#sometimes i forget ember's last name

[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.

[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

[the-starry-seas]

So I guess it's as good a time as any to have a pinned post?

Hi, I'm Sticks! I use vae/vaer/vaers/vaerself and it/its pronouns. This is a multifandom blog with a dash of many other random things. I'm a proshipper, cloneshipper, multishipper, and polyshipper.

I'll tag things to the best of my ability if you ask. Sometimes I'll forget. I love being tagged in ask games, WIP games, last line challenges, literally whatever. Mutuals can DM for my discord.

You can check out my fics on AO3 at lizardwrites (Star Wars) or purpleturtle9000 (Rise/Bayverse TMNT). Or check the tag for sticks' fics to see drabbles and previews. My askbox is open for requests for more drabbles, headcanons, and general rambling.

Consider this a blanket permission for any and all transformative works of my writing. You may post translated versions of my fics on other sites but you may not repost the original work. And please show me what you've made!

I have a lot of OCs and I love talking about them. I also want to hear all about yours! In the meantime, there's a list of mine below the cut. tumblr wouldn't let me link all of them, but you can try copy-pasting the-starry-seas.tumblr.com/tagged/ and put in the character name (I tag with ranks, so put in CT Racer instead of just Racer).

The Murderbot Diaries:

Jude (she/they rogue SecUnit)

ROTTMNT:

Kestrel

Star Wars:

212th Squad (Boot, Mik, Squeaker, Moxie, Onion, Crumpet)

Aces Squad (CT Racer, CT Fury, CS Blue, CT Whisper, CT Ember)

B Roll, all-girls clone squad formed of Bark, Bite, Bumble, and Bee

Clone Force M (CT Winter, CT Bee, CT Indigo, CT Jewel, CC Nebula, CT Zenith, CT Sunny, CT Star, CT Sky, CT Silver)

Mar'eyce, modern AU Clone Force M, featuring the Smokejumpers

Ghost Squad (CL Harlow, CS Karla, CT Shay, CT Cavalry, CT Boom, CT Ray, CT Nox, CT Tally) and their associated Mandalorians

Green Squad (formerly) now civilians Aralyn, Berry, and Prey Drive

Royal Squad, five tubies adopted by the royal family in a nobody-dies Bail/Breha/Fox AU (Bug, Jaonyc, Yancy, Helio, Vidal)

Shili Squad (Chen Nihaan, Alyx, Bella, Corvin, Watcher, Atlas, Ginger, Circuit, and Synch)

Shiny Squad: Kit's batchmates CT Lucky, CT Shrike, and CT Carno

Grafitti & Rence of the Corrie Guard

Kit also of the Corrie Guard and Fox's shiny/adopted son

Legacy and Legend, a pair of Force-sensitive batchmates who are smuggled to a Jedi temple

Prim Fett (clone, Mandalorian, and adopted daughter of Boba)

Riye Verda (Kamino-cloned, Mandalorian-raised)

Switch (clone, reconditioned, cyborg, mercenary)

Kryndi (florist and Kit's girlfriend in the royal OT3 AU)

Cathedi (Jedi)

Xerin (Jedi)

Clan Merit, composed of Quin, Aya, and Amery (Mandalorians)

Mirshko (Mandalorian)

Torrak Varkus and Torrak Vermil (Mandalorian)

Vinir (Mandalorian)

Soruli and Seryla (Nautolan Jedi and Force-sensitive smuggler)

A'Hidayat (Tusken)

U'Rajya (Tusken)

Tusken OC umbrella tag

Ripper (Yautja in Star Wars)

Valkyries (all-women pirate crew-slash-polycule)

CC Kamor, Eixes Judarri, and Padawan Rivi from the Better or Worse AU, where a clone captain finds and adopts his general's padawan, with the help of the Zabrak smuggler who becomes his queerplatonic partner

Chen Xunielah, a Togruta ambassador and duchess, and her clone husband Chen Nihaan, who form the Chen family with their kids

Scrapper Crew, a collection of troublemaking ladies

Come Home AU, about Mando spouses separated by the Empire and later reunited

Mordex, a Force-sensitive kid enslaved by a Sith who later becomes a bounty hunter during the Clone Wars

Transformers:

Button

Chromeblaze

Demoiselle

Goldshot

Neutrobolt & Nitroblitz

Nightflash

Stormbrake

Voltcast

Various:

Rowan

[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 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 should have been there," he shuddered.

"You were." Cynthia softened.

"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 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: >30 Gender: Female-ish Origin: UK Timezone: UTC/ BST (UTC+1)

Find me outside of Tumblr ➼ Discord: druidx ➼ AO3: DruidX ➼ NaNoWriMo: DruidX ➼ Imgur: 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

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: 26 Jan 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.”

[redrobin-detective]

give lilies with full hands

“Ghosts at the cemetery, why am I not surprised?” Valerie grumbled under her breath as she glanced at the glowing dots congregating near Heavenly Gates, Amity’s largest cemetery. It was just after 5pm on a Friday; Valerie should be at home getting ready for a fun and relaxing weekend. Instead, she was speeding forward in the dreary pre-rain mist about to tackle a hoard of the undead. Her life was so strange and unfair sometimes it just fueled her hatred for everything ghostly.

As she approached the cemetery, she slowed down and had her ectoweapon up and ready to shoot. Instead of a fire fight, she found an eerie, unsettling quiet that sunk deep into her bones and made her unable to move. She just hovered above the cemetery and took in the full scope of the scene. The Fentons were here, hard as they were to miss but like Valerie, they were also frozen with unease. Mrs. Fenton kept fiddling with her weapons but couldn’t manage to lift it in a meaningful way. 

The fog hung heavily around the cemetery, clinging like wet paint dripping down an unfinished picture. She could make out the unnatural glow of several ghosts, a few of which she recognized. That annoying child pirate ghost none of the adults could ever see was sobbing silently, curled up in a fetal position on the ground as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible. The biker guy and girl were cuddled into each other, leaned up against a grave looked scared and worn, flickering dangerously like static on TV. Val spotted Ember looking frightened and quaking looking like she wanted to run but was unable to. Her soft glow alerted Val that there was another ghost she’d initially missed.

The ghost was more shadow than anything, the fog moving through and from them. They were a swirl of greys and blacks in the approximation of a long cloak covering their face entirely. Pinpricks of bright lights shone from underneath the cloak’s hood. They bore down on Ember as if it were seeing deep into her soul and found her lacking. 

Phantom was there too, he looked almost normal compared to everything else going on so it’s not surprising she’d missed him at first. The fog dampened some of his ghostly glow and he was standing properly instead of floating. Like Val and the Fentons, he seemed unable to move. The heavy drizzle in the air flattened his normally gravity defying hair. If she hadn’t known better, she’d say he was a normal person standing there, albeit one with weird fashion sense who went a little crazy with the bleach. And if Phantom looked human in comparison then just what was this new ghost?

“Amber Jablonski,” The ghost whispered quietly within the cemetery but Valerie could hear perfectly well, as if were being spoken into her ear. From the shivers she saw come from the Fentons, they were experiencing the same thing. Ember moaned, something deep and agonizing. She fell to her knees as more of her glow faded. “An eager musician just making a name for herself in her small town. A performance at a barn had faulty wiring. The building caught fire and Young Amber was trapped by debris and unable to escape.”

The flame in Ember’s hair burst into brilliant blue flames before painfully sputtering out like a candle on the verge of going out. A wisp like ghostly hand reached out and tenderly ran a finger down the side of Ember’s face like a mockery of the tears she could no longer shed. “Cause of death was severe burns across her whole body and smoke suffocation at the age of 22.”

“Enough,” Phantom announced suddenly, stepping forward through the ghostly arm putting himself squarely between Ember and the wisp ghost. The dead rockstar barely noticed, her whole form trembling as she looked down at the cold earth with absolute horror. Val wondered if she was feeling the cold of the cemetery or the burning heat of an out of control fire. “You’re killing her.”

“She is already dead,” the ghost answered, “as are they all. They are but echoes of lives come and gone.”

“That doesn’t mean you have the right to remind them,” Phantom said, looking more ghostly again. His aura flared suddenly and his eyes lit up like angry lightning bugs in a jar. “Death is sacred, it’s private and you’re using it to hurt them.”

“It is my duty, I am the Mortem Obire. I make the restless dead confront their own mortality, remind them of what they lost.” The ghost stared down Phantom who flinched but overwise stood his ground. “It is because of you, Danny Phantom, that I have been summoned to this realm. Your life essence has made these ghosts forget what they were. They flock to you, drawn to your vibrancy, seeking what they’d lost. The dead were straying from their existence, emboldened by your example, they were forging new purposes. I am merely correcting their assumptions to preserve the delicate balance that maintains the two worlds.”

“But death shouldn’t have to define them, I mean us,” Phantom pleaded. “They can grow if they want, experience new things. The end of life isn’t the end.”

“How very human of you,” the other ghost said breathily, an unnatural imitation of a chuckle. “Your death, if we can call it that,” the ghost said, “was born out of innocence and ignorance. Nature demanded the experiment fail but your naivety allowed for the flow of life and death to be disrupted. You looked at a machine you could neither understand or control and made the attempt anyway. Your hubris consumed you in the form of electricity, pain firing through your whole body as you screamed for a relief that never came. Your old body was obliterated and remade into the abomination you are now.”

Oh god, Phantom was electrocuted. He had lived his last moments as a human screaming and in pain. She knew he was vaguely around her age but it was one thing to know a kid her age had gone through that and another to hear it described. Without thinking, she lowered her weapons. 

“Yeah I know that,” Phantom said weakly. “I took out the power in the whole city for a few hours which I felt bad about afterwards. What’s your point?” His glow was completely gone, the wet humidity of the air clinging to him much like how it fogged up Valerie’s suit. The shadow of the sinking sun made his white hair look dark and the greens of his eyes had faded into a less unnatural blue/green. 

The only think remotely otherworldly about him was a faint pulsing glow coming from the center of his chest. It beat like a heart, a soft brightness that seemed to dispel the overwhelming feeling of death. Ember looked up from the ground, the pirate kid uncurled himself a little, biker guy and his girlfriend became a little more solid. They looked at Phantom with such awe and envy and grief it was almost painful to watch them stare at what they clearly lacked. 

“My words hold no domain over your heart now, child of two worlds,” the ghost wheezed, floating past Phantom. “But someday you will greet death properly, be made humble by it, and I will be there to remind you of how fickle and fleeting that precious life of yours is.” 

“I-” Phantom defended, glowing slightly with his eyes once more an ectoplasmic green. But now it was obvious to see how much more lively and present he was compared to the others. She still hates him, will probably still hunt him but while she knew Phantom was a ghost she knew, whatever he was, she couldn’t call him dead. Not with eyes so sympathetic and expressive and alive.   

“Be gone, all of you mortals, this is a place for the dead,” the ghost commanded. The ghost hovered over to the Box Ghost who had been shivering behind a tombstone the whole time and suddenly went still as stone. “Your compassion for them does them no favors. This is the price for their existence, the dead cannot and should not forget. That is their purpose and this is mine. This is not an end to their existence, merely a reminder.”

Valerie never thoughts she’d see the Fentons flee from a fight but still she watched as Jack and Maddie slowly backed up until they reached their garish assault vehicle. They fumbled for the handles, not willing to tear their eyes off the ghosts before climbing in and driving off. Phantom looked torn, grief stricken as he watched the mist ghost, the Mortem Obire, speak softly to the Box Ghost. He looked like he wanted to interfere, to place himself in-between again but his shoulders slumped as he realized the futility of the action. This was the nature of death and memory and the living were not to interfere.

He glanced up at her, wary and saddened before disappearing from view, going off to wherever it was he lived his life when he wasn’t causing her problems. Valerie swiftly turned her board around and sped quickly in the direction of home. This had left her a lot of things to think about, about Phantom, about ghosts, about what it meant to stick around once your number was up. 

But that was for later, for now she wanted to get out of chill before the rain started in earnest. She wanted to drink something warm, sit close with her father and feel their hearts beating in time. Valerie Grey wanted nothing more, in that moment, to simply breathe in and appreciate her life before it was taken and those happy memories used against her. She would not die full of regret for what she had missed.

[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​

[paperpocalypse]

crackers and jam.

50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts: 41. Overhearing they have feelings for you.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,703 words

Warnings: Swearing

Some time back, not long after he got stranded in the post-apocalyptic world and perhaps a year and a half before running into you, Five’s only companion was Delores.

It had been a meeting of chance (as everything is) in the middle of a destroyed department store. She had been looking at him. And maybe that’s why he was so drawn in – that stare; it was a lifeless stare, yeah, but it was not by any means a dead stare like the ones he had met too many times before. No life had been lost to create that stare. She was smiling, too.

Five had lifted her carefully out of the chunks of concrete, greeting her because there was no one else. For the first few weeks, he just placed her at the corner of her store and visited every once in a while, then took to occasionally toting her around the City when he needed to talk. He liked to pretend that she answered back – sometimes. After a few months, he named her Delores.

Then he met you.

Unlike Delores, you were human. Breathing. Alive, somehow. And you had thoughts and feelings that weren’t always connected to his and – and it was weird. It was home.

You didn’t question his friendship with Delores. Five had seen the half-burned stuffed frog in your wagon, so you wouldn’t have had anything to hold over him anyway. He knew that you knew that he still went to the department store in the middle of the night. And, shit, deep down Five also knew that Delores was, in the end, just a hunk of plastic with eyes. But after a year and a half of having nobody else, she had become something of a comfort. And a confidant. Burdening you with his issues was not an option, so when things became a little shittier than usual, he would slip out from underneath his blanket, make sure you weren’t having a nightmare, and head downtown to voice his thoughts aloud.

Over time, though, he learned that you were willing to listen. You listened, and you were always kind about it even if you didn’t always understand. His nightly visits decreased. And it was okay for a while.

But then Five began to struggle with a new issue – one that was a little different than the usual mess of stress and anxiety – and one night, he finds himself looking down at Delores again because talking to you about it is definitely off the table.

Unfortunately, Delores’s kindness is different from yours.

Well, here we are. Again.

“I’m just here to think,” he snaps, combing a grubby hand through his tangled mess of hair. The lantern beside him glows weakly as he plops down onto a slab of concrete. “Mind your business.”

Your business is everyone’s business here, Five. And to put my own two cents in, I think that you’re scared of your own feelings.

Blood travels to Five’s cheeks, unwarranted, as he narrows his eyes at Delores. “For the last time, that’s not what this is about. It’s – Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get over it. This isn’t a life-or-death issue.”

Then why have you been ranting about it like it is?

“I’m not.”

Ha! Rich.

He grits his teeth. She stares back at him, unperturbed. Bastard.

You know, maybe you’ll feel better if you say it out loud. Air it out. Test to see if it’s real.

“I’m not doing that.”

Do it.

No.

Say it.

No.

For god’s sake, Number Five, take a goddamn look at yourself –

“Fine!” Five hisses, though it feels more like an explosion. He throws his hands up. “I like [Y/n], alright? We’re the last people on this goddamn planet and I like them, and I shouldn’t care this much but I do. Happy?”

Delores pauses. Five looks away.

Very.

Ugh.

Did it feel real?

He clicks his tongue, crossing his arms, and doesn’t answer. The smile on Delores’s face seems a little smug, and it makes him want to hurl. He shouldn’t have said it out loud. Relieve some of the pressure and everything starts to boil over …

Breathing in deeply, Five forces his shoulders to relax. He bids a soft goodbye to Delores, then heads back to camp.

—

A week later, Five’s visit comes back to bite him in the worst way possible.

You’ve been having a hard time starting the fire for tonight, so he finishes splitting the evening rations to help you out with the bow drill. As he does so, you watch in silence, both of you waiting patiently for the smoke and dust.

“Do you think we have enough wood?” you eventually ask.  

“It’s enough,” he murmurs, only half paying attention. After a while, a few chalky wisps of smoke begin to rise from the charring wood. He leans in to blow the ember carefully once it forms, then puts it into the tinder and coaxes out a flame. “Get the kindling?”

You oblige, and within a few minutes, a healthy fire starts to dance atop the wood, scorching his face and fingers with heat. Five stares intently at the oranges and yellows for a moment, lips pressed together, intrigued in a tired sort of way. Warmth. Then he backs off and grabs a portion of crumbled up crackers, handing it to you.

You spread the cloth over your knees. “Now all we need is some jam.”

“What kind?”

A soft hum escapes your throat. You contemplate unhurriedly, dabbing up some stray crumbs with a finger. “Blackberry,” you reply after a few moments. “Or strawberry. The kind that’s sort of chunky.”

It’s been a long time since he’s tasted either of those things. The simple thought of whole crackers spread with fresh jam, sweet and dark and sticky, is a luxury in and of itself. Five tries not to think about it too much, munching on his third fragment of stale cracker. It makes his mouth dry. “Hm,” he says, picking up the canteen for a few drops of water.

The fire pops. A few sparks fly out into the air and die just as quickly. You finish your supper and wipe your mouth, stretching your legs out in front of you as you sigh.

Five tilts his head at you. “What?”

“What?” you parrot back, though he sees the way your fingers fidget.

“You have something to say.”

Your facial expression shifts just the smallest bit. “How can you tell?”

(Simple – because he knows you. He knows your ticks; knows how you tick. He knows your smiles and all the subtle ways that your voice rises and falls. He’s memorized you because he fears forgetting, and it’s a problem.)

“Kind of hard not to,” Five replies.

“Oh.” You chew the inside of your cheek, still seeming unsure. “Well, um … I just wanted to talk to you about something. And please don’t be mad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Um. A couple nights ago, I had a bad dream.”

“I know.”

“Not the one you woke me up from. A different one,” you mutter. “The night after we found the pillows.”

“Oh,” Five says.

“Yeah.” You look down at your hands. They’re dusty and rough, littered with small scars from climbing and falling and holding. “I … um, that night, I woke up and you weren’t there. And I sort of panicked, and went looking –”

The blood drains from Five’s face.

“I went looking for you, and I found you. Talking to her.” You glance at him for a split second. “About me.”

Oh, fuck.

Five stares at you as you fiddle with the scrap of cloth on your lap. You know. You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to ever know, and now you do.

“Five?” Your voice is curious and small.

His voice is raspy. “How much did you hear?”

“Almost everything.” You grab the cuff of his coat sleeve as he attempts to stand up. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. I really didn’t mean to, but –”

“It’s not your fault. Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies tersely. “We need more firewood, anyway.”

“We have enough,” you say, though you relinquish your hold when he tugs a little harder away from you. You sound hurt. “Five, it’s okay to feel like that.”

“It’s not. It makes things more complicated.”

“How?” Standing up, your brow furrows. “I like you too, Five. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

His chest tightens. “That just makes it worse.”

“I like you,” you repeat. Your hand moves down to take his gently. “A lot. And it’s okay.”

(Did it feel real?)

Five meets your gaze solidly despite not quite wishing to, a familiar sense of guilt washing over him when you squeeze his hand.

Sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t met you. Then he would’ve gotten what he deserved for his recklessness – nothing – with nothing to concern himself with other than equations and survival and time. That, he’s fairly sure, would have been easier to manage. He hadn’t been taught to care for someone else. Not like this, at least.

But you. You. Five swallows the lump in his throat.

“I might have to leave you behind,” he murmurs, more hoarsely than he’d like to admit. The words burn like ice on the roof of his mouth. “One day.”

You don’t reply for a few seconds.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, you step a little closer. “But not tonight," you say. "Right?”

For shit’s sake, you’re so optimistic. Five chuckles dryly, hand still engulfed in yours, blinking away the vague stinging in his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Then I forgive you. If you feel like you need it.” With a mild exhale, you smile at him. Your eyes are glossy. “So can we sit back down? I like doing that.”

He quietly agrees.

So you bring him back down to sit before the fire, closer to him than before. No more words are left to be said. A heavy silence settles in their place, neither good nor bad, and almost comfortable. For the first time in a long time, Five tries not to think.

You lean against his shoulder. He welcomes it.

[jaskierswolf]

Hello dearest Overlord!! May we please have a continuation of that brilliant Chicago fic you gifted us? It was SO GOOD I can't stop thinking about it lol

Maya! I meant to have this done for your birthday but life... sorry! Either way! Happy belated birthday! I shall upload to AO3 tomorrow!

Previous

Rated: E

Ship: Geraskier

Summary: After a night of sweat and sex and sin, Geralt knows it's time to apologise for the harsh words. If only he could find the words to say (Yes i'm abusing TAD lyrics... oops)

CW: weapons kink, shaving kink, minor injury, talks of rimming, and general hoeyness.

______

Geralt stared up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the wall. The room stank of sweat and sex, and a warm spicy scent that wafted from the bard that was curled up on his chest. The night before had been possibly some of the best sex in his long life, but it had been tainted with the worry that it was the only chance he would get. Jaskier was still angry, and rightfully so, but it meant that Geralt wasn’t sure if this was the last time he would ever see his most loyal friend and companion. His fingers were softly trailing down Jaskier’s spine, painting flowers into the bard’s bare skin. Geralt couldn’t bear to watch Jaskier sleep. He was too beautiful, even covered in sweat, drooling over Geralt’s chest. Geralt just knew that if he looked then he would never be able to let Jaskier go.

And he couldn’t keep the bard if he didn’t want to stay.

“I can hear you thinking,” Jaskier mumbled, shifting on Geralt’s chest to press a kiss to the exposed skin. “It’s very distracting.”

Geralt huffed a laugh despite his growing anxiety. “Distracting you from sleep?”

“Mhmm.”

They laid like that for a few more moments, neither quite ready to face the day yet. Jaskier seemed to be trying to fall back asleep but after a couple of minutes he groaned and rolled onto his back. He pouted as he looked up at the ceiling, his hair a ruffled mess from where Geralt’s hands had run through it the night before, and there were dark bruises littered all over his neck, creeping down his chest where thick hair covered the pale skin. A stark reminder of Jaskier’s masculinity despite the way he preferred to present to the world.

Geralt swallowed as his cock began to make itself known. It could easily be excused as morning wood if Jaskier had decided that Geralt’s crimes were too dire to forgive, but he couldn’t help but hope.

“It appears that despite my best attempts, I am awake,” Jaskier grumbled, pushing his hands through his hair.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, waiting for Jaskier to pass judgement before he really spoke.

“So… witcher,” Jaskier breathed, his voice guarded and cool, making Geralt stiffen as he prepared for the worst. “I think we can both agree, that was a rather fantastic evening of carnal delights.”

“Hmm.”

“But not even sex with dear Melitele herself would make up for, well, you know,” Jaskier rolled onto his side and peered down at Geralt with icy fire in those pretty blue eyes, “the whole ‘if life could give me one blessing’ thing.” Jaskier’s voice deepened in his impersonation of Geralt and his words were accentuated with a flourish.

“Jaskier-”

“I meant it, Geralt. I want an apology, a real one, or forget it. I can find inspiration elsewhere, and well.. I- you probably weren’t my friend at all if you can’t see that what you did was wrong. I may be a bit of a prick sometimes, but I deserve better, Geralt.”

“I know,” Geralt whispered, wondering when the lost puppy that had followed him for so many years had grown up.

How had he never noticed?

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” he breathed, struggling to find the words to explain just how sorry he was, but hoping that the bard would understand. “I- I was… I,” Geralt growled and covered his face with both hands, his beard scratching at his calloused skin.

The world felt like it was against him as he tried to gather his thoughts, but before he could, Jaskier’s hands were covering his, gently pulling them off his face. “Breathe, darling.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t have the words to put this right.”

“Then show me, dear heart.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed as he gazed up at the bard, shining cornflower blue eyes shimmering in the morning light, his fringe falling down to cover them. He looked beautiful. Geralt reached up to brushed the hair from Jaskier’s eyes but it didn’t work and they both chuckled as Jaskier huffed a breath to try and blow it out of the way. “How?”

“You can start by getting rid of that beard. You look very handsome but my arse itches like a bitch this morning,” Jaskier grumbled.

“You weren’t complaining last night,” Geralt teased.

“Well, I was hardly going to whine about it when you had your tongue up my arse!”

Just like that the ice seemed to have broken and Geralt smirked as he pulled Jaskier into a kiss; the taste was stale and unpleasant on Geralt’s tongue but he didn’t care, he was kissing Jaskier., The bard moaned softly into the kiss, shifting on the bed so that he was straddling Geralt’s hips. Jaskier’s fingers were splayed on Geralt's chest as he rolled his hips against Geralt’s erection, making them both gasp into the kiss. The heat from the night before was back, not blistering and blinding but a slow build of embers as they were once again lost in the taste of each other.

And Geralt felt… happy?

He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to be happy. Perhaps at Kaer Morhen before he set out onto the path for the first time. Before he learned that witchers were no better than the monsters they hunted in the eyes of humanity. There had been some brief moments of happiness when he’d been beside Jaskier on the path, the quiet moments before they went to sleep but Geralt had always been plagued with guilt, worried that he would destroy the fragile being that trusted him.

Of course, his fears had become reality, but in spite of everything Jaskier was still here with him, his lips pressed against Geralt’s neck, hands carding through his hair. So, because of the unfamiliar lightness in his heart, Geralt decided to tease his friend, his love, his bard. He grinned as he captured Jaskier’s lips once more in a bruising kiss, fingers digging into the bard’s hips to hold him close, and then he rubbed his cheek against Jaskier’s.

“Oi!” Jaskier grumbled, sitting back on his heels and glaring down at Geralt.

“What?”

“That beard has got to go,” Jaskier muttered, rubbing at his cheek. “If you really want to do the whole ruggedly handsome thing, which by the way, I don’t hate, then I am showing you how to look after a beard. It’ll be as soft as a baby’s bottom.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll shave.” Jaskier just grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “What?”

“Or…”

“Jaskier…”

The bard winked, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips in a way that really should be illegal. “If you trust me?”

“I do.”

“Then you’ll let me shave it off. I don’t have a razor but my daggers are plenty sharp enough?”

Geralt blinked, staring up at Jaskier as every single thought he’d ever had left his head. He was suddenly thrown back to the bard’s performance the night before. The way he’d moved, the touches to his skin, the frankly sinful way his body had looked in the corset and tights, an outfit better suited to a whore than a Viscount.

And his voice.

Dark, dangerous, calculating.

The same voice that usually held the warmth of the sun, turned to bitter poison as cold steel flashed in the candle light.

Geralt groaned, pressing his head into Jaskier’s shoulder, as the memory of the bard flipping the daggers in his hands with deadly precision, the edge of the blade glinting as he brushed it against his own neck. It was almost too much to handle, especially now that he’d had a taste of Jaskier, knew the filth the bard’s lips sang in the throes of passion.

“Oh, ho, ho!” Jaskier giggled, his fingers stroking through Geralt’s hair, sending a shiver down his spine. “You like that, don’t you witcher?”

“Shut up, Jaskier.”

“Oh no. No, no, no, I am loving this. I mean, I knew you enjoyed the show but I thought it was just the whole-” Jaskier cut himself off with a wave of his hands. “But it was more than that, wasn’t it, Geralt?”

Geralt was in no place to argue. His cock was impossibly hard and aching, trapped underneath his bard as he continued to roll his hips at a torturously slow pace. Jaskier’s cock was also hard as it moved against Geralt’s stomach, leaving a mess of precum on his skin. The sight made Geralt’s mouth water, and he was tempted to forget the whole beard thing, if it just meant that he could get his lips around Jaskier’s cock. Make his bard sing just like he had the night before, but before Geralt could think about manhandling Jaskier into the right position, the bard had leapt to his feet, leaving Geralt weak and wanting alone on the bed.

“Jask,” he breathed, watching the curve of Jaskier’s bare arse as he danced across the room.

“Be with you in a moment, darling,” the bard sang, sweeter than a nightingale.

And Geralt could do nothing but watch helplessly as Jaskier unsheathed the daggers from their holsters. The steel looked sharp and deadly. They were clearly very real weapons, not props, and Geralt felt his head begin to spin with lust. He had to remind himself to breathe, lest he pass out. Jaskier was too busy inspecting the blades to notice Geralt’s predicament, and he ran a long lutist's finger along the sharp edge of the dagger, hissing slightly as it cut into the skin.

“Sharp enough?” he turned to face Geralt, winking as he licked his lips.

Geralt nodded, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. It was a miracle that Jaskier managed to still speak so eloquently even in the height of arousal, when Geralt could barely remember his own name.

“Brilliant!” Jaskier beamed, hopping back across the room without a care for the weapon in his hand.

He was a disaster.

Geralt honestly wasn’t sure how Jaskier hadn’t cut his own dick off. He clearly had no sense of self preservation, and yet Geralt was going to let him press that dagger to his throat.

Perhaps he was the idiot after all.

“Come now, Geralt, off the bed, I don’t want to get hair on the sheets,” Jaskier waved him over, flipping the dagger absentmindedly in one hand.

Geralt just scoffed. “I think there’s worse things on those sheets, Jaskier.”

“Sit!” Jaskier insisted indignantly pointing at the stool by the basin in the corner of the room.

There was no arguing with that, although Geralt did wonder if Jaskier would turn the blade against him, even in jest, and that thought had his cock throbbing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so desperate, probably watching Jaskier perform, the searing jealousy as the fake Geralt and Yennefer lay their hands on Jaskier’s body.

Jaskier took no notice of his inner turmoil, of the raging fire burning inside him. Instead, he hummed an unfamiliar tune under his breath as he readied the dagger for its job. After the passion of the night before, the quiet intimacy was almost too much. Geralt just hummed as he settled into an almost meditative state, letting Jaskier move his head around as he needed to without resistance. The bard pressed his leg between Geralt's, staying still but keeping a gentle pressure on Geralt's cock whilst the blade moved methodically across Geralt's skin.

Every stroke of Jaskier's blade against Geralt's skin sent a wave of arousal through his body. He'd never seen Jaskier as anything more than an annoyance on the battlefield, and the calm stillness of the moment made him see his bard in a new light. He wondered whether Jaskier had been holding back on him this whole time or whether this skill with a blade was something he’d learned in their time apart. Without a witcher to protect him, Jasker had no doubt encountered no end of trouble. He’d ended up in the brothel after all… although it was like no brothel that Geralt had ever been to.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” Jaskier breathed almost silently, his lilting voice cutting through the cloud of meditation. Even in his meditation, his senses were locked onto Jaskier, ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice. It was an instinct he’d never realised he’d trained into being, it happened so slowly. One day he was wishing that Jaskier would finally get bored and leave, and the next, Geralt knew he would defend the idiot with his life.

But now it seemed Jaskier could hold his own, and that was just fucking hot.

Geralt didn’t know what was happening to himself. Everything he thought he knew was turning on his head, and he was somewhat irrevocably in love with the bard, he’d barely admitted was his friend.

By the time Jaskier was done, the blade smoothly gliding across Geralt’s skin, a finer shave than any barber he’d been to in all his years.

“Geralt, dear heart?”

“Hmm…”

“There you are,” Jaskier cooed, cupping Geralt’s cheek in his hands until Geralt let his eyes flutter open.

Jaskier was gazing back at him, his eyes blown wide and his cheeks flushed. The scent of arousal in the air made Geralt’s head hazy with lust. Before he could even think about what he was doing, Geralt knocked the dagger from Jaskier’s hand, the steel clattering as it flew across the room and bounced on the floor. The bard opened his mouth to protest but Geralt had been aching and hard for too long, and he was desperate to get his mouth back on Jaskier’s skin.

With a yelp, Jaskier was pushed back onto the bed, whining as Geralt teased the tight rim of muscle. Despite their long night of sex, Geralt would need to stretch him again, and he couldn’t wait. He’d found great pleasure in taking apart his cocky arrogant bard with both his tongue and fingers the night before, and he knew he would quite happily spend a whole lifetime doing it again and again. There was no better music than the noises Jaskier made when Geralt had his tongue lapping at the bard’s hole.

Without warning, Jaskier lunged to the edge of the bed, distracting Geralt with the curve of his arse so he didn’t notice what Jaskier was grabbing at until it was too late. The dagger was at his throat forcing him back onto the mattress, the tip of the blade hooking underneath that wolf medallion.

“Gotcha,” Jaskier winked, knocking all the air from Geralt’s lungs in less than a heartbeat.

“Jask,” he breathed, his words slurred as he struggled to see through the fog of lust.

“If I forgive you, witcher, do you promise not to throw me away like that again?” the bard’s eyes burned, but Jaskier saw through the mask to the scared little boy, one so frightened of being abandoned.

“Never again,” he vowed. “I swear.”

Jaskier let out a soft sigh and the tension visibly melted away from his body. “Good enough for me.”

And then he pressed their bodies together once more in a burning kiss that would stay with Geralt for the rest of his life.

[becaeffinmitchell]

Fic: what i have (is who i carry home) (1/1)

Summary: Chloe, as it turns out, loves Valentine's Day.

Of course she does. Beca can't say she's surprised in the least.

aka, five Valentine's Days Beca Mitchell's had.

Note: After ten thousand years, I’m free! Or, you know, after eight years, I’m finally posting my first Bechloe fic. Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone 🥰  Gif credit goes entirely to @evenstars​ (thank you so much again!)

Words: 4,954

Read below or on AO3!

--------

i. 2012, Freshman Year, Barden University

There are so many other things Beca would rather be doing.

Like go to the dentist. Actually show up for class. Spend time over dinner with her dad and the step-monster.

Okay, maybe not that last one. Nothing in the world would make her choose that.

But here she is, in that stupid red hoodie, holding that stupid bow and arrow, standing in front of people, refusing to sing that stupid song with Amy.

*

 Later, back at the auditorium where they have Bellas practice, Aubrey's voice is shrill and loud. (As always, Beca thinks.)

"Beca, you really need to be picking up the slack. We need every dollar that we can raise so that we have enough to cover our journey to the semi-finals, and you're dead last in our fundraiser right now."

Amy mutters something under her breath, soft enough for Beca to hear something about — the bus? The Trebles? She doesn't really know. Whatever it is, it's not something she wants to get in the middle of.

"Maybe we can think of something new to do." Beca's tone is dry, and she schools her expression into something neutral on her face, her head tilted slightly, knowing that Aubrey has to know she isn't just talking about the fundraising activity.

It's just — she can feel the potential of these girls, okay? And it's such a shame that they're stuck doing the same three songs, over and over. If she could at least try, show them her arrangements, maybe they'd have a fighting chance.

"I have the pitch pipe, and I say we do this exactly how we have been doing it."

Beca is about to say something snarky, something she knows is going to get under Aubrey's skin, when Chloe's voice rang out beside her.

"It's okay. I'll do it with Beca tomorrow."

She hasn't even noticed Chloe approaching them in the midst of this, so her head whips around so fast at the sound of her voice.

"Don't you have a class during that time, Chloe? That's the whole reason why we couldn't pair you up with Beca." There's something about Aubrey's clipped words that is super careful and controlled, like there's more that she wants to say but isn't.

Chloe shrugs, before turning to Beca with a beaming smile. "It's okay, skipping out on one Russian Lit lecture won't make a difference."

 *

 Chloe, as it turns out, loves Valentine's Day.

Of course she does. Beca can't say she's surprised in the least. She thinks she doesn't know anyone who's more enthusiastic about everything and anything.

There's something about Chloe that feels like embers starting at the base of Beca's dead, cold heart, warming it up and turning itself three sizes larger.

It's not a thing she wants to unpack right now; she's not the type to get attached to people, and especially not when she's going to go through with her plan, and leave at the end of the school year. It doesn't matter if her dad helps her or not.

"Do you have any plans for tomorrow?" Chloe's voice, melodic as it comes, breaks the silence as they walk towards the south quad. She looks ready to go through the entire residence hall, her angel wings bouncing behind them.

"It's a day corporations literally invented to convince everyone to buy cards and chocolates and flowers at jacked up prices, so..."

Chloe lets out a happy sigh. "Maybe so. But it's also a day to celebrate love! And love is so awesome. I love love. And I'm not just talking about romantic love, though that is nice. You can also celebrate the love from all relationships in your life. Like your best friends, or your parents, or your siblings."

Beca raises an eyebrow, because Chloe is just so goddamn earnest. She tugs at her hoodie. "Let me guess, you and shower guy have a date?"

"Who, Tom?"

"How many shower guys do you have?" There's a beat. "Actually, don't answer that."

 *

 So here she is, still in that stupid red hoodie, still holding that stupid bow and arrow, standing in front of people, and singing a duet with Chloe Beale.

 *

 The next morning, Kimmy unceremoniously drops a box at the foot of Beca's bed, a loud thud waking her up.

There's a sleeping mask, a whole clip of flash drives, two huge jars of peanut butter, and cans of Red Bull in the box. There's also a card, and her name is written carefully in the middle of an envelope.

Happy Valentine's Day, Beca!!!! I've said this before, and I'll say it forever: I'm SO glad that I met you. I LOVE that you love music like it's the one thing you can't live without. It's something that really resonates with me, too. You make us better. :) :)

xoxo,

Chloe!

 *

 Beca drifts off to sleep that night, the music still playing in her headphones. She's wearing that sleeping mask across her eyes.

 ------------

ii. 2014, Junior Year, Barden University

 The thing with Jesse is, he really loves these grand gestures of romance.

Sometimes Beca thinks that that's his favorite part. It's almost like he's in love with the idea of being in a relationship.

Worse still, in love with the idea of her, like she's this perfectly scripted character who exists for him.

Last year for Valentine's Day, Jesse had shown up at her dorm. Well, outside of her window actually, boombox on his shoulder. She'd tried not to wince, her lips pressed together into something resembling a smile (she hopes) to the strains of In Your Eyes, at the ungodly hour of dawn.

It isn't even that she had just gotten to sleep like, two hours before that. Or the very clear and enunciated "fuck off!" that her neighbor gave them, complete with a dramatic slamming of her window. At least she doesn't have to deal with that now, now that they've all moved into the Bellas house, newly renovated.

It was just a lot, right? And maybe she should have been a better girlfriend to anticipate it this year, or at least match some of that. Rise up to his level, or something. She just has a reservation to a fancy Italian restaurant in Midtown, and she made that way in advance. So maybe she gets points for that?

January rolls into February, and she dreads it. Every day is a countdown to The Fourteenth.

 *

 Here's the more pressing thing: Chloe seems sad. Not all the time, but Beca catches it occasionally.

She presumes she knows her best friend pretty well by this point, until she's doing things like failing a single class on purpose so that she doesn't graduate. For the second year in a row.

And Beca gets it, at least on an abstract level. If she starts thinking about what comes after graduation — and that's in a year and some — she gets nervous, too. But in no version of her reality does she get so paralyzed with fear, that she would opt to repeat her senior year like it’s groundhog year.

She wishes she could know why, for certain. She can't help if she doesn't know what's going on in Chloe's head, but for the first time, it's Chloe's turn to clam up and switch the subject.

So Beca doesn't push. She hopes it's enough to keep her afloat as she works through whatever it is. She doesn't really know what that entails, but music? Music she can do.

She pours her energy into putting together a really solid mix for Chloe; it's all the songs that remind Beca of her, and their friendship. She picks songs and arranges them and removes them before she puts them back in, because it has to sound right.

Beca feels like the world's biggest dork for giving it to her the morning of Valentine's Day.

Well, second biggest dork, because she intercepts Chloe leaving the gift boxes in the room, for her and Amy.

"Hey, uh. Happy Valentine's Day," she says, handing her the flash drive — one of the many that Chloe has gotten her over the years, like she's her supplier — and hoping she doesn't look as awkward as she feels. "It's not anything like your, like, super thoughtful gifts." She gestures in that general direction. "But you're my best friend, so... here."

She gets pulled into a hug, and Beca can't be sure, but it sounds like Chloe's 'thank you' is strained and she's about to cry.

Beca hopes it's enough.

 *

 "So, Jesse gave you just the one earring?"

Beca's back from the dinner. It was... nice? There was a string quartet and Jesse made them play John Legend's All Of Me, and Beca didn't actually die of embarrassment when he started singing along, so she'll chalk that up as a win.

"Yeah, it's like — symbolism, I guess. From the movie." Beca shrugs, chewing on the popcorn she's made that Chloe is currently stealing. She thinks about lightly smacking her hand away, but ends up shifting the bowl so that it's nearer to Chloe.

Does she regret putting Don't You (Forget About Me) in their setlist? Maybe.

Probably not, all things considered, because it worked well together with the other songs, and they did win the finals that year. But it elevated the movie to mythical and legendary status for Jesse, and if he does that arm raising motion one more time during squabbles he wants to get out of? Beca might lose it even harder.

"Is it symbolism or a metaphor? I could never tell the difference."

"I think it was a metaphor in the movie," Beca starts, a thoughtful expression on her face. "But more of a symbol for like, me and Jesse? Oh my god." She presses her free hand to her eyes. "You're such a nerd. Stop making me think deeper about this than I need or want to."

"I just think it's nice," she hears Chloe say.

Beca hums, tone neutral. "It's something, for sure. Wait." She whips her head to face her best friend. "You didn't go out tonight? Ms. 'I Love Love'?"

Chloe chuckles lowly, quietly. "I have all I need here in this house, anyway."

 *

 When Beca goes to the kitchen in the middle of the night for a glass of water, she thinks she hears the soft strains of her mix playing from Chloe's room.

   ------------

  iii. 2017, Brooklyn, NY

 It's apparently the warmest February in New York on record, but Beca is still fucking freezing.

The incessant chill envelops the air, and she pulls her coat closer to her. She's bundled under layers, but the radiator in their tiny little apartment is, as most things in it, almost completely busted.

Jesus Christ. It's cold.

 *

 Amy is convinced she's cold because she's moping, because she's sad about breaking up with Jesse.

Beca knows she isn't, and it's not just the long distance thing.

They'd given it a fair go, and it sucked that he got busier with classes and she tried to solve all of the music industry's problems as an associate producer, working hours trying to make tracks sound... sonically unrotten.

It's not just the long distance thing, because if Beca was honest with herself, it was probably a sign that when he told her that he was thinking of completing his studies in California, her immediate response was that of neutral indifference.

So, she is totally fine.

 *

 Beca hears Chloe singing softly before the door even opens, and she can hear it swing open too, and she knows Chloe is about to shrug her coat off —

"Don't bother, it's also cold in here," Beca says, from under the covers.

Then, her eyes track Chloe as she walks to the radiator —

"I checked, it's working. Supposedly."

"Aww." Chloe strides the distance — not that it's that long — and sits down on their shared bed. "You're so cute when you're grumpy."

"Aren't you freezing?" she chooses to deflect the comment, hugging herself petulantly. "Hey, how was your date with that guy at the clinic?"

Chloe hums noncommittally. "We went for coffee and he double-booked me with another girl."

"Dude. What a dick." Beca feels a flash of — annoyance? Chloe deserves the world. Chloe deserves everything she wants. "I'm sorry."

"I know. It's okay though." Chloe smiles at her. It's that smile that Beca catches that she thinks it's just for her, but she's also a logical person who knows that Chloe has that ability to make people feel like they're the most important person in the world. "I've got all I need right here."

Warmth pools at Beca's stomach, and honestly. It's a nice change from the freezing.

 *

 It's 2 AM, and they're cuddling, because of course they are; because Chloe is warm; because Chloe is an embrace personified; because... Chloe.

Beca stirs awake, and she feels Chloe's breath tickle at the base of her neck. She shifts, not uncomfortably. Then, Chloe's hand drifts sleepily, and lands somewhere on Beca's hip.

And then.

And then.

There is a sudden, startling clarity in Beca's mind, knocking the figurative breath out of her. Her eyes fly open.

She loves Chloe.

And not in the same way where she loves the rest of her found family in the other Bellas.

Oh no, a voice sounds in her mind.

Oh, this is very bad, she thinks.

She can't believe how still she is right now, feeling the entire weight of Chloe's body in contact against her. Feeling her slow, steady breathing against her back. She's not even cold anymore.

Okay. So she loves her best friend. Cool, cool, very cool. That's totally fine. She can handle this.

Chloe's been such a fixture in her life, at every turn; in every note in between the downbeat and upbeat that is her life. Music is in Beca's veins, her whole life, but music flows right through Chloe. She's tucked warmly in the melody, a motif throughout the entire song.

Holy shit, Beca thinks. She's been in love with Chloe for so long, she doesn't even know when it started.

 *

 Okay, so. There's a weird spot on the ceiling, right? And Beca just keeps staring at it, because if she closes her eyes, she will feel Chloe's presence so keenly, pressed next to her.

She can't do anything with this knowledge. She can imagine it now, Chloe giving her a comforting hug but tells her, sorry Beca, I love you but not in that way.

It's five whole years of friendship, of Chloe by her side no matter what, and that is the one thing that she's got that she doesn't want to risk, just because she had this stupid revelation.

God. It's so stupid. It'll pass. Right?

 ------------

 iv. 2018, Los Angeles, CA

 What is really fucking weird, even in the grand scheme of things, is journalists asking her if she's doing anything for Valentine's Day.

Which, like. First of all, Beca's not stupid, she knows it's a way to suss out her personal-slash-love life.

She's kept that pretty close to her chest for now.

But also, there's literally nothing to tell. She's not being defensive because there's something to hide away. Beca is knee-deep in work all the time, and she goes home to an apartment that feels too big for just herself. It's a big change from the entirely too cramped apartment in Brooklyn.

Sometimes she finds herself missing that very specific part of her life. Not the struggling and being unhappy doing work with no integrity, obviously. But Chloe is now a message and three hours ahead, instead of being a daily fixture in her apartment, and it leaves Beca feeling off-kilter.

But maybe that distance is a good thing, after... you know. Revelations.

Anyway.

Her work ethic doesn't stop rumors. She's linked to every guy available — and some not — every single time one of them likes her Instagram posts. She's pretty sure she's had at least two full relationships, according to the National Enquirer.

Theo gleefully sends her screenshots. She tells him to fuck off.

 *

 Chloe Look out, super star! I'm going to be in LA for a good friend's wedding in February!! If you think we're not going to hang, you're sorely mistaken.

 Beca is busy, but she sure as hell isn't going to miss Chloe coming to LA.

 Beca You have good friends outside of the Bellas? I am shocked, Beale.

 Chloe Don't be jealous 😉

 She's not. Not because of that, she catches herself thinking, and frowns at herself. Not because of anything, she decides. It's also exactly how she decides she doesn't have feelings for Chloe anymore, because Chloe is happy with Chicago, and Beca has work, and honestly? Best outcome out of every outcome possible.

Still, Beca offers up her apartment for the long-ish weekend that Chloe would be in town. She's not a monster, and Chloe has like, a mountain of student debt.

It's the least she could do.

 *

 (Beca thinks back to that first performance at the Citadel, just under a year ago. Thinks of all the nerves she's never felt before, while she's walking to the microphone. She's always had the girls on stage with her, but not this time. Her family would be seated in the front row, supporting her no matter how far she goes.

She gets to bring them up on stage this time, of course, but it's also a temporary balm and she knows it. But that's fine, she can figure that part out.

It's the after that smarts a little.

After the performance, after the event, after she feels that pit, growing and clawing from her stomach when she sees Chloe lock lips with Chicago.

After she walks away with Theo, trying her level best to carry on a conversation as if she's not affected by what she'd just seen; trying not to think of all the what-ifs.

After, on the plane back home, when she directs a small smile at Chloe's direction. If she's happy then she's happy for her.

It's the least she could do.)

 *

 Chloe's flight reaches the airport at 7 in the evening, and Beca's right there at LAX, waiting for her to emerge. She can see a couple of people with the big paparazzi cameras, training their lenses at her, but she doesn't care.

There's a flash of red as she sees Chloe running to her, and thankfully she catches her.

"Oh, I've missed you," Chloe says, so earnest and sincere as always; always, and Beca can hear her own heartbeat. She's almost worried that Chloe can too, like a traitorous Tell-Tale Heart.

"Yeah, well, regular sight for sore eyes, that's me." That's good, right? She hits jocularity right in the bullseye with that, as if she can't feel the top of her ears growing hot.

Chloe just laughs; like another kind of warmth. She draws her in again, hand rubbing up and down Beca's back.

Beca thinks she's stupid, for feeling like she's home.

 *

 They get to Beca's place, Chloe appraising the place appreciatively as she wheels her luggage in.

"This is already at least fifty times nicer than our little shoebox in Brooklyn," she observes, and Beca shrugs, a little embarrassed.

"I mean, the label's paying for it, and it's like, it's — it's ridiculous." There's a voice at the back of Beca's head repeating, our little shoebox, and she wants it to shut up.

But it is ridiculous. She has so much space, and two rooms; she sleeps in one and the other one is where she works. She's pretty sure she spends more time in the latter than she does the former.

"Anyway, uh, so here's my sort-of office, it's a bit of a mess right now." She waves her hand around (god, why is she using her hands so much) at the room with her equipment and instruments, before stepping to her bedroom door. "And here's the bedroom, which, like. You should take the bed. My couch pulls out and it's really comfortable?"

"Don't be silly," Chloe tells her, looking back at the king-sized bed. "We've slept in way more crowded spaces. This will be perfect."

Beca swallows, hard. Perfect.

 *

 Falling back into a routine with Chloe is scarily easy.

She's been here for less than three hours, and Beca's already back to being attuned to her. They put on some music in the background, she listens to Chloe talk so passionately about school and all the stuff she's learning, and Beca is so proud.

She brushes her teeth and changes into her pajamas after Chloe does, exactly like how they used to, and climbs into her bed.

"Oh, shoot, I almost forgot," Chloe's saying, and Beca cocks her head curiously to see what she's forgotten. Her best friend comes back with a box, and hands it over to her.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Bec. Also, I don't think flash drives are in fashion now," she winks. "So your Google Drive storage has been renewed, for all the audio files you need to back up. Don't worry, I didn't look at anything else."

"Wh — oh. Oh, right, Valentine's Day, gifts and all," Beca says, and looks at the box in her hand. "Wait, is this —"

"Chocolate from your favorite place in New York? Yessss," Chloe says, a laugh coloring her tone. She settles back into bed. "Not that you have a shortage of chocolate places here, but Amy reminded me of the time she ate most of the last box after how you were saving your favorite pieces, so I thought I'd bring some here for you."

Beca's heart clenches.

"Thanks, Chlo." She's pretty proud of how unwavering her voice is. "I miss it."

"It's been tough for me too, not having you in my orbit," Chloe says, bumping their shoulders together.

"Yeah? Must be extra tough, because Chicago's not around either." Then she's scrambling. "Not that I'm like, comparing myself to your boyfriend in any way."

She sees Chloe's mouth twist to the side. Beca's eyebrows knit together.

"Chlo?"

"He's not my boyfriend anymore." Chloe's words are slow, measured. Like she's afraid of setting something off.

Beca pauses, as she takes it all in.

"Oh. I mean — Are you okay?"

"Yeah. It's been..." Beca sees Chloe's furrowed brows as she thinks. "Three months, almost. Just right before Christmas."

Beca thinks back to Christmas; to the group messages, the online gift cards and food deliveries made in each other's names. Nowhere in her memory exists this piece of information, and she's pretty sure she's not been that shitty of a friend to miss this.

It feels a little bit like being hurt, actually.

"Oookay," she says, licking her lips a little, letting the air out of her slowly. "Okay. Well. Good night, Chloe."

 *

 Beca can't fall asleep, and she's pretty sure she knows why. It's been an hour of staring at the ceiling, and she tries to will her stupid mind to shut down for the night.

She thinks Chloe must be asleep by now; her body clock must be three hours —

"Bec?"

Beca pauses for so long that she thinks Chloe might actually think she's asleep.

"Yeah."

She feels Chloe shift. "I want you to ask me."

Beca wants to be obtuse and frustrating; wants to pretend she doesn't know what she's talking about. Instead, the confusion and hurt win out.

She pushes herself up on her elbows, then into a sitting position. It doesn't feel like a conversation that they should have lying down. She waits for Chloe to do the same, before finding her voice and words.

"Why didn't you tell me that you and Chicago broke up?" Dimly lit by the street lights outside, Beca sees her shift in place, and she feels Chloe's hand reaching for hers. "I thought — well. You know. That we tell each other things."

Which is slightly rich, coming from her, she knows. But still.

Chloe sighs, just quietly. "Because I have feelings for someone else."

Beca blinks, taking that in. It's a weird feeling because she's simultaneously crushed and hopeful, and maybe it's the hour, or maybe it's Chloe's hand in hers, but as her eyes sweep across Chloe's face, Beca is emboldened.

She leans in, and time feels like it's slowing down as she closes the distance and presses her lips on Chloe's, roughly and then temperately.

Beca's not the most impulsive person. In the moments, though, when she is, they always leave her wondering if she'd done something stupid — like punching creepy middle-aged a cappella guys, like leaving in the middle of a fight, like pulling the girls up on stage during her solo set.

Like kissing Chloe Beale in her bed.

So she pulls back suddenly, as quickly as she had started it, an apology already stumbling out. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I just assumed, I'm so sor—"

Chloe makes a noise; something that sounds like no, her eyes so startlingly blue even in this light, and Beca freezes. She's sure her brain is working out some sort of rambling apology or excuse, maybe pass it off as a joke somehow?

But Chloe pulls her back in, both thumbs lightly touching Beca's cheekbones as she meets their lips again.

This second kiss is deeper, slower, more connected. It takes her breath away, as her hand curls at the back of Chloe's neck. Chloe tastes like mint and sweetness and sincerity, and a little like hopeless optimism on Beca's part.

A soft gasp escapes, and Chloe pulls away this time.

Beca has a tentative smile on her face, as she takes in a breath heavily; the questions written so plainly on her face.

Chloe's eyes shine.

"It's always been you, Beca."

 ------------

 v. 2020, Los Angeles, CA

 Having your anniversary on Valentine's Day is good. And bad.

Mostly good, because it means that Beca has that to help keep herself honest and not forget it, because it's impossible to.

Also, she won't forget, but, you know. Just in case.

Bad, especially last year, because it fell right around the Grammys weekend, and apparently when you're nominated and win pretty much... every single category you're in, that's kind of a big fucking deal.

(It started with Best New Artist, and by the time she's on that stage a fourth time, she literally had no other words and nothing but so much gratitude.)

But yeah, so last year's Valentine's Day-slash-anniversary was overwhelming. People contacting her from all corners, wanting to congratulate her and get some sound bites; the internet pouring both support, and scathing critique on her and her music.

Beca wishes she could say she rose above it, that she was as cool as her publicist thinks her to be.

Instead, Chloe had to deal with her, a stressful human ball of anxiety and nerves. Amazing, wonderful, sweet Chloe, just happy to be around her during these exciting and utterly vulnerable times.

 *

 This year, though. This year she's older and wiser.

Hopefully.

This year, the day falls on a Friday, but they've decided to celebrate it the next day and through the weekend instead, because Chloe has a seminar she needs to attend for school, and Theo had packed Beca's entire day with a long meeting.

Key word: had.

At 7 AM, as she wakes up groggily and checks her phone, the invite has disappeared from her calendar, presumably rescheduled for some other time. She vaguely notes the message from Theo about entire teams not being available, and Beca's not going to question the reason why, because she's immediately looking up flights to Ithaca and books the first one out.

 *

 (I'm not private jet rich, dude. Also, carbon footprint. Text to Amy, because of course.)

 *

 Here's her plan:

She'll make a beeline to Chloe's apartment (Beca's been here plenty of times, in the past couple of years; met her friends here in Cornell, hung out with them, appreciated that they're her support circle while she's here), and she'll say something incredibly dorky, and Chloe will kiss her, and then, they will properly celebrate.

God, the things Chloe can do with her mouth; the sounds Beca can get her to make.

Beca doesn’t even bother squirming in the plane seat.

 *

 Chloe I have a surprise!!!

Whereeee are you? 🥰🥰🥰

 *

 Here's what happens instead:

Beca has to fly back home — noun, the place where she lives; noun, Chloe — because while she was spending six hours flying east, Chloe had done the same in the opposite direction; her seminar being canceled (something about the professor being sick?).

She can't believe it.

Okay, she can maybe believe it.

God, the Bellas are going to have a field day with this.

 *

 In the group chat, Chloe's taken a selfie of herself in Beca’s apartment and captioned it: I flew here a day early to surprise Beca, but she flew to Cornell instead to surprise me too 😂

 Emily OMAG YOU GUYS that is SO CUTE!!!!!!

 Beca reads Emily's text, shaking her head, knowing that this is the younger girl's version of restraint.

 Flo One time I thought a guy was going to propose to his girlfriend on the plane, but turned out he was having a heart attack instead.

 Jessica&Ashley #justsoulmatethings

 *

 Rush hour in LA is so horrible, and it's nearly 8 PM when she finally gets back to her apartment. She jogs all the way from the Lyft to her door.

Beca never jogs.

Her own door flings open, and she sees the smiling face of the woman she loves.

"Flying cross country for me is so romantic."

"You did that too," Beca points out, a small smirk on her face.

"Yeah, but you did it twice." Chloe beams, and kisses her again, and again.