. Mental scars run deep, deeper than his broken frame, deeper than a surgeon's scalpel will ever cut. Some scars will never disappear, never fade, always around to remind him, never letting him forget.

When he gets new hands, if he ever does, will they ache? Will they burn and freeze, shake and chip? They won't be the same afterwards, even if his old, older, hands survive and were given back to him. The scars will remind him. The suffering lack of mobility, of losing the difference between fingers and hands, palms and knuckles. There could be no blemish upon them and yet his joints are stiff, almost immobile, and no amount of doctor's visits could explain why.

Prowl will survive. No doubt about that. But isn't life more than just surviving. What about living? What about thriving?

Prowl will heal, he always does and always will. But there is something to say when a beloved picture frame is more glue and duct tape then wood. It's kept around because no one could bear parting with it.

So yes, Prowl will die. Maybe not in frame, maybe not in mind, but he will die. And there will be someone new. Someone who shares the same body, the same name, the same spark as Prowl. Maybe that being loves Jazz as Prowl oncr did. Or maybe the trauma is too much and that fragile, loving bond of romance was swept away by the wind, embers too cold to ever reignite.

Let it be a bittersweet ending, let there be pain and hurt that will be felt long after the last words are said, the last picture drawn. Let it be known that Prowl didn't walk through hell without scars.

May the sweetness of fluff burn as it is consumed, bleeding citrus on open wounds. Prowl will never be Prowl again but there is a hope, in the long distant future, that he can smile again and can feel his hands once again.

(Short version: angst and fluff please. Hurt and comfort with a bittersweet and ambigous ending. Oh, I also typed this all on my phone w/o autocorrect so I apologize if it turns out weird and words are mispelled.)

H-hey? Hey Anon? I don’t think I will ever be to recover from this.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #3

The thing about being seventeen and King of the Infinite Realms is that nobody prepares you for the paperwork.

Sure, Danny thought there’d be some responsibility when he accidentally overthrew Pariah Dark and inherited an ancient, eldritch realm full of undead beings and chaos entities. But this?

“This” being a five-hour council meeting about whether the Blob Ghost could legally marry the Ghost of a Haunted Taco Bell.

Danny slammed his forehead into the obsidian table, sighing. “Can someone remind me why this is my life again?”

Fright Knight, sitting to his left in full spectral armor, replied without missing a beat. “Because you claimed the Throne of The Infinite Realms by Rite of Spectral Conquest, my liege.”

“Right…” Danny muttered, dragging his crown—which looked less like a crown and more like an aggressive mass of bone, metal, and green flame—off his head and onto the table. “That. Cool. I love my life. I’m living my best afterlife.”

The Ghost Zone’s politics were a nightmare. The Council of Wailing Scepters argued in riddles. The Ministry of Temporal Loops wouldn’t stop trying to undo Danny’s birth “as a preventative measure.” Ember was unionizing musical ghosts. Skulker demanded hunting permits. Box Ghost somehow had diplomatic immunity.

And let’s not even talk about the Realms’ economy.

“Have you ever tried to make a tax code for entities who don’t obey time?” Clockwork once asked with a deadpan stare.

Danny had not. Danny did not want to.

And all of that was on top of being a superhero, a public figure, a full-time student at Midtown, Tony Stark’s ghost consultant intern, and, most critically, Peter Parker’s boyfriend.

The one bright spot in his entire liminal, half-dead, legally dubious existence.

Peter was the only reason Danny hadn’t exploded yet. Or accidentally declared war on Canada (long story, don’t ask). Or gotten exorcised by a rogue Vatican unit (longer story).

When Danny phased into his boyfriend’s bedroom at 2:43AM wearing royal armor, covered in ghost slime, with a ghost octopus clinging to his leg screaming, “LONG LIVE THE GHOST KING,” Peter didn’t even blink.

He just put his book down and said, “Do you want hot chocolate or a sedative?”

“Both.” Danny croaked.

“Got you.” Peter said, already moving toward the mini kitchen.

Danny melted into the couch, dropping his crown on the floor. It rolled slightly, then hissed at the furniture. He kicked it under the table.

“I hate everyone.” He muttered. “The fire ghosts are trying to annex the Library of Screams again, the Spectral Senate is debating if time travelers have souls, and a councilwoman called me a fleshling with trauma issues.”

“Well,” Peter called out gently from the kitchen, “she’s not wrong.”

“Peter.”

“I’m just saying. You did try to punch Death last week.”

Danny groaned. “It was a misunderstanding!”

“You called them a dusty crypt bitch.”

“They insulted my hoodie!”

Peter returned, holding two mugs. He handed one to Danny, kissed his forehead, then sat beside him.

Danny leaned heavily against him.

Peter didn’t complain.

“Y’know,” Danny said after a moment, sipping his cocoa, “sometimes I forget I’m still seventeen.”

Peter chuckled. “Babe. You’re seventeen, King of a spectral empire, on the Avengers’ emergency contact list, and still get detention for being late to gym. You’re living like six lives at once.”

“I died once,” Danny muttered. “That should’ve been enough.”

Between ghost attacks, council drama, interdimensional skirmishes, and Midtown High exams, Danny hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since… well, since before dying.

The living world had opinions too. America couldn’t decide if he should be considered a minor, a sovereign leader, or a health hazard. International ghost regulations were passed in his name. He had diplomatic immunity in over a human countries and was banned from a hundred others. There was a conspiracy subreddit entirely dedicated to the theory that he was an alien hybrid bred by the government to replace the Queen of England.

Danny’s response to that was, “Do I look like I want to colonize anything?”

He still had math homework due tomorrow.

Sometimes he phased into the UN to yell at their Interdimensional Defense Committee. Sometimes he missed bio class because a ghost war broke out on the edge of the Dreaming Isles and he had to teleport to stop Nocturne from invading people’s nightmares.

Sometimes, Peter would find him sitting on the floor of their shared dorm shower, still glowing, muttering, “I am the King of Everything and Nothing and I can’t figure out mitochondria.”

“I’ll tutor you,” Peter always offered. “And also get you a nap and a cookie.”

Peter was… everything.

Unflinchingly patient. Wickedly smart. Constantly worried.

He patched up Danny’s wounds, whispered jokes during council meetings when Danny looked five seconds from screaming, brought extra snacks when Danny forgot to eat.

He held Danny after Danny woke up screaming from ghost-fueled nightmares.

And when the burden got too heavy—when Danny stood on the balcony of his palace in the Infinite Realms, overlooking a kingdom of madness and memory, time fractals and ghosts whispering in languages lost to the living—and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Peter kissed his knuckles and said, “Then I’ll do it with you.”

The other ghosts hated it.

A human, dating the King? Scandalous. Blasphemous. Soft.

Danny told them all to choke.

Peter? Peter told them to submit a formal complaint in triplicate and then kissed Danny in front of them just to be petty.

They ruled together, in a way. Danny signed the decrees. Peter corrected the grammar. Danny banished tyrants. Peter took notes and organized his calendar. Danny fought for peace. Peter made sure he didn’t forget who he was fighting for.

Once, Clockwork pulled Peter aside and said, “He will burn out without you.”

Peter just nodded. “I know.”

And yet, through all the madness, they found joy.

Danny giving Peter flying lessons. Peter webbing Danny’s locker shut as a prank. The two of them building a spectral stabilizer out of Tony’s spare tech, laughing hysterically when it turned the floor into a trampoline.

They shared ghost patrols, movie nights, star-watching on top of the Empire State Building.

Peter calling Danny “Your Majesty” in a ridiculous accent until Danny threatened to drop him into a lava lake.

Danny threatening international leaders by day and then cuddling with Peter by night, wearing fuzzy socks and a hoodie that said “Half-Dead, Fully Tired.”

Sometimes, Danny just stared at him. In awe.

Peter, who knew the truth. All of it. The weight. The loss. The terrifying power clawing beneath Danny’s skin. The fact that Danny was the anchor between dimensions, balancing the afterlife and reality like a tired high schooler with PTSD and ghost fire.

And still loved him.

Still said, “You’re doing great.”

Still held him when it all came crashing down.

The Realms called Danny a King.

To Peter, he was just Danny.

Sometimes, that was all Danny needed to be okay.

Just… Danny. Human. Ghost. Hero. Boyfriend.

King of the Infinite Realms, sure. But also a seventeen-year-old who just wanted to pass his math test, kiss his boyfriend, and maybe get five hours of sleep.

With Peter by his side?

He could do it all.

Even the haunted Taco Bell marriage negotiations.

[nova-is-a-writer-now]

Hidden embers

Chapter 3

Chapter summary: Joel needs help with his yard, you need help with figuring your feelings out

A/N: Im so excited you guys have been liking this!! last chapter was a good one, but this is my favorite so far. I also started a tag list so if y’all want to be part of that comment down here <3 Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: No outbreak AU, Age gap, DBF!Joel, Mean!Joel if you squint, some accidental physical contact lol, sexual tension but no smut

Series masterlist

“You can’t spend your whole summer doing nothing. You should really find something productive to do while you’re back home.”

Four years of college, every summer break, and most holidays spent working to cover tuition and other expenses—a lifetime of never catching a break until now—and that’s what your mother tells you after just two weeks of "doing nothing"?

You knew this was coming. It was only a matter of time before she decided to insert herself into your life and dictate your every move. It’s nothing you haven’t dealt with before. “I’ve been helping out around the house,” you say, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “that’s not what I meant. You can’t be locked up in here all day. People will think you’re wasting your life away. I’ve been asking around at the town’s pageant commission, and they would be absolutely delighted to have you around to help us organize this year’s Teen Country Queen Pageant.”

There it was. Nothing your mother did was ever for anyone’s interests other than herself. If she had no interest in parading you around her pageant organizer friends, you were absolutely sure she couldn’t care less what you did with your days.

Right on cue, just before you’re about to give her a piece of your mind, your dad walks in. “What’s the long face for?”

“Oh, Hank, great! You can back me up here. I was telling her she needs to find something to do with her days. All this lazing around can’t be good for her. My friends at the—”

“Actually, I was thinking the exact same thing,” your dad says, surprising both of you.

“Really?” you ask incredulously. For all his flaws, your dad has never been one to meddle in your affairs.

“Yeah, Joel has been complaining about his front and back yard looking like shit since Cindy left.”

“Hank! Language!” your mom’s voice rises to that ear-shattering pitch she uses when she’s trying to be stern.

“Sorry, looking terrible since Cindy left,” your dad corrects himself, laughing it off. Sometimes he forgets he can only be that relaxed when he’s alone with you; your mom is a whole different ballgame.

“Um… Cindy?” you ask, drawing a blank on the name.

“The ex-wife. That’s not the point, kiddo. The point is he’s been whining about it for the longest time but is always too lazy to figure out gardening by himself. Then I remembered you were in the gardening club back in high school. It’d be nice of you to offer him some help. Poor man doesn't know how to keep a cactus alive.”

“Dad, that was ages ago. I don’t know if I remember much of it anyway. I only joined for my college applications,” you retort.

“It’s just a few plants and flowers here and there. How hard can it be? He even said he bought everything he should need for it but never got ‘round to actually doing it, so it’s all laid out for ya.”

Your choices were clear: spend however long it took to finish Joel’s yard while pretending you don’t have a massive crush on your dad’s best friend, or run around town with your mom organizing a beauty pageant. The decision wasn’t hard at all.

“I’ll go over and check it out.”

The walk to Joel’s house should’ve been short—barely a five-minute stroll up the road—but a nasty crack in the pavement had other plans. You were so lost in your thoughts today that you missed it entirely, stepping right into the trap.

Alright, maybe it wasn’t just today. You’ve been in your head ever since you first saw Joel standing at the bottom of your stairs. The way his hands had gripped your arms, steadying you, had left an imprint that you couldn’t seem to shake. And now, here you were, back in that same position, your mind consumed by this man who seemed to be as bad for your sanity as he was for your attention span.

So what should’ve been a walk up the road turned into a drawn-out pause as you sat on the sidewalk, waiting for the sharp pain in your twisted ankle to dull.

About ten minutes later, you finally make it to Joel’s lawn. You brace yourself to climb his porch stairs, pretending your ankle wasn’t bothering you, when you notice his garage door open. You hadn’t seen him from your previous angle, but as you got closer, the view of Joel's back muscles came into frame. And what a view that was. He was leaning over his truck, completely absorbed on whatever needed fixing under that hood.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the way his shirt clings to the sweat glistening on his skin. It takes a few seconds to remember that it isn’t socially acceptable to ogle someone from their front lawn, so you clear your throat and take a few more steps toward him.

“Hey” he greeted you, looking up from his work.

“Hey, yourself” you say back, playing it as cool as you could. It wasn’t a particularly hot day, but Joel's face glisten with sweat, as do his arms and you don’t not even want to think about what’s going on under that t-shirt.

“Come to pay me a visit?” he asked with a smirk

“My dad didn’t tell you? I’m your gardener for the day… or however long it takes to make your front lawn and back yard all pretty.”

Joel’s response is a breathy laugh, followed by him dropping his head between his forearms resting on the truck.“My gardener, huh?” he finally brings his eyes back up to meet yours. “Your daddy don’t know how to mind his own business, do he, sweetheart?”

Let’s unpack that. This man didn’t just throw in a new pet name you’d be replaying in your mind at any random moment of the day, but he also said it in that tone he seems to reserve only for you—or so you hoped, at least.

And that other word coming from his lips… you were aware people in the south used it more casually, without the connotation it had in your mind, but the way it sounded coming from him…

Oh, it made you think of a million ways Joel Miller could say the word Daddy in plenty of different contexts.

You quickly drop your gaze, hoping to hide the intense blush creeping up your cheeks. “I uh… I’m afraid not.”

The sound of his boots on the garage floor pulls you back to reality as he steps closer. “You don’t gotta do this, y’know?” His tone shifts, becoming more serious. “It’s no big deal, I’ll get to this mess eventually.”

You look up at him once again, more desperate than you’d like to admit. “Joel, I’ve been cooped up in my house with my mother and her pageant friends for weeks now. Please, give me an excuse to be anywhere else.”

A chuckle. You could live for those, make it your entire profession to earn them. You really need to calm the fuck down and get a grip if you are to spend the entire day around this man.

“Alright, then. If it’ll make you happy, I’m not gonna say no” says before turning back into the garage. He returns with a small crate filled with gardening tools and a few potted plants, setting them down on the grass. “Got most of what you’ll need here. Not much, but it’s a start.” His gaze drops to your ankle. “You doin’ alright? You’re limping.”

You wave off his concern, not wanting to admit just how much your ankle is actually bothering you. “It’s nothing, just a little misstep on my way here . I’m fine, really.” You flash him a smile you hope is convincing enough.

Joel studies you for a moment longer, then nods. “Alright, but if it gets to be too much, you let me know, okay? Last thing I need is you hurtin’ yourself on my account.”

“Deal,” you lie. There’s no way in hell you’re backing out of this now.

He gestures toward the mess of overgrown grass, weeds, and flower beds that haven’t seen attention in who knows how long. “I guess that’s the worst of it. Clearing out the weeds should leave enough space for these plants. Don’t overthink it, I trust your instincts.”

You take your first good look at the pots he brought from the back of the garage. “Oh, daisies! They’re my favorite.” You glance up at him, sweetness lacing your tone.

He pauses, something unreadable passing over his face. “ ‘Course they are.” He says, the corners of his mouth tugging up a bit. “Well, let me know if you need anything else. I'll be working over there.”

With Joel back under the hood, you set to work on the lawn. Despite the dull throb in your ankle, you find a steady rhythm in the repetitive motions—pulling out stubborn roots, digging small holes for the flowers, and patting down the soil around them. It’s oddly satisfying, watching the neglected garden start to come to life under your hands. You’ve always had a knack for taking rugged things and making them pretty.

Every so often, you glance over at Joel, who’s completely engrossed in whatever he’s tinkering with under the hood. The way his muscles flex as he works, the concentration etched on his face and how it makes him look a lot more serious than he ever is when talking to you—it’s hard to not get distracted.

There’s something about him, something that pulls you in despite your better judgment, despite every self-preservation instinct in you. Maybe it’s the way he makes you feel grounded, even when your mind is spinning out of control. It’s such a foreign concept for you, you’ve always been the one who has to defuse tensions, be the bigger person, manage the chaos. It’s never like that with Joel.

You’re careful to keep your ankle steady, not wanting to give Joel any more reason to worry. But as the hours pass and the sun climbs higher, you can feel the strain starting to build. Ever the overachiever, you push through it, there isn’t much left to get done in the front lawn anyway.

By the time you’ve planted the last of the daisies, you’re more than a little proud of yourself. There are still a few bare spots here and there and a handful of marigold pots waiting to be planted, but the lawn is starting to look less like a jungle and more like somewhere you’d actually want to spend time in. You wipe your brow, satisfied.

Joel must’ve noticed you slowing down because he calls out from where he’s working, “How’re you holding up? You thirsty?”

You hadn’t realized how parched you were until he mentioned it. “Yeah, a drink sounds good.”

Joel gives you a quick once-over, his eyes lingering on your ankle for a moment longer than you’d like. But he doesn’t say anything as he leads the way into the house, holding the door open for you.

The cool air inside is a welcome relief from the midday sun, and you sigh as you step into the kitchen. Joel pulls a couple of glasses from the cupboard and fills them with ice water, handing one to you. You take a sip, feeling the cold liquid soothe your dry throat.

You lean against the counter, trying to take some weight off your bad ankle. But as soon as you shift your weight, a sharp pain shoots up your leg, and you can’t hold back the small whine that escapes your lips.

Joel’s eyes snap to yours, his brow furrowing with concern. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, Joel. I’m fine,” you insist, even though you know you’re not fooling him. “It’s just—”

“ ‘S that why you’re whining every time you put weight on it?”

“It’s just a bit sore. Don’t—”

Before you can finish, Joel’s on you in a flash, closing the distance between you. He’s careful but firm as he lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the kitchen counter. “Let me see.”

“Joel, really, it’s not a big deal,” you start to protest, but the look he gives you silences any argument you might have had.

“Humor me,” he says, his voice low and steady. There’s a note of authority there that makes your heart race. There’s no disobeying him when he uses that tone.

You sigh dramatically, letting him gently take your injured ankle in his hands. His touch is warm, and the way his fingers graze your skin sends shivers down your spine. He inspects your ankle with a seriousness that makes your heart flutter, his brows knitted in concentration.

“This is more than a ‘little misstep,’” he looks back up, his eyes stern and serious. He slowly drops your leg, turning back to reach into the freezer and pull out a pack of frozen peas. He presses it against your ankle, holding it there with one hand while his other hand lingers on your calf.

It doesn’t take long for his thumb to start brushing up and down in a way that feels more comforting than it should. He starts adding a little pressure to his touch, the lingering touch from before turning into a massage up and down your calf.

Your breath catches as you look down at him, the way he’s so focused on taking care of you. The tenderness in his touch is at odds with the roughness of his hands, and the combination is making it hard to think straight. It’s even harder to keep the little sounds his touch arises in you contained, some of them escaping out of your parted lips despite your best efforts.

“Joel,” you start, your voice softer now, almost hesitant.

He looks up at you, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. His hand is still on your leg, his face overtaken by a dark expression you hadn’t seen on him until now.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The air between you feels charged, like something unspoken is hovering just out of reach. You can feel it in the way his grip on your leg tightens ever so slightly, in the way his breathing seems to sync with yours.

And then, as if realizing where his hand is, Joel slowly pulls back. “I should get you back home, let you rest that ankle.”

You frown slightly, the way he spoke such a stark contrast to the tenderness of his touch still lingering on your leg. “I’m alright. I’m gonna have to be kneeling down for most of what’s left anyways, so I won’t be putting any weight on it.”

“No, it’s best if you just go. I’ll sort the lawn out later.”

The words hit you like a bucket of cold water. You’re left staring at him, confused by the sudden shift in his demeanor. Normally, your pride would keep you from asking, but something about Joel makes it impossible to let this go. “Did I… do something wrong?”

Joel pauses, his eyes softening for a split second before his expression hardens again. “No, you're fine. Thank you for your help, but I’m taking you home.”

He doesn’t leave room for discussion as he brushes past you, heading into the living room to grab his truck keys. Your chest tightens, the shame of the moment crashing down on you all at once.

Except… you didn’t do anything wrong. You weren’t the one who was running her hands up and down his body, or pulling him close and throwing him on the counter like it was nothing. He did all that. He made you feel like something more was happening, and now he’s treating you like some desperate girl who threw herself at him, needing to be ushered out of his house as quickly as possible.

The ache in your heart is quickly overshadowed by a fiery rage, building more and more with each passing second. You turn sharply in the kitchen, your mind made up as you march toward the open door leading to the garage.

“Don’t bother,” you snap, your voice cutting through the silence as you head for the exit.

“What?” Joel turns around just in time to see you storming out.

You don’t even answer him, your steps quickening even as pain shoots up your leg with every movement.

“The hell are you doin’? You can’t walk home with that busted ankle,” he calls after you, his tone much harsher than it was just moments ago.

You laugh bitterly, not bothering to look back. This man clearly doesn’t know you and your stubborn ass well enough yet. “Oh, I’ll fucking live.”

Without another word, you push through the pain, taking it one torturous step at a time. Each step feels like defiance, a middle finger to your own pride and to Joel’s sudden coldness. But it’s better this way—better to feel the sharp sting in your ankle than the dull ache in your heart. The whole way home, you curse yourself for being so goddamn stubborn, even as the fiery rage keeps you moving forward.

Tag list:

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog , @untamedheart81 , @mellymbee

[darklove9314-blog]

A Shadow in the Ember: An Azris fanfic (NSFW)

Day 4 of SJM romance week. prompt: Moving In.

Synopsis: When Azriel is forced to move in with Eris as his protection detail, things between the two of them heat up.

NSFW: Hate Sex. Dom Azriel and Sub Eris.

"You can't be serious." Azriel growled out, feeling his shadows caress him, swirling around him in anger, prepared to strike as he forced them to temper, leaning back in his seat, gesturing Rhys to continue.

His High Lord took a deep breath, recentering himself for the conversation as Feyre sat beside him, observing the conversation

"I know the situation is less than ideal-" He started as Azriel quickly cut him off.

"You call wanting me to shack up with Eris Vanserra less than ideal, it's more than that, you'd be signing his death warrant, because if that smug son of a bitch says anything to me, i will kill him."

Rhys glanced to Feyre, a silent conversation passing between the two as Azriel tried to temper his frustration. Sometimes he wished Rhys would just talk to him fae male to fae male without calling on Feyre to mediate the conversation.

"Azriel, we understand that this situation is less than desirable, and trust us when we say this was the last thing that we wanted as well, but with Beron figuring out what Eris was up to and Eris escaping within an inch of his life, well, we feel we owe it to him after all these years of working with us to at least shelter him until he can come up with his own accommodations."

Azriel glared at her, he hated how she always talked to him as if he were a child, the last time he checked he was the oldest fae in this room and she barely had a couple decades of existence to her name.

“I understand why he needs a place to stay, what I’m trying to find out is why I have to babysit him.” Azriel sneered, adding as much disdain into his voice as he possible could making Rhys stiffen.

Azriel He growled inside his mind, a warning. Azriel waved it off.

Spare me the overprotective bullshit. You know I’m not going to do anything.

Rhys sighed making Feyre glance between the two, but she knew better than to press, instead she continued with their explanation.

“Eris may be an ally, but that doesn’t mean we willingly trust him. That’s where you come in.”

Azriel lifted his eyebrow waiting for her to continue as she explained,

“You are our Shadowsinger, our spy. If you are in the same house as Eris, he may be willing to…cooperate.”

Azriel’s brow lifted,

“What makes you think he’ll cooperate with me or even trust me? Did you miss the part of the High Lord’s meeting where I almost chocked him out?”

Feyre gave him an exasperated look.

“How could I ever forget?” She mused as Rhys cut in.

“This isn’t negotiable, Azriel. We need someone to keep an eye on him.”

“Why not have Nesta and Cassian watch him then?”

“Do you really want to subject them to that?” Feyre asked as Azriel shrugged.

“It might give them a nice break from their….mating.” Azriel said as Feyre sighed.

“If you think I’m getting involved with that, you’re delusional. You’re the only one who can watch him right now.”

Azriel let out a small growl of frustration, laying back in his chair and breathing out a sigh of frustration.

“Fine. I’ll get my stuff from the house and go to the townhouse tonight.”

Appreciation welled up in Feyre as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He let her even though every muscle in his body wanted to strike, to halt that touch that he dreaded so much. It happened when anyone touched him without warning, especially his hands.

As if Feyre could see that murderous look on his gaze, she snatched her hand back as Azriel stood, Rhys stiffening, a warning in his gaze.

Azriel took a step back, composing himself as he smoothed out the wrinkles in his leathers before he said,

“I’ll get packing.”

That had happened two weeks ago, two weeks of being in that obnoxious, intolerant little shits presence, making Azriel swear he was two seconds away from wrapping his hands around the princelings throat.

He was lounging on the love seat, one that Eris had showed his disdain and disapproval of as Azriel listened to the water running, steam billowing from the washroom as Azriel crossed his arms over his chest.

Vanserra sure lived to run up his High Lord and Lady’s water bill, but seeing as how they had forced him into this, he let it be.

He smiled at the thought of Rhys receiving the bill as he heard the water shut off, the door opening as Eris emerged, making Azriel growl in frustration as he averted his gaze and growled out,

“We have towels for a reason, Eris.”

“We’re both males here, Spy master, you think that you would be used to the male anatomy by now.”

“The last thing I want to see is your dick, Vanserra, do us both a favor and get dressed.”

“Why? Jealous? Intimidated by the fact that it’s bigger than yours?”

Azriel narrowed his eyes at him, lowering his hand as he glared at the prince.

“We both know that’s not true. Now get dressed before I make you.”

Eris crossed his arms, displaying the entirety of his whole body to Azriel, making him blow out a breath. Azriel knew that Autumn Court males were cocky, but this was all too much.

Azriel stood, making his way over to the infuriating princeling as he towered over him, extending his wings as Eris glanced up at him, refusing to back down. Fine. Azriel thought, two could play at this game.

Azriel had taken males before, had found pleasure in them as much as he had females, and he had to admit, despite how much he detested Eris Vanserra, The Shadow Singer would be lying if he said Eris Vanserra wasn’t attractive,

He let his eyes roam over his body, taking in the confides of his body, the fire in those eyes and those russet locks. He wondered if those strands were as silky as he imagined.

Shaking his head, Azriel tried to clear the fantasies of Eris Vanserra underneath him from his mind, only to see that Eris had been looking at him too.

“What are you looking at Vanserra.” Azriel growled as a smug smile crossed the prince’s lips.

“Don’t play coy, Shadow Singer, I saw the desire behind your eyes.”

“Then why did you allow it, Vanserra?” He challenged expecting Eris to do a lot of things, what he had not expected was for the kiss to happen.

A deep seething hunger and hatred intertwined in that kiss. He had no idea why he let it happen, why he had continued to let it happen when he loathed this fae next to him. But the idea of having Eris underneath him, the thought of showing him just how much he loathed him felt rather enticing.

Growling, Azriel threw Eris onto the couch, his back hitting the base as his gaze simmered with all the hate he could muster.

"What are yo-"

Before he could say anything, Azriel took the binding he used to tie up his enemies out of his pocket as Eris’s eyebrows lifted.

“Kinky, but what’s the occasion?”

“Get up.” Azriel growled out expecting Eris to stay in place. To not comply with Azriel’s commands, what he didn’t expect was for Eris to rise.

He stood there, the smug smile Azriel always hated staying planted on the face, Azriel wanted to smack that look straight off.

“Your wish is my command, Shadow Singer, if you’re brave enough to take it.”

Azriel bulked at that, resenting his words. Resenting those desires that pelted him, one after another. Desires for this male. The one he had always hated ever since he had beheld that vile face.

He strode over to the princeling, tilting his head back, and smashing his lips to his, his lips punishing as he grabbed a fistful of Eris’s auburn hair. Pulling it back if he could get every inch of that lucious mouth.

He spun Eris around, pinning his back, as Azriel pressed his erection to his ass, showing him exactly what he was dealing with.

“You sure you can take all this, Princeling?” Azriel taunted, his lips firmly pressed to Eris’s ear swearing he could feel the prince shiver in response.

“I’ve taken bigger.” Eris lied. Azriel could sense it. He knew that Eris had never taken a male as big as Azriel before this, and that made him feel…intoxicating.

He briefly let go of Eris, putting some distance between the two so he could bound Eris’s hands together, making sure that his bonds were tight before he put the princeling on his knees. His cock hardening at the sight.

Azriel growled, unbuckling his leathers so his erection could spring free before he wound his hand in Eris’s hair, titling his head up roughly as Azriel rasped out,

“You want my cock so bad, Vanserra, Why don’t you choke on it.

Azriel opened Eris’s mouth, thrusting his cock all the way to the back of Eris’s throat as the prince gagged on it.

“Too big for you, Vanserra?” Azriel mocked, “if your mouth can’t even take me, why do you think you can take me?”

Even though Eris’s eyes were covered, he swore he could feel the glare underneath their as Eris stiffened, sucking on Azriel’s cock as Azriel chuckled.

“Good boy. Now show me how well that mouth of yours can take me.”

Eris weathered him as Azriel thrusted his cock in his mouth. Pulling out his length as he thrusted back in, Eris’s salvia coating his cock as he swore tears ran down Eris’s face soaking through the blindfold from the effort.

Azriel’s balls tightened, his release coming close, as he groaned out.

“Swallow every last drop.” He commanded as the first spurts of his release shot ip in Eris’s mouth. Filling it with his cum as the prince followed instruction and swallowed Azriel’s release down.

“How does it taste, Vanserra? How does the cum of a lowborn Illyrian bastard taste?”

Eris hummed swallowing every last drop Azriel gave as Azriel jerked his cock from Eris’s lips, a few droplets of his release on Eris’s chin as he lifted his head up.

“Answer me.” Azriel commanded as Eris’s voice filled his ears.

“The best I’ve ever tasted.” Eris gasped out as a low cruel laugh fell from Azriel’s lips.

“What would daddy think about that? About you on your knees in front of a lowborn Illyrian bastard. Of you sucking his cock?”

Heat blazed from Eris.

“I could give less of a shit about what my father thinks.”

“Prove it.”

Standing up, Eris carefully made his way back to the couch, bending over and placing his hands on the couch so Azriel has a clear view of his ass as Azriel swore his breath caught.

“Ruin me Shadowsinger. Make me forget every other lover I’ve taken.”

A low primal growl rose out of Azriel as he spread the princeling apart seeing him bared before him like his own personal feast, and he was ready to devour him.

spitting on his ass, Azriel made sure Eris was nice and ready for him as he pressed his hands to his bare shoulder to brace himself, before entering inside of him. Hearing the princeling moan in delight as Azriel stretched him out, making him take all of him as he grasped his throat, gentle enough not to hurt as he growled,

“There we go, look how well you take me.”

“Bastard.” Eris breathed, clenching around him as Azriel pulled out, grasping Eris’s balls and stroking his cock before he slammed back into him again, warning a strangled cry from the prince.

“Brace yourself. “ he warned, giving Eris little chance to recover as he rode the prince, Eris moaning out his name as his hands clenched the couch in front of him, the force of their conjoined bodies making the couch shake as Eris bit the couch cushions to silence himself. Azriel grasping his throat to pull him back as he growled out,

“Oh no you don’t. I want to hear you scream,”

Hearing the prince’s moans of pleasure were delicious, the princling did not fight his basic urges as he lost himself. Surrendering to Azriel as Azriel stroked his cock, not leaving any part of the princeling untouched until he felt the prince’s orgasm. His seed coating his hand as Azriel surrendered to his own orgasm filling the prince so much that it leaked out as Eris let out a primal moan. Glancing back at the Shadowsinger with a promise in his eyes. This dance was far from over between them.

Azriel slipped out of him, a cocky grin forming on his lips as he gestured to the bedroom,

“Come Shadowsinger, we have unfinished business to attend to.”

And without a moment’s hesitation, Azriel followed him, wanting nothing but more from the Prince.

@sjmromanceweek

[emeraldscript]

lestappen, 800 words, wip snippet (max is racing, charles is not. they collide anyway on charles's interrailing gap year)

Barcelona, 2016

“Charles? Leclerc,’’ asks the other man. Oh god, he knows that voice, that accent, the slight lisp when he says his name. He’s heard it up and down every karting track in Europe, in the paddock, in muddy parking lots and on the podiums they used to share. When Charles beat him or he beat Charles. In a different life. 

“Max? What are you doing here?’’ asks Charles, straightening up from where he’s leaning on his elbow, searching Max’s face. Trying to pinpoint where he’s changed and where he’s still the same. 

“Me? Pre-season testing, of course. We just finished the second session.’’ 

“Ah of course, testing.’’ Charles responds, going for a smile but it must look more like a grimace, judging by the way his cheek muscles are straining. How could he forget. Formula 1 doesn’t just stop, even though for him it might as well have. It stopped for him when he gave up on his dream. Stopped with-. No. Charles shakes his head, trying to stop the train of thought. 

Max turns back to the bar, scoops up his drink and hands Charles the other. A smile blooms on Max’s face, the one he only used to wear on the top step when they were kids, eyes crinkling in the corners, making all the blue disappear. 

“Come up to the booth with me. I haven’t seen you in so long! I can introduce you to everyone.’’ Before Charles can protest, Max circles his wrist with his free hand, fingers curling around the bracelet Charles is wearing, pulling him towards the other side of the dance floor. 

Max weaves his way through the crowd, arm outstretched behind him, three fingers still curled around Charles’s wrist. Charles tries not to think about the heat seeping into his skin from the point of contact, up his arm.

“Max, Max wait, hold on!’’ exclaims Charles, pulling on Max’s hand. Max turns around, head tilting slowly to the side.

“What’s wrong?’’ asks Max.

“Not here,’’ says Charles, pointing his head towards the back exit. Nodding, Max changes course.

Max pushes the backdoor open and the cold night air hits Charles like a bucket of ice water. He suddenly feels almost sober again. There are only a couple people out here, huddled around the single high table topped with an ashtray in the corner. Max pulls Charles underneath one of the lamps by the wall. The door falls shut behind them, leaving only the dull thud of the bass to reverberate around them.

“You feeling okay?’’ asks Max.

“Yeah, sorry about that,’’ says Charles, exhaling. He pulls his hand out of Max’s grasp. It makes him feel even colder. 

To distract himself from whatever that was, he sets his drink down and pats around his jeans to locate his pack of Marlboros. He eventually finds them in his back pocket, flips the lid, fishes his lighter out of the half empty pack and puts a cigarette between his lips. He flicks the lighter once, twice, three times. Fails to keep the light going. He huffs, tries again but the damn thing refuses to stay lit. 

Max snorts, snatches the lighter out of his grasp, cups his hand around the tip of the cigarette to shield it from the breeze, flicks the lighter once with his thumb and lights Charles up. 

On his inhale, Charles flicks his eyes up from the burning embers to meet Max’s eyes. They’re already looking back at him. 

Charles supposes they both changed a lot from the last time they saw each other, at some karting track in France. Neither of them would’ve thought it’d be the last time. They'd both grown a couple inches. Max's hair had gotten darker, but maybe that's just the season, he did always lighten up over the summer months, sunshine beating down on him, travelling from track to track. 

Charles can make out a few patches of stubble coming in along his jaw. That's gotten sharper, too. But looking into Max's eyes feels the same as it did years ago. Sometimes hard with determination, sometimes alight with rage, at his competition, the weather, himself.

More often than not Charles felt like he could decipher each emotion from the slightest movement around Max's eyes or purse of lips. To Charles, it felt like looking in the mirror. He saw behind the facade because he felt the same. The incessant hunger, pride and need to prove himself. Maybe it was all in his imagination but it did sometimes feel like him and Max were made of the same thing, at their core. Though back then they'd never admit it.

And that's what throws him off, looking at Max now. There's an openness in his expression that was never there before.

Something swimming just under the surface.

[diamondshapedcat]

Unicorn HRT Diary - 1 year epilogue

One year ago I was trapped in every sense of the word. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, doing graveyard shifts, having no friends and residing in a body that felt more like a prison than a body.

Now I'm living in a city surrounded by all the wonders of life! A thriving community of animal people, opportunities I wouldn't have ever dreamed of and best of all the woman I love so so much who makes the best breakfast waffles ever!

It took a while but Comet found this cheap flat not too far from the train station where she works. Sure the noise of the night trains keeps us up sometimes but I don't care. I would choose to live in a dumpster as long as Comet was there with me. Nothing in this world is powerful enough to tear us apart and I'm so strong now that only the foolish would even dare think it now!

My Unicorn body is perfect now, Long horn with a silvery shimmer, fabulous locks to die for, Muscles huge enough to crush watermelons (A party trick Comet enjoys very much) and Hooves to keep me all grounded. In our room there's this big mirror that was one of the first things we bought for our new home. At first I wasn't sure why we needed it but I have to admit, seeing my reflection every day brings me a certain kind of euphoria that really resonates with my inner self. Comet loves it too, seeing the effects of 9 months fox juice working their magic. Is there such a thing as too floofy? If there is I don't want to know as fluffy hugs from her are the best (Then again everything from her is the best!)

Despite everything starting to settle down, the surprises keep coming. I recently got a package delivered to me from the lawyers sorting through my departed dad's stuff. I opened the door and I couldn't believe who was waiting for me on the other side. She was a bunny girl biker decked out in leathers who I had seen before a long time ago. In a different life. Somehow this bunny had appeared in my life again to give me another gift.

I think I spooked her out with the look on my face but once I explained everything she just opened up and started laughing at the serendipity of it all. Ember is her name and she runs her own motorbike courier service. It's something she started after getting turned away from too many jobs for being a bunny. I'll never forget the way she lit up when I said she was the inspiration that set me free!

The reason it had taken so long for this package to get to me was that with me changing my name and sleeping on sofas, I had dropped off the grid as far as the system was concerned. The postal service was chasing after a ghost of someone who didn't exist anymore. The package itself was just a small box containing a few photos, some legal documents, a old jacket and a letter.

''Dear (deadname)

I'm sorry for lashing out at you last night. I was drunk, I got angry and said some things without thinking them through. I attacked you at a time when you were weak and needed help. I went too far.

There's so much I don't understand and I don't want to lose you. I don't want my son to disappear and I'm scared that is what's happening right now. As a father I feel like I need to protect you from hurting yourself but if you really think this is the best path that you can take then I will do my best to support you. I'm going to make mistakes and you're going to have to be very patient with me but I want to do my best to help you. If you like maybe we could find someone to talk about this before you do something dangerous?

Dad''

That was the last thing he wrote before he died and I don't know what to feel about it. I can kinda tell he hoped to talk me out of it but a fumbled apology is still an apology even if he didn't really understand anything. Would he have made the effort to learn and support me or would he have fallen back on the twisted rhetoric of us destroying ourselves? Ever way I'll never know now. He's gone but he tried to say sorry and I guess that's the only part that really matters.

To end things on a happier note, Me and Comet were out shopping at an open air market recently and as we were packing things up I saw a cashier with this look in his eye. That look of being dissatisfied with life, looking for a way out of a invisible prison and longing for something he couldn't put his finger on. The same look that I had all those months ago.

I told him to let go of the fear and follow his dreams no matter what. He defintley perked up at that and I think I saw a little colour return to to his eyes as he started to realise what he was missing. Then a gust of wind cut through our conversation as a low flying red dragon swooped past us and I could very subtly hear the cashier whisper to themself 'I wish I could be like them'

Wonder what kind of beautiful beast he'll turn into?

END

Start/Prev

[3-2-whump]

Aftermath of a Flicker of a Spark

<prev next>

A.K.A., that chapter was long as hell, so I broke it up a little and now here's Julio's POV about what just happened, set one week after he first met Khaled

TW/CW: masturbation reference. That's the only big thing that's sticking out to me. Wow, only one TW on the list!

Author's Note: I know like a high school level of Spanish, I studied abroad in a Spanish-speaking country for one semester in college, and I spent more than two hours researching what cholo Spanish sounds like. That being said, if I got anything wrong, please tell me, and be kind about it. I am only human, but I would very much like to know one way or the other <3

A warm slender neck underneath his tattooed fingers. A defiant scowl on blood stained lips. A pair of the prettiest, deepest, darkest, eyes that swallowed the light of his ember ones in their gravitational pull. Those eyes had haunted his dreams, his fantasies, his nearly every waking moment for the past week. And the rest of his boys knew it.

“Jefe! Baja de las nubes!” 

Julio’s breath spasmed in his chest as Alphonso punctuated his reprimand with a thump to the back. “That’s not where his head is,” Luis chuckled, leaning back on the shabby couch in the abandoned warehouse. Julio rubbed his shoulder, cursing as he swatted at his cousin with his free hand. “You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you? The Costa guy?”

“His name is Khaled,” he corrected. He shooed Luis over with a wave of his hand and plopped down on the worn couch cushion next to him. “And no, I am not thinking about him, really!” He huffed out a sigh, rubbing his hands through his now evenly-shortened, dark brown hair. He had shorn off his stupid mohawk after their fight; no way he could keep it after that.

Sometimes, he could still feel the phantom pull of Khaled’s fingers through his long strip of hair. It was the hardest he’d ever cum in recent memory, imagining those fingers in his hair. He shaved it soon after.

The faint chime of Julio’s text tone, followed by the speed at which he whipped out his phone, exposed his lie immediately. It wasn’t him. He pocketed his phone and let out a frustrated sigh. His olive-skinned cheeks burned red with embarrassment as his gang laughed at him.

“Ohhhh, Jefe’s in looooove!”

“Shut up!” In a gesture unbecoming of the Boss of Juicio Divino, he crossed his arms against his chest and slumped against the couch like a petulant child. “It’s not that I like him like him. I just appreciate his fighting,” he muttered.

“Did anybody else find those scars on his back unsettling?” Luis asked.

A few murmurs of agreement echoed through the garage.

Julio felt the glowing warmth of attraction toward the mysterious young man sputter like a nascent ember in the wind. He didn’t forget those scars. And that tattoo placement –usually, only the highest-ranking members of the Costas got the skull and snake, and even then, it would be proudly inked on the front, on their chest. So why was his on his back shoulder, along with all those scars? Julio asked himself. Something was off. And, as one who was never immune to a good mystery to solve, Julio Lazaro Estrada was going to figure out what it was.

The text tone went off again, and Julio whipped out his phone with as much enthusiasm as the last time. This time however, his enthusiasm was not in vain. Glaring brightly from his screen were a string of ten numbers and a short message.

It’s Khaled. I want to talk.

His lips parted into an ear to ear grin.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee

@generic-whumperz @bamber344

[talonsaga-trash]

Hi, um, what if, there was a dialogue when between Garret and Tristan while at a bar, it would be kinda funny to see Tristan drunk🤣

(Takes place directly post-inferno epilogue)

Tristan won second place in the drinking contest between himself and two dragons. Garret did not know whether to be impressed or concerned.

At least Tristan was a calm drunk, though— something Garret had known since he was fifteen was that when Tristan finally made it back from a night in town, he was never upset or angry. He usually beelined for water and bed and passed out for a good ten hours without interruptions, and it seemed this night wasn’t looking to be an exception, considering he had his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling, thoroughly ignoring the world around him. Loud music coming from the speakers, Riley animatedly talking to Mist about something or another, Jade scamming the barman for more drinks— she had, well and truly, drunk both Riley and Tristan under the table— Ember trying to get an alcoholic drink without Wes noticing and failing for the third hour and counting.

Experimentally, Garret leaned over and gave Tristan a poke. Tristan didn’t startle, like he would when he was sober. Just blinked slowly and continued to stare at the ceiling.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Garret tried.

“I’m playing beer pong in my head,” Tristan responded, like it was a calm and logical statement to make, and a normal activity to do. “I think I could calculate the parabola to make a good shot, but it’d come down to hand-eye coordination.”

God. It was easy to forget sometimes, under all of his charm and wit, but his partner was a nerd. A nerd who was staring at the ceiling and calculating parabolas for an imaginary game of beer pong.

“Are you gonna name yourself Patriarch?”

Wait, what?

“I don’t… plan to, no,” Garret responded slowly. Tristan hummed in acknowledgement, still staring at the ceiling. “Do you think I should?”

“No,” Tristan replied. “I killed the last guy. Let’s… not have any more Patriarchs. Or Elder Wyrms.” He furrowed his brow slightly, and then his eyes widened in some sort of realization. “Oh, I killed both of those guys.”

Garret winced. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Huh.” Tristan said. He didn’t say anything else for a long time. Just stared, wide-eyed, until Garret almost considered poking him again, or trying to convince him to start drinking water to hopefully curb the hangover.

“Beer pong again,” Tristan announced.

“Playing beer pong?”

“Yep.”

“How’s the math going?”

“Do you actually wanna know? You can get me a napkin, I’ll write it out.”

Garret snorted. “I’ll pass.”

Hopefully Tristan would remember this conversation in the morning. It was, maybe, one that was worth continuing on a more serious note. What it meant to be a leader of St. George, after what happened to the last one. What it meant to have killed the last one, and still remain in St. George.

But it was definitely a conversation to have while sober.

[whibleysims]

"Are you sure this is where you wanna talk?" asked Sam Weasley, killing the engine.

"I'm sure," Cynthia Payne answered.

"No better place than ten yards from where my mother's body was found," Cynthia continued.

Sam cleared his throat.

"Sorry." Cynthia shook her head. "Sometimes I forget that my dark humour doesn't appeal to everybody."

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

"Are we trading bad jokes tonight?"

"What?"

"Forget it."

"I'm sorry, Cyn," Sam offered. "Honestly, I have no idea what to say."

"Neither do I," Cynthia admitted. "It's like, everyone was so damn quick to move on except me, and now it's all so far gone I can never catch up. I don't know."

"I should have been there," he shuddered.

"You kinda were, more than most anyway."

"Well, I'm here for real now."

"You're married." A sinister grin crossed her face. "And didn't you say something about Bonnie being pregnant?"

"So?"

The couple kissed and the glowing embers of their rekindling quickly turned into a white hot flame.

"Look, if you brought me out here just to do me I wouldn't say no," she said. "But it'll cost you."

"Name your price pretty lady."

"Regular visits. I, uh, miss you," she mumbled that last part.

Sam beamed. "I've missed you too."

"Don't go all sweet on me, save that crap for your wife."

"Deal."

[godhasheardtruthfully]

Purge This Story 16166: A Horror Short by Sam-Amina Matthew-John Bailey

Purge This Story 16166h Rabi Al Thani 1445 / October '23

The following may be a prophecy of Sam-Amina Matthew-John Bailey. Little remains of information concerning her life (which we believe played out in this place sometime around 1444h) save that she was held to be a seer amongst her people & dedicated this (her transfixative work)”—to Ember. Whom I live to see as a mighty king among my people!”. 

This text is delivered as an appendage of songs of Sam-Amina with this warning:

“BEWARE: creative license in play & truthfully we ourselves face evil inclinations. Still. Never doubt when you have lived to see stranger days.” 

Purge This Story 16166h. Psalm1

Annabelle lived 13 years on Earth before becoming impregnated with a whole new world. 

Purge This Story 16166h. Poem 3

“Woe, whoah! Oh woe… That I had died before (I had met this moment.)” 

Four months on as she dips her honey tanned mitts into high tide waters she’ll remember to say

“Praise God I lived to see this momentous day”. 

Annabelle is naked save for clay of the Earth she smears on her body and the remnants of her thick silken cloak which shimmers green in the sun. She is captivated by her baby’s reflection in the pond water. 

Purge This Story 16166. A dirge. 

“Jesus joy of Mans desiring” she plays.

Annabelle’s a gifted cellist who doesn’t see herself as first chair, much less a violinist. Annabelle lacks the charisma she perceives of the violists while reveling in their recklessness.

Besides, Annabelle greatly prefers her private repertoire. The unplayable (sans scorn from others if they could hear). Oh well. Anything is preferable to Annabelle over the piercing pitch that punctuates her skull when the yielding heard of E stringers tune their machines. 

Simmering in the clef with the bassists Annabelle is no choir singer. An ever on Earth orphaned woman. So long as Annabelle remembers her birth parents are no more. The tales she hears shift. Sometimes a boating accident becomes being eaten by a fish. Life goes on. 

She grows up in The Church. On her worst days she screams 

“I swear to God these people! (Are consuming me, as if I myself were the fattest among the cattle calfs being buttered up for a burnt offering or the wafers served beside wine.) 

This was a life lived in vanity. Horsehairs dragged across suspended metals. The soft/steel meeting is lubricated by imported jade rosin. 

Purge This Story 16166. An Admonition (& forgiveness!) 

Young Annabelle is foolish & fears January as if it possesses the might of God Himself. She is correct, however, in her calculation that the death making angels of Allah themselves are roosting upon her threshold. 

All her virgin life on Earth Annabelle never uttered, or even comprehended, her peoples dominant tongue. Most language utterly escaped her. Her every thought of talking vanished.  Sincere attempts to meet the most pleading, violent, or romantic of advances that this woman ‘aught speak given sanity or reason dissolved upon her most strident attempts at application. Precisely like a dream wherein one finds themselves holding on to the memory of screaming in a universe that physically commands its silence. A cruel muscle memory? 

With quiet comes forgetting. Sometimes Annabelle likes this. 

It is no man that inseminates her. No baby which Annabelle begets.   

Purge This Story 16166 Never Speak of This

He Dog arrived about as soon as Annabelle is granted memory. The Smoking Man she perceives in the closet calls out to her with names worse than the like of herself. Words others pick up. 

This causes her to seek otherworldly refuge. She wonders at first if it is not Satan living in the vent just above the top bunk of the twin bed at the first place where she lived on 16th Court - With the last nearest thing to a family she experienced before being brought to this place.

         “No” she succumbs to telling herself. 

“This is He Dog”.

He Dog is minute but menacing. Rich curls of brown fur with red yellow marbled eyes. Two feet and half one inch upright. 

He Dog speaks an ancient dialect Annabelle alone comprehends well and appears to understand the whispers of her heart. 

Annabelle is immediately trained never to mention He Dog by the reactions of those around her when she shares her experiences. 

“It is okay.” She lies to herself. “He Dog understands me”. In this Annabelle is not entirely wrong. 

Purge This Story 16166 So much for my (/boundaries). 

Ballad, The town of Annabelle’s birth, Is built on a peninsula. The boundary between her people and God knows what exists in the beyond is bordered up by a thicket of trees, reeds, marshy waters and marked by a blood stained rock left by the ancestors of the towns inhabitants. Songs & epics passed through the ages of her people all warning against even nearing the shrub gates into the damp woods of the lost.

Annabelle misinterprets He Dogs ability to quietly listen to her as signs she’s found a beneficent friend. All he’s done yet is listen quietly and murmur to her in a dialect so foreign it’s one of the few things she recognizes. 

She takes him on a walk, one of the many rituals he enforces coercively at the face of maintaining his friendship with Annabelle. This may as well be protection to Annabelle. Under duress Annabelle begins to believe she must do this. 

Purge This Story 16166 Busted

Annabelle doesn’t recognize the urgency of her hunger until pale moonlight is hours past being all that’s left of the sun. Moon beams gently punctuate the pitch black canopy of trees above her. It isn’t her sight Annabelle is following, rather He Dog, who appears to have caught scent of something himself. 

Leaves are all that’s slick under her bare calloused feet. If rough skin sheathes the musician from the hot friction of metal cords on their fingertips what are twigs to Annabelles feet? Cuts to her skin when a Psalm is composed of more than just notes inked on paper? 

“He Dog No! Please!”

The blood soaked stone is rendered dimly visible by daybreak. He Dog is arrested by the border stone. Narcissus mugging himself in the pond water couldn’t be more hellishly captivated as He Dog & that boundary rock. There’s something so transfixing about the forbidden, the vain, the deadly. Annabelle must now learn why that is for herself. 

Fatigue escapes to amazement as soon as Annabelle sees, truly realizes what she is perceiving from before her mahogany eyes, the engraved markings which drink up an inheritance of spilt blood. Even dried up viscous remnants of life don’t cover this up: They make the shape of the sounds she hears. Annabelle is beginning to comprehend literacy. 

Docile no more. He Dog reveals all the ravenous might he’s been biding. “YOU MUST DO THIS ANNABELLE” he gruff’s while biting at her hands. “You are going to do this Annabelle. Listen to me. LISTEN TO ME” he bites at her feet. He Dog is growling.

Purge This Story 1666: Re: Genesis. 

It was fast all too much for Annabelle whose tears of grief overcome her ’til her head rest a’slumber on the stone. 

Annabelle dreams of a deliverance. She sees faces gathering around her. Beautiful perfumed ones with gold sashes & Biblically bright pupils. They are different from the people around town, though many townsfolk are there as well. This company is welcoming of her and feeding her grapes, juicy pomegranate seeds, honey buttered slabs of bread. 

They take her home. To the one she remembers. 

Daybreak anew. And her physical condition is worse for 24 hours of ware. He Dog is grumbling.

“Bell… You know you’re going to do as I command you”. 

She understands perfectly what is written on the rock. She’s spent hours cautiously mesmerized by its recitation. It’s lost meaning to her whether or not He Dog comprehends what lays ahead of her if… 

“Annabelle! Annabelle.”

A new voice. Beautifully carried by the damp morning air. She hears a princess, 

“Annabelle I am here with you”

She hears a Queen. 

Annabelle lifts her loosely braided crown of yellow hairs from the rock, now damp with her spit, snot, and tears along with the ever stubborn blood. She is realizing this voice progenies from her shadow. What is left of her after the sun cuts her body with its ancient starlight.

It takes seven minutes for light to travel at its namesake speed from the surface of the sun to the face of the Earth. It takes thousands of years for the same light to travel from the core of the Sun to its launching surface. Layers of fusion and convection in viscous plasma temper starlight for such a moment. 

It takes Annabelle like no time at all to at least try to seize that God cursed stone once she comprehends her shadows news:

“Do not be scared any longer. I am here. I am telling you to do this.”

The rock is heavy, sunken and grown over into the crust of the Earth. Annabelle appears weak, vulnerable. But she screams. A guttural primal force gathering howl and she picks up that rock.

Annabelle bares it. She thrusts it behind her from across her breasts. Annabelles lungs expand with mossy oxygen. She hurls herself into the unfathomable. Annabelles eyes are beaming in the face of what is ruinous.

Purge This Story 16166 Four Months Later 

Annabelle is amazed at how well her stitches are healing. How soft He is.

[reality-refuge]

speaking of Deirdre, here's a little spare update!

Eldritch is currently pregnant and working her way into fashion fame! maybe someday she'll move to sulani and live the beach life she's been dreaming of.

Effable is on the verge of moving out. He's got a wife (!!!) and a baby on the way, but is still in the lower ranks of the culinary career - maybe he'd be higher if he stopped stealing shit out of the fridge.

Ember has just aged up to a young adult, and has plans to move to San Myshuno. They want to stick around for a little bit, though - the thought of leaving Mom in the big slightly less haunted house is a little sad.

[mockingbirdshymn]

TUMBLR USER @fruit-kick THAT DOES NOT SOUND WEIRD AT ALL IN FACT IM HONORED

heres like. some of the things i keep in mind when writing grieving

the little things in grief

something i scarcely see written is the little things in grief. seeing things that remind you of the person causing you to nearly cry in public, but you can't. seeing people be happy with their family members/friends (depending who was lost) and being both jealous and miserable. wondering for years if you could have done anything, even though the chance of that is impossible, or blaming yourself for not noticing something.

the smallest things in grief are the most important. forgetting the person is gone and calling out their name, texting them about something important to you before realizing that theyre gone, setting an extra plate at the dinner table, entering their room. its things like that which are the most personal. the countless times ive done that, the countless times ive seen my mother do that.

it's not having the will to clean out their room. its not getting rid of any of their stuff ever, keeping their room as pristine as it was before they were gone. it's having nightmares of the death and waking up realizing youre alone. it's sleeping in that person's room for comfort. it's rewatching videos with the person who died in them, reminising over old times and sobbing. it's thinking "oh, ___ would love this!" while at the store before realizing. it's thinking you see them, but it's a coat hanger or a shadow or a chair in the dark, or something your brain tricks you into seeing.

obviously, as time goes on, this will lessen, and it wont last forever. eventually, this phase will cease. but when the grief is fresh, the little things will happen more often.

and the grief can be fresh for a very long time.

general things to remember/advice

don't make it quirky. for the love of FUCK, don't make it quirky.

try to portray the misery, the numbness, the seriousness of grieving over death. use descriptive words, metaphors of flowers, of death, or anything beautiful or ugly or both. use mystical words; death is an enigma to us all. one of the reasons death is so terrifying is because none of us know much about it. just that theyre gone.

"____ had seen death up close. They'd seen her cold grasp take away the person ____ loved the most. ____ sometimes wished they'd been taken instead. If only they were the one to stare death in the eyes and follow her into the inky void of nothingness. But no, ____ was cursed to sit on their bed, every day and every night, wondering what they could have done." this is an example of descriptive words and metaphors can be used to portray write the grief the character feels

instead of a simple 'i wish it were me', expand upon that. they don't wish it were them, they wished they were the ones to stare death in the eyes and accept their fate rather than the person they loved doing the same. it's more descriptive, i suppose

metaphors are your best friend when discussing grief and death (but make sure to not overdo them!!!!!!), as well as your characters little reactions to the enviorment around them.

ie this sentence in my fic's draft - "Harrison just continued staring off into the distance, at the frozen lake and families skating together on it. Preston could see a small flame of jealousy reflect in his eyes, but the ember faded into something sadder."

write about how your character views the world after the death. do they view it as cruel, as worthless to live in, or as something that should be cherished while they can? how does this affect how your character treats others, acts, talks? how does this affect their relationships? do they weaken them or strengthen them?

write the healing process as slow and gradual. if your fic is short, still make it a gradient. it won't heal right away. this healing can be from 3 chapters to 20. it depends on the story length.

keep your character in mind. if your character doesnt fit any of the things i mentioned, dont force yourself to change the character to fit my advice. instead, take it and warp it so if fits your character. model the grief around the character's personality.

all in all, there is no perfect way to write death and grieving. these are my tips, from my experiences both dealing with grief and writing about it for some time, but remember that everyone deals with and writes death in different ways.

[nine-blessed-hero]

Hail and well met, Traveler

– THE BASICS –

Name: Dru Age: >40 Gender: Female-ish Origin: UK Timezone: UTC/ BST (UTC+1)

Find me outside of Tumblr ➼ Discord: druidx ➼ AO3: DruidX ➼ Others: https://linktr.ee/DruidX

➼ TES Games I've actually played: Morrowind ∞h (Playtime lost to the ages) Oblivion >300h (+ some lost to the ages) Blades less than 1h Elder Scrolls Online less than 1h

➼ I reblog: fanart, fanfic, music, screenies, and lore posts from all Elder Scrolls games

➼ I post: Fanfic, screenies and other graphics, mostly from Oblivion

– FANFICTION –

➼ You can find my fics under the tag: #Wandering Words

➼ Sometimes I write about my writing. You can find that under the tag: #Meta-Wandering Words

➼ For ease of searching, I've collated all my fics in a set of Series Masterposts (from my writeblr):

TESIV: Oblivion Fanfiction - Genderless HoK

TESIV: Oblivion Fanfiction - Haven’s Ember

TESIV: Oblivion Fanfiction - Talis the Baker (Slice of life)

TESIV: Oblivion Fanfiction - Teas of Tamriel

TESIV: Oblivion Fanfiction - The Many Faces of Kellandra Rhiannon Lorinda Rue

TES: Oblivion Fanfic - The Chronicles of Arkved of Cheydinhal

TESIV: Oblivion Fanfiction - Other

➼ Or just check me out on AO3

➼ Here is a list of my Main Original Characters (links through to their About posts):

Kellandra Rhiannon Lorinda Rue (tag: #oc k'rin l'rue)

Rowan (tag: #oc rowan)

Talis the Baker (tag: #oc talis the baker)

Sophie Aderyn Williams/ Griffiths (tag: #oc aderyn griffiths)

GonnaKick ur-Ass (tag: #oc gonnakick ur-ass)

– INTERACTIONS –

➼ Send me asks! I love chatting, and Anon is on if you’re shy.

➼ I welcome fan works of my creations! If you feel like making art of my characters or podfics of my stories, go for it! It would make my month ❤️ Don’t forget to @ me, or use Submissions.

➼ I’m more than happy to take fic requests if there's something you want to see.

– OTHER TAGS –

➼ Sometimes I make moodboards and other graphics. You can find these under the tag: #Wandering Graphics

➼ Last updated: 03 May 2025

[sophie-i-guess13]

Holy Smokes

words : 1117

characters : Ponyboy Curtis, Randy Anderson

genre : hurt / limited comfort

tw : canonical character death, marijuana use

tag! @mjmacchio1991 @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @thegaygreaser @ralphmaccchiato @dar-bit @timetraveller-that-killed-johnny @frypansgirl  @unorginalchocolatemilk

His eyes were green.

Green like the stems of the dandelions poking through the cracks in the cement around the gas station. Mom always hated them. Green like the few crumbled bills in the bottom of my almost-empty pocket. Green like the leaves curled in my cigarette, burning.

“How’ve you been, Randy?”

I don’t know much about the stranger to my right. His shoes are old, with laces stained with dirt and time. The gravel digs into our palms as they rest on the curb, though I doubt they’re responsible for the trail of dried blood painting his knuckles when they clench into tight fists. I don’t remember telling him my name, either. Grass makes me forget most of the time, though, and I like it that way.

Some things are better buried in the ground, covered with smoke and foggy memories before they pop up like dandelions through cement.

“I’m alright, man,” I say to the wind. I really have been alright this time. I’m not forgetting to eat anymore, or passing out in the park without a jacket. I always scare my folks when I do that, and I don’t like scaring my folks. We’ve all had enough scares to last a lifetime, let me tell you.

His hair is red. Red like the streaks in the sky as the sun dips below the cityscape in front of us. As the chill fills the air as the August sun dies, neither one of us move. Not even when the DX sign behind us turns on, casting light onto the empty parking lot. His hair is red, like the embers falling off the end of my joint when I take another hit. “You smoke?”

I only ask him once the feeling in my lungs turns to something similar to a burn and my mind is blissfully numb. It’s a selfish thing, to make sure I have my full before offering what I have, but I guess I’ve always been a bit selfish.

The stranger laughs at me, rolling his green eyes before letting them slip closed. “No thanks,” he says. “I’m tryna cut back, actually. Used to smoke a pack a day before I left for college.”

I can see it now, now that I’m bold enough to look at him. He wears a red jacket, the kind you’d get from Oklahoma University. It’s a bit big on him still, too much room at the sleeves and around the collar. He has a few faint freckles across his nose and a faded scar on his hand.

The kind you’d get from a cigarette, though I don’t point it out.

“I’m doing good out there,” he goes on, “my brothers wanted me to come home for a little while. I don’t really blame ‘em… I don’t do too hot this time of year.”

Familiarity clings to him better than that varsity jacket could ever dream of. A part of me knows him, a memory straining to break through my doped up mind and scrambled memories I’d only brought up to the shrink Mom made me visit.

He stares at me now, straight on without shame. “You don’t recognize me, do you, Randy?”

My words barely make it past my teeth. Somehow, I already know the answer, and I don’t want to. “Am I supposed to?”

He shrugs and pulls the joint from my weak and clammy hands before raising it to his chapped lips.

And suddenly, as if he’d pulled away four years worth of expensive liquor and cheap marijuana, I could see him in my mind’s eye.

The same face I’d held under the water was staring back at me. Only this time, it wasn’t nearly as frightening as the dreams I’d woken up to.

I still remember the way he hit the ground when Bob went down. Sometimes, if my mind gets too quiet, I can still hear the thunk his skull made when it hit the cement.

I can still see the young greaser I’d met here, four years earlier. Only a few days before the trial that would determine our entire futures.

“-I mean, I figured I’d be pretty hard to forget after… y’know.”

Ponyboy Curtis, now a young man, rises to his feet and towers over me. Much like his brothers did the night of the Rumble. He takes another drag off the cigarette as he looks down at me, I want to say the ghost of a smile almost reaching his eyes, but mentioning ghosts just seems too fitting tonight.

“I like what you’re doing with your hair, though, it suits you.”

I haven’t gotten it cut since the deaths. I can’t really stomach seeing anything with a sharp edge anymore. My hair brushes my shoulders now, in dark, greasy strands.

My, how the tables have turned.

“It’s been a rough week,” I say, eyes more on my empty hands than the boy- man in front of me. I can’t force myself to look at him now. I’ve always been cowardly, as well as selfish. Quite the pair Bob and I made, huh?

He chuckles and more embers fall to the cement. “We both know Dally would kick your ass if he saw you like this.”

“We both know I’d deserve it.”

I’m not sure how long we stayed that way. Me, the washed up rich kid turned junkie, and the kid who managed to turn his life around. But I heard shoes crunching against gravel before I managed enough courage to admit the truth I’d been so scared of.

“I really am sorry, Ponyboy. I-I shoulda stopped him.Those friends of yours, Johnny and Dallas, they… They didn’t deserve to die.”

Part of me is still convinced Bob didn’t deserve it, either. That’s usually when I take another hoot and see how far away I can get from my own mind. But there’s nowhere to go now, not when Ponyboy turns to face me for a final time.

I can see it in his eyes. The burning hate I’d been anticipating was nothing if not a weak ember, buried under the same pity the judge had cast his way the day of the trial.

Slow and gentle, those burning embers fall towards the cracks in the cement and the blooming dandelions shooting upwards as he lowers his hands. “It’s a little late for apologies, don’t you think, Randy? Besides, it ain’t like we aren’t adults.”

Then, before the ash can even settle, my joint is crushed between the rough ground and the bottom of his shoe.

“Take care of yourself, Randy,” Ponyboy tells me. “I know you miss him, but I don’t think Bob wants to see you so soon.”

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Those who weave (Act I, Ch 1)

Those who weave Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Ivar/Freydis (I warned ya)

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: 18+, smut, and then just the usual stuff for this story. The general warnings can be found on the masterlist, please keep them in mind because I won’t warn those in specific chapters.

A/N: So, here’s the first chapter! I hope you like this, I would love to hear your thoughts on this! Fair warning this takes place in an very Alternate Universe lol, I hope to explain it well within the story itself, but if I don’t just shoot me an ask and I’ll bullet point the main changes or smth. For character ages, think around 6b, diverts greately from 5b canon onwards tho.

Also, there’s passing reference to an AU version of Ivar and Freydis’ first interaction (in 5x03), you can find it here. Passing mention, nothing more, but still, it’s there if you wanna read it.

The dream is always the same, the boat is always flimsy underneath you, the waters are always gentle around you.

And the wanderer is always kind towards you.

“If you could ask the Gods for one thing, and one thing alone…tell me, wanderer, what would that be?”

The question is always the same too. And so is your answer.

Looking into his eyes you cannot help but think back to the waters you are so used to seeing around you in your dreams. The endless blue of his eyes that, like the all-encompassing waves of your dreams, try to understand it all, reach it all, by a look alone.

Like now, as he puts heavy hands on the sides of your hips and brings you closer, until you are standing between his legs.

You search his gaze, and though all you can think of still is the endless blue of a surprisingly calm sea, it is you who asks,

“What is it you want, Ivar?”

Head tilted to the side, he doesn’t hesitate to retort, “You.”

“You have me.” You promise playfully, endlessly amused at the annoyed narrowing of his eyes.

“Are you planning on being difficult for much longer?”

“That depends.” You reply, a little sing-song in your words and a growing smile on your lips as you wait for Ivar to bite the bait.

“On what?”

“Will you tell me what it is you want?”

His shoulders rise and fall with a deep angry sigh, but after a moment he gains a glint in his eye, and his hands on your sides creep lower, venturing down the curve of your ass.

“I want to use my tongue on you, have you hold yourself over my face as I make you shake and scream my name,” He tells you, sending a pang of heat through you. His eyes remain on you, hungry, as he continues, “And then I want to be inside you, deep inside you while you are still coming down from your high so I can feel you tight over my-…”

“That is not what I-…”

“You asked, love.” He interrupts, annoyingly satisfied with himself.

You cannot help the effect of his words on you, and even as your roll your eyes pushing lightly at his chest, there’s a part of you that feels heat settle low in your belly at his words.

Ivar grasps your wrists as he falls back on the bed, tugging you forward until you are held above him face to face.

You don’t even consider stopping yourself from leaning down and kissing him. How could you, when he looks so lustful and open and yours?

The errant thought that he very much isn’t all of those things is quickly pushed away by the heady daze of lust that settles over you, even now as you exchange slow and languid kisses. Fire-like warmth takes over, an ember awaiting only the faintest change in the wind to start a wildfire.

You kiss him and let yourself forget, you kiss him and give your hands free reign over him, you kiss him and forget to think or feel anything that isn’t him, that isn’t this.

Ivar pulls back, just slightly, just enough so that he can speak, but when your eyes open to look at him the words die in his throat.

You take in the way his cheeks and the top of his ears still after all this time sport the faint shade of red, the way his gaze seems a little out of focus when your kiss-bitten lips pull into a smile, and realize whatever it is he was to ask for you would gladly give.

Thankfully, his request is simple enough, in more ways than one.

A petulant tug at the edge of your nightdress, and a gruff, “Off.”

You quirk your eyebrow, teasing, “Is that what you want?”

His chest expands under you with a heavy breath, “I swear by all the Gods, woman…”

“Don’t try to threaten me,” You chastise, one last peck against his lips before you lean back to take off your dress. “It never works.”

His eyes rake over you, painstakingly slow and burning you in the hunger that shines in them, a reverent edge to the way he licks his lips as he takes in your naked body that makes you feel as if this were the first time.

You take a step closer, and when Ivar’s eyes return to you, he tilts his head to the side, “Doesn’t it?”

You roll your eyes, “Arrogance isn’t a good look on you.”

“That wasn’t what you said wh-…ah.” His words die in a soft sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan when you slide one hand between his legs, cupping his hardening cock and drinking in the sight before you.

You don’t think there will ever come a day you don’t treasure this, the way he gasps, the way his eyes flutter shut, the way he tilts his head back and bares his throat to you.

Pressing your body against his, you move your hand to reach for him under the pants he wears, grasping at him just in between softly and roughly, and kiss a trail along his jawline as you move your hand up and down over his cock, passing the pad of your thumb over the tip.

A call of your name, breathy, beseeching, and all thought other than having him leaves your mind.

You make quick work of the laces of his pants, and slide them off his legs until there is nothing in between the two of you, until the warmth of his skin seeps into yours and makes the already flaming embers flicker and rage into heat that pools low in your belly and clouds your thoughts.

Straddling him, you kiss him as his hands bring you flush against him, unintentionally torturous drag of his hard cock against your center making you tremble.

Ivar surges against you, one hand splayed at your back to bring you as close as he can, chest pressed against yours and mouth hungry over the skin of your neck. Your hands grasp where they can at fever-warm skin, but before you can lost much more of your mind, your hand presses lightly at the base of his throat and forces him once again on his back.

There’s a growing smile on Ivar’s lips that speaks of hunger, a hunger you feel snarling and desperate inside of you as well, a hunger that pools low on your belly, that makes you bite your lip as you take him in.

There’s a moment, a breath or two, a pause that tortures you as much as him, where you just admire the way his body looks, naked in the low and warm light of your home.

Unable to wait any longer, you straddle him once again, a pang of heat running through you when he dutifully stays on his back, looking up at you with hunger and desire clearly written in his darkened gaze.

Holding yourself above him and grasping his cock with the hand not on his chest, you line him up with your entrance, but not before betraying a smile and pressing,

“What is it you want, Ivar?”

This time it is a surrender, it is a plea, it is a gasp, “You.”

____

It is known men sleep with other women when they are away from their wives, you know this. It is known they sometimes bring women bearing their child back to their homes, a bizarre war prize. Though the most likely outcome is that the two part ways, and the men return to their homes and their wives; and the women they chose to keep their bed warms during the raiding season move on, marry another, one that is free enough to call them their home.

You know this, and as you absently pick at a piece of bread, watching as Ivar works expertly through the process of securing the iron braces around his legs; you cannot help but remind yourself you also know many new things.

You know the cold makes his pain worse, you know he is very good with a bow and arrow, you know a flickering and soft smile can always be found on his lips when you tell him you want him, you know he has days when he irrationally tries to keep his legs a secret from you. You know him, and…that has to mean something, doesn’t it?

You are distracted from your thoughts by movement, and you watch silently the by now familiar wobble of Ivar’s crutch as he stands up, quivering under his weight until he easily finds his balance.

Straightening in his place, he extends a hand to beckon you closer.

“My love, come here,” He orders, and by the way the term of endearment you’ve stolen -taken, borrowed, but always hers- rolls of his tongue alone you have your feet helplessly trailing the distance between you. Ivar’s free hand grasps at the side of your face with more gentleness than you would have expected out of him when you first met him, and he tilts your head up to capture your mouth in his. He kisses you slowly, sweetly, reverently, and your heart breaks further with each breath you share. When you part, his brow rests against yours, and though you can feel his piercing blue gaze on you, you keep your eyes closed, “We will be returning soon, you know that.”

“I know.”

“You will be returning to Kattegat with me.” He tells you, and your body stills at his words, a furrow between your brows that Ivar reaches up to smooth with the caress of a rough thumb as if he hadn’t just said the words he did, as if things were normal.

“No, I…I have responsibilities here, I-…”

“I want you to come with me,” He insists, and any softer tone you may have fooled yourself into thinking you heard is lost when he meets your gaze with his piercing blue eyes and promises lowly, “I am not asking.”

“You never ask.”

He isn’t swayed or insulted, offering only a smile that tugs at your heart.

“Yet you still love me.”

It is an arrogant boast, nothing more than that, and it serves as a reminder for you of the mess you’ve gotten yourself into, it serves as a warning of all the ways this could end in disaster.

During the winter you spent apart, him in Kattegat with his wife and you still here in York with your duties, you told yourself you would forget about him, and life would return to the way it was before he came into it. Yet it didn’t, and somehow it didn’t for him either, because when the warriors from Kattegat returned to continue raiding into England, Ivar found you again, and…life did return to the way it was, the way it was before he ever left.

And now he will leave again, and you have made peace with it. You have made peace with him leaving you once again for the winter, and you have made peace with you not being there to be found when spring comes.

You shake your head, and insist quietly, “You are a married man.”

“I was a married man when we met, and that didn’t stop you,” He retorts, a quirk of his mouth, “I was a married man this morning.”

You look away with a sigh, “Ivar…”

His hand on the side of your face brings your eyes back to him, but you don’t find softness looking back, you don’t find the jarring warmth of eyes the color of winter; you find the probing gaze of a man looking for the answer to a question he hasn’t yet asked, you find something that looks a lot like distrust.

“What reasons do you have to stay here, hm?”

“The same you have to leave. Your life is in Kattegat, as much as mine is in York,” The words leave your lips as the hope leaves your heart. You have known, you have accepted it, but to say it is something else entirely. If you had met before, if you had met in another life, then maybe…but not this time. Searching his gaze, you sentence, “It is Fate we part ways.”

“Why is it Fate? Because you say so, hm?”

“Because you have my heart,” You sentence, trying not to show weakness at the flicker of emotion that crosses his features. “But yours belongs to someone else.”

Ivar’s eyes fall closed, and he shakes his head.

“No, no,” The barest hint of a smile, “It is yours. It was Fate that I found you,” He insists, hand trapping yours, making you pliant under his touch with the warmth of his skin and the openness in his gaze. “I believe…I believe the Gods sent you to me. If anything, finding you proves that it was true what I was told, about the Gods rewarding those who endure pain.”

And not even the warmth of his skin could stave off the cold that creeps over you when you hear the familiar words.

“And who told you that, Ivar?” You ask, a sad smile on your lips because he knows you know the answer.

“Did you believe her?”

Ivar’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, and you lift your eyes from their lazy exploration of the traces of ink on his bare chest to meet his eyes.

“Freydis does. To this day, she still claims there is a reason for pain, hers and mine.”

That isn’t an answer.

“Did you believe her, Ivar?”

“Of course I believed her. I wanted to believe her, I wanted-…” A sigh, and he stops himself. Eyes searching yours, Ivar’s features tighten momentarily, as if trying to not give away something in his expression. “I want it to be true.”

“Why?” You ask, just as quietly.

“So there’s a reason for all of it. Any of it.”

“There is always a reason, Ivar,” You tell him, leaning up on one elbow. He looks up at you, silent. “It just might not be the reason you want it to be.”

“What do you think the reason is, hm?” He prods, the backs of his fingers trailing up and down your arm.

You shake your head, “You won’t find answers in me.”

“But you believe in something.”

“I believe in Fate. I believe…I believe that just like the Völur weave their spells, just as Freyja weaves her secrets, the Norns weave our Fates, our lives.”

“Without reason?”

“Without any reason we can understand.” You correct him, a small smile curving your lips at his insistence.

You bring her up and the reminder that across a sea she exists, she waits, she claims; and it is enough for the warmth to leave you completely, to drain from your skin like the last drop of blood after a deep wound.

You grit your teeth and lower your head, trying to hide weakness that has been there from the first day when you sat before the King of Kattegat as he watched you methodically work on mending the stitching on his armor and smiled stupidly at each clumsy attempt he made at making you laugh.

You turn to the door and open it, but you are quickly stopped.

It is almost a stumble, iron-braced legs not quick enough for how he wants to move, but Ivar reaches the door before you, slamming a strong hand on it and keeping it closed.

You are well used to his temper and his demanding ways, but that doesn’t mean anger doesn’t flare within you now, or that you will simply accept him trying to keep you from moving freely.

“Whatever it is you intend to do, Ivar, I suggest you think twice about it.” You warn slowly, before turning around.

But when you lift your eyes to meet his you don’t find ire, you don’t find rage. You find desperation, you find…fear?

He grits his teeth, breathing sharply through his nose before asking, “Why are you trying to leave?”

He isn’t asking about you leaving the room.

Ironic, you suppose, that he is the one set to leave for Kattegat before the week is over and yet you seem to be the one intent on leaving him behind.

“Spring is over, you ought to return to your home.”

“And you will come with me.” He replies automatically, ever so petulant, arrogant.

“No, my home is here.”

“Your home is with me. You will be coming with me to Kattegat.” He insists, more agitated, yet more fragile in his certainty.

“Is forcing me to be by your side what you want?”

“I want you,” He snarls, leaning even closer. So similar to the words he would speak last night and so many nights before, yet the meaning is so different. Or maybe it is the same, and you just haven’t been listening. Ivar presses his lips together, taking an angry breath before offering, “I don’t want to lose you.”

I am not yours to lose, you want to argue, but it tastes like a lie before your lips even form the words.

There is nothing to lose, you almost try, but the mere thought of it breaks at what is left of your heart on your chest.

“You won’t.” You promise instead, dooming you both. Or maybe you are just dooming yourself.

Ivar leans closer, but you notice him swallow thickly, you notice the way he lowers his guard a bit, no longer so much so on the offense.

“Come with me.” He says, asks, beseechs.

With your eyes searching his, you cannot help but think of the waters you see in your dreams, you cannot help but remember the question you were once -many times, or maybe never- asked.

You cannot help but think of your answer, and realize maybe this is what you are granted, maybe this is the gift you are offered at your answer.

____

Settling in Kattegat proves equally difficult and easy.

It is easy for you to keep yourself occupied; the dawning of winter means people are in search of warmer clothing that now that the men are back from raiding they can afford to purchase, so your days are easily -comfortably, familiarly- busied with sewing and weaving.

It is difficult however, for you to forget what brought you here, what foolish and reckless desires -your own and Ivar’s- have left you here in Kattegat. And it is still easy, to let him consume your nights, to let him take the space he demands in your life; it is still easy, and that is the difficult part.

Ivar is many things, but he isn’t subtle. He wasn’t subtle about keeping you close in York, he wasn’t subtle about how everyone ought to treat you on the journey to his home, and he hasn’t been subtle about where he spends his nights.

And you cannot help but feel strange, intruding, invasive. Stupid, really, that you feel guilt when the man that is married to her doesn’t seem to, but you cannot help it.

You haven’t met her, and there is really no reason why you should, but you have seen her. By all the Gods, she is beautiful, and carries herself in a way you have scarcely seen.

You see her in scarce moments, pass her by on a feast or meet her tranquil gaze across a room. Sometimes you see her with Ivar, a barely-there moment that you feel an intruder for witnessing, her hands carefully folded over her stomach, her a back stiffly held straight, her expression coldly controlled. Sometimes you see her with thralls and young girls around her, and you pretend not to notice the way she sometimes shies away from their touches.

You see her, not long enough to be able to claim to truly know her, but long enough to no longer be able to pretend she doesn’t exist.

Almost a month goes by as you live in this strange in between, as you settle into life in Kattegat as if you were still in York, pretending winter is nothing but another spring.

Tonight, as you sit across from Hvitserk as he animatedly talks about what his travels to the Mediterranean were like, Ivar at your side with a hand -heavy, comforting, possessive- on your leg; you find your gaze finding the Queen where she sits alone, across the room.

She has this way about her, this jarring contradiction between meek and steadfast. She lowers her eyes, she keeps her gaze pointed at the ground quite often, but she has this manner of looking up and meeting people’s eyes that has nothing to do with passivity.

She smiles often, a sweet smile just on the edge of being too wide, but there’s this shine in her eyes when she smiles when people are looking that reminds you of the easily-cracked seashells you could put to your ear against and hear the mournful cry of the sea from.

“What are you so distracted by, hm?” Ivar asks, pulling you away from your thoughts with the sound of his voice alone. You turn to him, offer a smile and a shake of your head.

“Nothing,” You reply, but your focus still lingers on her. This isn’t your place, she should be sitting where you are, or maybe he should be there sitting by her side. You shouldn’t be here, and the realization of it dawns on you like a weight dropped on your chest. You feel sick, and you don’t think there’s any hiding it. “I…I think I’ll retire for the night.”

As you stand up, a hand running down his arm in what you hope is a gesture soothing enough to keep him from asking questions, you steal another glance her way.

She isn’t there anymore.

____

That night, as too-many nights before it, as you settle for bed Ivar appears at your door, comfortably taking room in your space with a familiarity, an ease, that feels wrong even if it fills you with warmth.

You sit before the small mirror in your room, your back turned to the bed where Ivar sits, your eyes focused on the task of brushing your hair.

“What is the matter with you, hm?” He asks. You keep your gaze on the mirror, working on detangling your hair where it is thrown over your shoulder.

Slowly, you start, “You aren’t…subtle.”

He doesn’t need you to be any clearer about what you mean, understanding your meaning immediately, and you are almost grateful for that.

“Why should I be?” He retorts, almost affronted. “You are my woman, I don’t need to-…”

“You have a wife.” You enunciate slowly, eyes wide as they meet his over the reflection in the mirror. Your hands, by force of habit alone, are working on parting your hair in three different portions to ready the braid you are used to wearing to sleep.

Ivar’s mouth curves downwards in a nonchalant gesture, a furrow between his brows.

“Do you think Freydis didn’t know how I spent my time in England? Do you think she doesn’t know about you?”

You still your hands for a moment, before you continue the path of the braid down.

“That only makes it worse.”

“We aren’t…we aren’t as we used to be. Freydis and me.”

You offer a look over your shoulder, and a clipped, “Surely you bringing another woman to her home has nothing to do with it.”

A fake smile at your response that only speaks of annoyance, and Ivar explains,

“It has been this way before I met you, and you know that.”

Hushed conversations by the lapping shores of the river port of Yorktown of how after the loss of the second child grief was made into weapons on both ends, and her words of how it was his seed what had cursed their children to die on the womb was still a thought that haunted him. The rumors that walked with you through the streets of the big city of how Ivar the Boneless had chosen another woman to keep by his side and yet still was only able to remain loyal to one, rumors that you understood much later when you were told Kattegat’s king and queen slept on separate beds.

You grit your teeth, tying the end of the braid tightly, and ask the question you haven’t dared for too long already.

“Why doesn’t she divorce you? Or you her?”

It is idle curiosity, you have never had the intention -the imagination even- to think Ivar would divorce his wife, but after all he has told you it is a question that has ran through your head often, and now that you have been a witness to how they interact, to at least part of it -his nights are spent with you, and that alone is enough to make you question what is the point of any of it- the questions grow louder.

“People would talk,” He replies as if the answer should be apparent, as if that is reason enough, explanation enough. To him, you realize, it is. “They talk enough already, even if I were to be the one to end it, they would-…the rumors would grow louder, people would talk about how she left me.”

“They would be wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter,” He sentences, “I won’t fail, I won’t lose.”

“Fail?”

“The cripple can’t satisfy his wife, can’t father a child, can’t…can’t be a normal man, so she leaves him.”

Your heart feels strange in your chest, as if it is being squeezed tight.

“Ivar…”

He grits his teeth, looks up at you past stubbornly furrowed brows, “You know that is what they would say, I can’t…I can’t let them say that.”

“It wouldn’t be true.”

His eyes fall from yours, “It doesn’t matter.”

He refuses to talk much more about any of it, and if you are honest you are almost grateful for his stubbornness, because you don’t want to discuss anything else any further.

It is with painful ease that you two settle in bed together for sleep, your head on his chest and his fingers absently tracing the dips and curves of the braid you wear.

Sometime in the middle of the night you wake up to a darkened room and a low call of your name in a voice you know well by now, even if you hate to hear it when you are peacefully sleeping and he insists on disturbing that.

Ivar’s fingers are running idly over the side of your face, tracing the contour of your cheek. You reluctantly open your eyes.

“Why aren’t you asleep yet?” You mumble, irrationally annoyed. Your brow furrows, and eyes narrowed, you lift your head, “Better yet, why are you punishing me for your inability to sleep?”

His fingers trail down from your face to the base of the braid on the side of your neck, and ignoring your question he prompts, “Do you regret it?”

Biting back an argument about how this is very much not the time to continue this conversation, you ask, “Regret what, Ivar?”

“Coming here. With me.”

Your annoyance fades away like smoke between your fingers, and you sigh.

“No.”

More easily than you would like to admit Ivar maneuvers you until you are on your back underneath him, looking down at you with a small smile.

“Good.” He sentences. You lift your eyebrows.

“Good?”

He hums an affirmation, leaning closer and stealing a kiss from your lips.

“You are mine,” He reminds you, eyes piercing on yours. Before you get too lost on the way the flames flicker in the blue of his eyes, Ivar leans once again to kiss you, slowly but with an edge you can’t help but notice. When you part, he licks his lips, before admitting, “And I am yours.”

“And hers.”

A smile, a slow blink of his eyes, and he ignores your words.

“I didn’t bring you here to keep you a concubine, and when spring comes I will leave but you will still be here.”

You frown, “What are you saying?”

“I intend to make you my wife.” He states, jarringly certain, unmovable. Your eyes widen, and in the back of your mind you think your breath leaves you in a gasp.

“N-No, you can’t-…”

His eyes search yours, trying to find the answer to a question he hasn’t yet asked. It is still enough to silence your words before they even leave your lips.

Voice quiet, he asks, orders, pleas, “Marry me.”

____ ____ ____

“Whether you love what you love, or live in divided ceasless revolt against it, what you love is your fate.” (F.B)

A/N: I certainly didn’t plan for the first chapter to open with smuttish themes, but I need the practice writing it and I suppose it works well for establishing the relationship between these two. Idk. Hope this was alright, thank you for reading!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @1950schick​ @ietss​ @peachyboneless​ @encounterthepast​ @maggiescarborough​ @fae-sedai​  @zuxiezendler​ @crazybunnyladysworld​ @stupiddarkkside​ @northumbria​  @aprilivar​ @punkrocknpearls​ @heavenly1927​ @ladynightshade30​