#standalone fic

[meli-writes]

Mechismo - No. 03 /// Speak

(First) / (Previous)

When the reappropriated battle-radio crackles to life— Pss-Tat-tat. It’s good.

“—ou copy? Answer! I know—” Psssat-at-at. It’s the oft-heard, impatient snap of takeout breadstick or asshole-bone. Psst-tat. One of those, at least. “—need help.

Okay?”

Boots slip to the deck in a restrained show of attentiveness; pulled through loose cablets — anxiously-chewed at the stray ends — that have hewn radio to emplaced console. That beg it remain connected, to the dropship’s comm-booster. Tsss-at-tat. Still within reach.

You want to hear this — need to, were waiting to.

But the pack — lance, she’ll be here soon to pipe-in indignant with — doesn’t need to see that, their breaths hitching as you click down on the transceiver, “Aww. Howdy pup, ya not doin’ so good right now?”

“Don’t call— Ugh. You were right!” she exclaims. “Not—” Psss— Tick!

Tsss-Tick-tick! The radio needs to be tuned to hers — its signal obfuscated before now, even with the leash hardwired between them, and the tracker buried in her bought-out frame.

It’s the hiss-click when internal-atmos sneers out through a cockpit-shield; where— Tsss-Tick! Where the sea presses on its laminate interlace which melds still, after hours sunken, the internal-external halves of its shattered, protective screen into purposed form.

Whereon the seabed her mech rests to be recovered, and indebted for the courtesy.

Tick-tsss-tick. Or the kettle that rattles to a whinesome, third climax — another pack-hound ordered to bring her tea, without notice to the possibility it’s because it never tastes how she made it. Tsss-tick-Tick-Tick!

One of those,

at least.

It takes some more dials to find her. Tick-tick—Tack! Then it locks in, and she’s yours.

“—were knocked out. So it’s just me — that’s left,” she pleads between the hiss that remains: the unmistakable whine of pilot exhaustion and shrapnel-bled coolant dripping onto wet, fizzing circuits. “Okay.”

Somewhere below, a treat rattles from tread-to-tread; out of the recesses of bounced-up combat boots, through metal slats into the underdeck — for the rats, not dogs, to feast on this time. Though one still mounts a boot-tip, bobs up into your spare hand, and “Oh. How I’d just adore making it all right for ya pup,” you drawl, wait out the seconds, to lap up each transceived pant of desperation. “But— y’know, ya gotta make it right first.”

Speakers shudder in electric anticipation as the meagre band of frequencies a battle-radio is allowed to occupy choke on two shots in sudden succession. Thhunkh. Thunkhh. Your radar flickers into range, to see the targeted blips but a moment before they flicker out.

There’s so many more than those ones, than hers — bright speckles of seawater mould on the dull, hooded monitor.

“Yeah. Sure,” she spills, spent shells in the oil-suckered muck, doesn’t have the time to mute, “can take it from my friends’ corpses when this contract’s done — like I didn’t pay enough gettin’ outta yours.”

You think it’s a shame, how she values them — valued them — over her own family, slipping her leash to leave the pack behind. “Handler,” she begs — her words huddled between the rhythmic shunts of her main-arm reloading.

You feel the way it tears itself apart each time it fires — how it trades off: so much power, but it must hurt itself too. How she didn’t know how to repair it — before you, “No.”

“Wha—”

“No more debts,” you append, in correction of her. It’d look the same on the company files but, “Ya always looked sad when ya owed me.”

“So how the fuck am I supposed to—” Her shriek suffers another’s interjection; the hull-creasing bellow of another blow taken, less glanced than the last, less her fainting gesture at leverage. “Fine! You wanna fuck me, right? ‘Cos I never gave you the chance.”

Mould pours into a brittle crescent around her, cut apart at the gridlines and nowhere else.

She must’ve backed into her prize: a vessel downed in distant memory, too much promise of precious relics to be uncontested, now the winds have shaken it from its grave. At last its rusted silvered shell bounces an invisible laser back into the rangefinder. You count down each point: two-point-six clicks, two-point-five, point-four, point-three.

She doesn’t need to know that — would know it herself, 

“Ya ain’t gotta make it right to me,” you explain, punctuate it with the loose, separation-anxious howl of the smallest of the pack’s three. It nuzzles past the mounted one, and whimpers as you tamp fingers down on radio and tongue, to tell her.

“It’s to your sisters.”

All your hounds whine now, except her. But that’s still good. The pilot-suits will recirculate the lost fluid — most of it. The rest will help it slip off, after she’s back, and even before that it’s little between them and the ridged, rubber toe-caps each vies to press themselves into.

“Are you not over this,” she cries, even though it’ll soak the soft trim of her head-mounted display. “I left months ago and I’m dying now.”

You retreat a wet index-finger from an eager, pulsing throat — rub the mess on its cheek, let out a soft snap. “I’m not, pup,” you turn on her, and two sub-point clicks fly past before you’re able to continue, “and you're already whining so perfectly for me.”

Each hound has stirred now, rushing to collar themselves in their owned, metal skin.

Your words echo into their cockpits, “Bark for your owner.”

It’s not even for them but— Awooo! And it must count sixty-four seconds or less, till they’re hot and grounded, “and I’ll be right over.”

If they want their reward, “I can’t believe I’m—” If there’s still one to collect.

You look at that speckled crescent, know from how it falls on her what each wretched speckle is — model, armament, pilot-temperament — and can count the seconds you’ll need to break it. Can count the second you have to break it, and are losing as drop-sirens howl and steel starts to pounce upon the earth.

“Daisy,” you bark — worried she’s silent.

But then, the radio crackles. You hear the hitch in her throat — as the dropship shadows the broken field, before her pack lights the darkness, and realise, in relief, that she is waiting — waiting to, “Speak!”

“Arf!”

“Good girl.”

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

written for Making-up-Mech-Pilots' prompt:

Mech Pilot who is very upset that they don't get to pick their own callsign.

technically started writing this before i made a tumblr account but i believe this will be appreciated here. it started off more playful and invariably i have made it sad but also smutty. lmk if you like it <3

[weasleys-wizard-writes]

Beautiful Ruiner, Damn My Ashes

George Weasley x Reader Smut 18+

A standalone fic from the We Stood In the Sun (Before It Exploded) series.

Genre: Smut, Angst(?)

Content Warnings:

NSFW

Grief

Word Count: 1,296

He panted heavily, his chest heaving as he groaned out in both anguish and pleasure, the feeling of your nails raking down his back somehow splintering him and bringing him to life all at once.

God, you were ruinous.

The way you looked up at him when he touched you like this, filled you like this, it was addictive, life altering, something he could not live with nor without.

You would be the end of him,

And oh what a cruel and beautiful fate that would be.

The crescents of your nails stamped permanently into his skin, your voice the last thing to play before his ears, and your body beneath his the final thing his eyes would ever see,

How could he dare to argue with such a lecherous end to his life? Such a fruitful lust, as long as it culminated in him seeing the stars that played behind your eyelids when you finally came undone for him.

So beautiful,

So heartbreaking,

So necessary,

So incredibly ruinous in Every. Single. Way.

The end of all ends,

The beginning of all beginnings,

Your body, your pleasure, you.

He felt guilt begin to build in his chest as he watched you, brushed the hair out of your face and behind your ear as you whimpered pitifully beneath his body, helpless to his never ending barrage of fulfilling thrusts as he penetrated you to the hilt

over and

over

and

over

again.

He growled harshly at his own uncontrollable thoughts,

His own uncontrollable needs,

And quickly took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, watching as you opened your eyes to meet his familiar, cold gaze.

But he was so struck at what he saw within those eyes that his hip-bruising voracity waned, and his own orbs widened in surprise,

There was hope there, pride, joy, and something else he could not put his finger on,

Or rather, something that he did not want to put his finger on,

But, no matter,

They were rather occupied at the moment anyhow.

But those eyes,

So beautiful, so shiny even in the dimmed light of his bedroom, where only the dying bulb of his bedside lamp and the moon could light his path to salvation,

(to you).

He was awestruck.

There was silence in his mind for a few moments, as he stared down at your body, at the place where the two of you were connected as one, despite everything he had done, and everything that he had not.

But then, noting his slowed thrusts and sudden lack of urgency, you mewled for him in a way that made his mind race, those claws of yours moving from his back to his hips to pull and scratch at them, causing them to stutter before speeding up once more.

Surely you would kill him like this, oh beautiful ruiner, damn far more than his soul, but even his ashes to Hell for the thoughts you caused him to have.

He was ruined for anyone save for this woman who laid before him, that was for certain.

And all of his feelings for you, the hatred, the annoyance, the fondness, the admiration, and that one other thing he had seen in your eyes...

They made it so hard to focus, so hard to forget, and he couldn’t help but wonder what else he was doing this for if not that.

Why was he buried within you, gasping for air, pressing his sweaty forehead against your own and almost smiling, if not to forget?

He could not bring himself to answer the question, but he could bring himself to push it away, and drown himself in you,

And so he did.

George began to thrust his hips into yours even harder, his finger tips digging into your ass and hips with a bruising force as he lifted you towards him for better access, desperate to be connected, and desperate to be whole again.

You gave him all that he could ask for and more, and he hissed when he felt you press closer, your ankles locking around his hips as you squeezed your thighs tighter to his body, your head falling back in what he prayed was bliss.

You were a perfect sight to behold, such beautiful damnation, as if you were made solely for his eyes to see.

Suddenly,

Cursing, gasping, growling, George came deep inside of you, his hands shaky as he lowered you to the bed completely, slowly severing the connection between your bodies.

It was cold all alone, so cold when he couldn’t feel you, that he had half a mind to bury himself inside your heat once more, and just forget about the outside world.

But before he could, you spoke, confusion in your voice as you raised your hand to his face to brush some of his over-grown ginger locks away from his eyes.

“George?”

You asked softly, and your voice made him shiver far more than the coldness of this lonely world outside of you ever could.

“Yes?”

He replied quietly, as if afraid he would frighten you away if he spoke too loudly.

“Why wont you kiss me again?”

George felt his eyes widen at your words, and they swept over your form slowly as his mouth began to form a response,

“I can’t, it wasn’t fair when I did before. It wasn’t real, it was just hungry, and cruel, and I won’t do that to you again. I’m not a monster, Y/n. I’m not.”

His words were spoken more to reassure himself than you, and he knew that, but even so he looked towards you once more to see your reaction, and the sorrow and everything else, unchanged from before, that could be found within your eyes was very nearly too much for him to bear.

Especially that unnamed emotion, the one that made his stomach clench in fear.

You raised your fingers, adept and nimble, familiar and haunting, to his face once more, this time framing his cheek and stroking it gently with your thumb as you spoke, sympathy so evident within your tone that it should’ve made George angry,

But this time it only hurt.

“Oh but George,”

You murmured, and he panicked as your familiarity started to fade, and that emotion he could not, would not, name, began to bleed away from your gaze,

“If that’s true, then why are you here?”

Ice cold fear clutched at George’s chest as your body beneath him vanished, your warmth replaced with an oh so familiar nothingness that made him want to weep for not just what he had lost, but for what he had never even had the opportunity to lose in the first place.

He was so lost in the darkness, with nothing and no one there, and he called out your name for what felt like hours with absolutely no response but his own voice echoing back at him, reminding him of his sins, and his atrocities born from grief.

He awoke in his bed gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest as he sat up quickly, looking around for someone in his darkened bedroom, the only light being that of the moon, which poured in past his open curtains.

Fred was not there,

You were not there,

He was completely alone, and the world was cold again, outside of you.

And there was nothing to do now but lay awake and remember your warmth while ignoring that feeling of guilt as it grew stronger and stronger inside of him, because he knew

He would never find that emotion in your eyes anywhere outside of his dreams,

And you were not his to dream of in the first place.

“Beautiful ruiner, what have you done to me?”

masterlist

Here is where I keep my tag lists, whether they’re permanent or just for a specific series or character. If you would like to be added to my taglist let me know and I’ll add you :)

[sabine79]

New Fic in my "Romance All The People In And Around Sun Haven" series!

Summary:

Lynn is a blacksmith, like her mother and grandmother before her. She’s left her small village in search of training and opportunity. Therion is an elf who’s in search of an adventure before settling down, probably with someone his clan approves of. They meet on a train and things spiral.

All my Sun Haven stories

[wildsaltair]

Tender Fires

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, with a few hints of spice)

Word Count: 6.4k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @aelondrias

Author’s Note: I'm back with another Maximus fic! This is actually part of a larger narrative in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where she tends his wounds and they fall in love but have to fight their feelings because he intends to leave to keep her safe. As always, this fic is written from the deepest longings of my lovestruck heart, and I hope that love is obvious :) Thank y'all so much for your kind words about the last fic, and I hope you enjoy this one!!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“You’re up late.”

At your words, Maximus turns his head to look at you, and a soft smile crosses his lips. His features are etched in shadow, flickering with the dancing firelight.

He’s seated in front of your kitchen fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing deep into the flames as if searching for some hidden meaning within. You would never have known he was in here if you had not been awakened by the loud cracks of thunder outside and come in search of the warmth of the fire.

An autumn storm, a midnight fire, and the most captivating man you have ever known, dressed only in his plain white sleeping tunic. It seems like a combination intended to lure you into trouble.

As you move to sit in the chair beside him, he looks back into the hearth, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have stayed awake staring at many fires in my life,” he tells you quietly, his voice deep and thoughtful.

Out of the corner of your eye, you risk a glance at him, looking for the scar on his ribs. He has been with you for a little more than two weeks now, helping you with odd jobs around the farm as his strength returns. His wounds, though still vulnerable, have healed quickly, and you are relieved to see no signs of further injury on the parts of his skin that you can see.

“As have I,” you reply, eyes still lingering on him. “Though for me, it has always been the same fire. This one.”

He hums in response, nodding slightly. You have never sat by this fire together at night, and you are bewitched by the way the light dances over him, makes his golden skin shimmer. The lines of his arms and shoulders are limned in shadow, the firelight flickering on his handsome features.

You are overcome with a desire to put your hands on him, to feel the heat of his skin and the strength of his body, but you cast your gaze on the fireplace instead.

“I envy you that,” he answers softly, after a short reflection. He glances up at you, studying you intently. “A home fire, always burning in the same place.”

The meaning of his words is not lost on you.

Every day, the thought of him leaving you is more painful. At the moment, as you sit close enough to listen to him breathing, the thought is unbearable. Your home is his home now, and you long — more than you have ever longed for anything — for him to realize that he belongs here.

His shadowed eyes search yours a moment more, then return to gazing at the flames.

You take a deep, steadying breath to calm yourself. Your hands are trembling, and you smooth them over your skirt, hoping he does not notice how nervous you are from this simple interaction.

“Tea?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself to stand and get a bit of space between the two of you.

He glances up again, and your heart clenches at the gentleness in his expression. He nods. “Thank you.”

Have his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? Are you imagining the way his gaze lingers on you, drinking in every detail of the way you move?

You can feel the tension in the room thickening, your own heart beating faster as you fill the kettle with water and set the tea leaves to brewing. Somehow, sharing space with this man is so much more intimate at night, with a storm raging outside and a warm fire bringing extra heat to the atmosphere.

Even more astonishing to you is the fact that you are not afraid of this powerful soldier. He is strong enough to do anything he wishes to you, to take whatever he obviously wants. But even now, standing here in your night shift, with your hair and your defenses down, you have no fear of him.

If anything, you wish he would initiate a touch, a kiss, anything that would lead to the passion that has been haunting your dreams every night.

Such as your dream last night. You can still feel the sensation of your body thoroughly tangled with his, your limbs entwined, his hands pulling your skirt up to your waist. Your cheeks burn when you remember all the places he kissed in your dream, all the places he touched and explored and pleasured. Such thoughts make you ache all over again, especially now that you are standing so close to him.

A blinding crack of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, pulls you from the dream-memory of his mouth hot on your throat.

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you ramble on the first topic you can think of. “My father used to tell me stories beside this fire,” you announce as you hang the kettle over the fire and settle back into the chair beside him. You don’t dare meet his eyes, even as a smile crosses your lips at the memory. “I always begged him to tell me ghost stories even though they frightened me.”

He tilts his head to the side to look at you curiously, a smile of his own playing at his lips. “What kind of ghosts do you have in these parts?” he asks, leaning on one arm of the chair to look at you more squarely.

Somehow, having his full attention focused on you is unnerving, undoing, arousing. You can hardly find the words to speak.

His eyes are still on your face as you feel a deep blush burning in your cheeks. You hope he will attribute it to the warmth of the fire, not your intense reaction to the way he gazes at you. If he only knew how much more heated you are by his presence.

“My favorite is the Howling Woman,” you blurt out, glad that your voice is not as unsteady as you feared. “She wears all gray, with her head covered. She’s been seen in these mountains for decades.”

He does not interrupt you, but your breath catches as his gaze wanders across your face. An absent smile is still on his lips, and he seems to be content to simply watch you, to let his eyes trace the lines of your face, your neck, your hair where it tumbles over your shoulders. His gaze is searching, admiring.

How will you find the strength to hide your desire when one look from him could bring you to your knees?

Clenching your jaw and willing the kettle to boil faster, you continue your story determinedly. “They say she was the wife of a farmer who was killed after being thrown from his horse. She found him with his neck broken.” You pause, still breathless from the effects of his undivided attention. “She went mad and drowned her own children. When she came to her senses and realized what she had done, she walked into the wilderness to die.”

You wait for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he does not. He is still leaning on the arm of his chair, his dark eyes captivated by the sight of you in the firelight. You can almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down — where your shift does little to hide the shape of your figure.

But somehow, his watchfulness is not an act of seduction. He seems genuinely swept up in your story, spellbound by the sound of your voice. He listens to you intently, curiously, and waits for you to continue.

“But to punish her for her crime,” you continue, blushing even harder, “the gods cursed her to wander these mountains and valleys for eternity, never able to die and meet her family in the afterlife.”

It is the sound of your voice, you realize now. His gaze wanders over your features slowly, as if measuring them, but his silence persists the longer you speak. It is as if he cannot bring himself to interrupt you, so captivated as he is by your voice.

“She still walks at night,” you finish, finally allowing yourself to look deep into his eyes. There seems to be no end to them, no way to pull yourself out of the gaze that holds you captive. “She wanders, calling and wailing and howling.”

He swallows hard, licks his lips, though you guess he does so unconsciously. A shiver runs up your spine, and not from your ghost story.

You lean forward, just an inch or so, to finish the story. “They say you can hear her best on a night like this,” you whisper, and the silence between you is so concentrated that you feel you might choke on it.

His gaze flits down to your lips for a moment, and in this flickering firelight, surrounded by warmth and desire, you think he may kiss you.

The silence is broken by a loud crack of thunder outside, one that makes you jump at its suddenness. You both look away, realizing how intently you have been gazing at one another for an inexcusably long amount of time.

The tea in the kettle is boiling at last, and, glad for the distraction, you lean forward to take it off the fire. Your two cups are sitting on the table beside you, and you fill both before handing one to him. He nods his thanks, and the two of you sit quietly for a few moments, looking deep into the firelight.

He is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks softly, with that pleasant raspy quality you have come to recognize in him at night.

You smile and lean back in your chair to sip at your tea. “Of course,” you confirm lightly. “Don’t you?”

His expression grows quizzical, and he doesn’t lift his eyes away from the fire. He takes a sip of his tea, thinks for a long time before answering. You are more than content to sit in silence with him, but he finally comes to an answer.

“No,” he tells you quietly, still mesmerized by the dancing flames. Eerie shadows prance over his fine features. “Spirits do not wander the earth after death. They go to the afterlife.”

His voice is calm and even, but resolute, assured. You have talked so little with him about such things, and you cannot deny your curiosity at learning more about what he believes.

“How do you know?” you press, unconsciously leaning toward him.

He does not move for a moment, just grips his cup tighter and sharpens his gaze at the fire. “I have seen enough death to feel certain of it,” he declares, then turns his head to look into your eyes again. “If ghosts could exist,” he tells you softly, gently, “then I would be haunted by them every moment.”

Your heart aches for him now, for the pain and grief he carries with him always. His life has been difficult, laden with the weight of many lives and much responsibility. Even in a peaceful haven like your home, he is ever followed by the burdens of his past, no matter how much comfort and peace you have offered him.

“Perhaps they do not wish to speak to you,” you suggest, tilting your head to show that you are teasing him. “Perhaps you do not know all there is to know in the world.”

His haunted expression softens as he looks at you, taking in the meaning of your words. As before, his soft smile smoothes the lines in his face, lifts a bit of the weariness etched into his features. You can’t help wondering if he realizes your effect on him, if he craves these moments of tranquility and comfort as much as you do.

“I am sure of that,” he tells you in a low voice, and your heart turns over at the simple passion in his eyes.

You lapse into silence once again, each of you drinking your tea and losing yourself in thought. Your own ponderings are of him, wondering what he is thinking. He has seemed burdened ever since you found him sitting by the fire, and you long to know what worries him.

If he only knew how your heart leaps at the sight of him, how you long to cradle his face in your hands, to kiss him until all his burdens are lifted, until all he knows is this deep, all-consuming love that has swept over your heart like an autumn storm.

The thunder continues to roll outside, the rain pelting your roof relentlessly, but the warmth of the fire and the pleasant constancy of his presence is comforting.

You do not press him for several long minutes, letting him mull over his worries in silence until both of you have finished your tea. When you set your two empty cups on the table beside you, you finally decide to inquire, pushing your chair a few inches nearer to him and leaning on one arm of the chair so you can look into his eyes more closely.

“What troubles you?” you ask softly, and he finally lifts his head, dark eyes burning into yours with all the intensity of the hearth fire.

His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies, “Ghosts.”

“Memories?” you ask, entranced by the way he slowly leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you one inch at a time. Your skin suddenly burns, aching for a touch, one simple touch, that will answer your constant longing for his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, in which he seems to ponder the consequences of what he wants, he finally lifts one hand and trails his fingertips down the side of your face.

“Shadows of things I do not understand,” he murmurs absently, and he traces the line of your jaw with fingers so gentle you cannot imagine them ever wielding a sword.

He gazes at you more openly now, his eyes traveling down to your lips as his thumb brushes over them. You suppress a shudder at the contact, and he strokes your lips a few times, transfixed by the sight, before sliding the backs of his knuckles down the column of your throat.

Stars in the heavens, if he only knew how your body is aching for him, how you respond to the slightest touch he gives you.

You finally find your voice to speak. “Is it your men?” you ask softly, as if the room has suddenly been overtaken by a spell.

He sighs, brow furrowed deeply in thought. “They were not my men,” he replies at last, still stroking his fingers down your neck. “Not the ones who betrayed me. My men were loyal, courageous.” His voice is thick with sorrow, and you sense that recalling this memory is painful for him. “They were my brothers,” he half-whispers. “They would have risen up in rebellion if they had known.”

Your heart aches again at the sadness in his voice, the sadness he works so hard to disguise throughout the day. Somehow, in the darkness, in the stillness of nighttime, he seems more vulnerable.

“Why does the Emperor want you dead so badly?” you finally venture to ask.

His hand stills on your neck, eyes not quite focused on your face. He seems to be traveling back in time in his mind, and he draws a deep breath as he thinks. Almost as if he does not realize what he is doing, his hand wanders to the base of your neck, absently stroking the sensitive skin there.

It’s all you can do to hold still, to keep from betraying how perfectly wonderful his touch is to you.

His voice is low and measured when he answers your question. “I once received favor that he believed should have been his.” He pauses, then raises his eyes to meet yours meaningfully. “By his own father.”

His words take you aback, and you know he must notice your wide-eyed stare. “Marcus Aurelius?” you squawk in disbelief. “You knew the great Emperor?”

“Yes,” he replies, his face softening into a smile at the memory. You are shocked by the revelation, but his fond smile warms your heart after seeing his heavily burdened expression a moment ago. 

He presses on, though his hand is now running softly over your shoulder, skimming over the top of your thin shift. “I was young when he took me under his wing,” he explains, eyes tracing the path his hand is making on your shoulder. “I had won some small battles, and he saw in me potential for greater things. He made me what I am today.”

He strokes your shoulder once, gently, then removes his hand, as though he cannot trust himself to keep touching you there. Again lifting his deep blue eyes to meet your gaze, he looks at you so tenderly, so affectionately, as he raises the same hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You want to melt, to close your eyes and sigh in pleasure at his simple touch, but you fight for your composure. “He must have been a great man,” you manage instead, meaning every word.

“He was the greatest man I have ever known,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through your hair at your temple now. “He is the closest thing to a father that I ever knew.”

You have noticed how the man is drawn to your hair whenever you leave it down. He seems fascinated with it, with the way it cascades through his fingers when he cards them through it. His attentions are so gentle, so unobtrusive, as if he is unable to keep himself from simply admiring your beauty in this soft firelight.

“And that is why the Emperor envies you,” you observe to keep from losing your breath.

“Yes,” he answers quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He believed that his father wanted to pass on his power to me.”

You nearly startle in surprise at his words. Not only the commander of the northern armies, not only a confidante of Marcus Aurelius, but the rightful future emperor himself?

You almost feel dizzy, though you’re not sure if it is from the shocking news or the way his fingers keep brushing your temple as he plays with your hair. “Did he?” you prompt him breathlessly, genuinely curious.

He ponders for several long moments, letting your hair stream between his fingers. You are entranced simply by looking at his features — his dark eyelashes, his sharp nose, the gentle creases by his mouth. He is so exquisitely lovely to you, so unaware of how deeply he affects you.

“I do not know,” he finally admits, tracing the side of your face before letting his hand fall back into his lap again. “He never told me.”

His words silence some of the shock you were feeling at wondering if you were in the presence of a man who was supposed to have ruled Rome. The thought of this man, this humble, honest, unpretentious warrior, ruling such a corrupt and conniving empire is almost unthinkable.

You are struck by the absence of his touch, and he seems hesitant to initiate any more contact now that he realizes how close he has drawn to you. He’s still watching you carefully, as if gauging your reaction to his touches, but you cannot resist reaching out to him now.

Your fingers seek out the necklace that hangs down to his chest, a simple cord bearing two wolf’s teeth on the end. You have never asked him about its origin. You handle it carefully, and the man barely breathes as your hand hovers over his chest.

“What would you have done if all this had never happened?” you ask softly, caught in the intimacy of this quiet moment. “Would you have been a soldier all your life?”

Your question is a heavy one, full of unspoken desire and curiosity. You can tell he senses that desire by the way his dark eyes burn into yours, by the way his chest rises and falls more quickly, as if you are taking his breath away just by touching his necklace.

He thinks for a few moments, still gazing deep into your eyes. “I always imagined I would die in battle,” he tells you, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “There seemed no other fate in store for me.”

Your heart tightens, and you let go of your loose grip on his necklace. Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, to make contact with his body somehow. His words have struck a chord in your heart, reminding you how grateful you are that this world-weary soldier has come to your home, to your hearth, instead of falling on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.

With your pulse racing, you press your hand flat against his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart. Even through the fabric of his nightshirt, you can feel his heart pounding like a war drum, perfectly in rhythm with your own.

Oh, how you long to press your heart against his, to be wrapped up in his arms, so thoroughly tangled with his body that you cannot tell where you begin and he ends.

His breath comes more quickly now, his lips parted and his eyes scorching yours with a hunger that stirs your blood.

“But,” he begins in a hoarse whisper, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up, “I did imagine, sometimes…” He pauses, licks his lips again, takes a slow breath, “that if I did have a chance to grow old… I might…”

He halts again, his voice dying in his throat. You press your palm more firmly against his chest, and his heart skips a beat beneath your hand. You can feel his skin burning hot under his shirt.

“Tell me,” you whisper, and a look of unadulterated desire flashes across his face.

He leans close to you, close enough that his breath skims over your lips. “That I might one day have a home,” he breathes. “A family.” He sighs softly, the longing in his voice especially evident. “A life of peace always seemed… unlikely.”

The hesitation in his words is palpable, and suddenly his own larger hand is covering yours, pressing it tight against his chest. You realize that he is relishing your touch the way you relished his a moment ago.

After holding your hand against his heart a moment longer, he grasps your hand in his, lifts it to his lips. Your own heart skips a beat now, when he presses a slow, languid kiss to the back of your hand.

“And now?” you whisper, breathless and tingling with need.

He breathes against your hand, slowly and calmly. “Now,” he echoes, his voice rumbling in your bones. “Now a life of peace seems impossible.”

No. No, he cannot mean that. He cannot still mean to leave you when his gentle eyes speak of the passion he holds for you.

“It does not have to be,” you insist, lifting your free hand to touch the side of his face. He actually sighs at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are slightly parted, and it takes all your willpower not to lean forward and kiss him until he can breathe nothing but your name.

His eyes remain closed when he responds, your hand still cradled in his. “To believe otherwise would be foolish,” he tells you, though his voice is anything but resolute. “Dangerous.”

You stroke the side of his face tenderly, enraptured by the way he reacts to your touch. He seems so relaxed, so overwhelmed when you caress him gently. The thought suddenly strikes you that this man has probably never been touched this way — not as light as a feather, with such love and affection that he can feel it beating in rhythm with his heart.

When you brush your fingertips down his neck, over the sensitive skin of his throat, he makes a sound so soft, so unguarded, that you nearly come undone for him right there.

“Are you not well acquainted with danger?” you whisper, leaning in closer to him. He opens his eyes when he feels you drawing nearer, and his fathomless eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You want him to stay. You want him to love you as you so desperately love him. You want him to never stop looking at you the way he is now.

And when you press your hand flat against the side of his neck, your gaze fluttering over every perfect feature of his face, his soul opens to you, and you see all the love you bear for him reflected deep in his own eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and he leans forward to close the few inches that separate your lips from his.

The first sensation that strikes you is his blood pulsing in his neck, hammering against your hand as you caress him. His own hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place while he presses his lips against yours.

There is no hesitation in this kiss, no second-guessing or reluctance. His lips move against yours in a rhythm so natural that you wonder if he has imagined this as many times as you have.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, drowning in your kiss like a dying man seeking air. You can feel the breath knocked out of your lungs, so unaccustomed to any attention as passionate as this. The man lifts his other hand to cradle your jaw, still kissing your lips, gently but insistently, over and over and over.

This is what heaven must be like, you realize distantly when his tongue slides against yours, every inch of your skin tingling in response. His undivided attention, his unashamed desire for you is so arousing, so delightful in every way.

You can feel your cheeks burning, your skin heating up, the longer his hands linger on your face and neck. His fingers stroke your jaw, and his other hand grips your hair just hard enough to hold you in place. He is still reveling in your kiss, still using his lips and tongue to draw out the softest moan you have ever made in your life.

As soon as he hears it, he moves his lips to press against the corner of your mouth, much as he did the first time he kissed you in the barn. He trails his lips down your jaw, peppering kisses on every inch of skin he passes.

Thoroughly excited by his kisses and touches, your mind is all too eager to provide any number of tempting images. When he dips his head to one side, lips touching the place where your jaw meets your neck, all you can imagine is the careful way he would undress you, lay you down, and make love to you, slowly and gently but passionately.

He drags his lips down your neck, his curious tongue coaxing another soft sound from you. Again, your mind flashes to all the ways he might use his tongue on you, all the places he could seek out and tease until you are so dizzy with pleasure that all you can say is his name, over and over.

Another press of his tongue, and it takes all your strength not to beg him to take you right here. You can imagine it so easily, the way he would grip your waist, your hips, the way you would wrap yourself around him and touch every inch of his bare skin if he would only give you the chance.

What would you not give to see him shudder in pleasure, to throw his head back and hold you tight as you cling to him and make him feel the same thing he ignites in you?

It’s at that moment that he whispers your name, tenderly, reverently, like a prayer, against the soft column of your throat. Your whole body shudders in response, your hands tightening where they have landed on his broad shoulders, and he finally fulfills what you have been aching for.

One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other around your upper back, and in the space of a breath the man has pulled you against him, leaning you to the side so that you are cradled in his arms across his lap.

You are suddenly very aware of how thin your shift is, of the way he must be able to feel every curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers are gentle where they wrap around your waist, and you feel with heightened awareness all the strength of his own body, all his powerful muscles and vigorous energy.

All you can do is sigh in pleasure as he keeps his head buried in your neck, still kissing your sensitive skin as though he cannot get enough of you.

You can barely take a breath, so overcome with the multitude of sensations he ignites in you. His hand flexes against your waist, and you respond in kind with your fingers digging into his back.

You have the distinct impression that the man is having to physically restrain himself from going further, that all he wants to do right now is yank open your shift and kiss his way down your bare body. As irresistible as that thought is, you let him take the lead, and he chooses to simply kiss you rather than ravish you.

He is a noble man, a man of honor, and though your body is aching for him to truly make you his, you take pleasure in his self-control, his respect for you.

His fervent kisses to your neck finally slow, and he breathes against your skin as though trying to memorize you. When he nuzzles his face against your neck, all you can do is close your eyes in absolute ecstasy. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, and it’s his turn to shiver with pleasure, pulling you even closer against his body and resting his lips against the curve of your neck.

He goes still in your arms when you stroke his hair, slowly and tenderly with your fingertips. Again, you are struck by his reactions to your gentle touches, by the way he melts into your arms as though overpowered.

Several long moments are spent in that position, with you cradled against his chest, his face against your neck. You would be content to stay like this all night, just listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beating against your side.

But the moment passes, as all moments do. Another crack of thunder shakes the house, and you can’t help but jump a little in his arms.

As if pulled out of his daze, the man smiles softly against your neck, strokes your back soothingly in a way that only serves to make you arch your body against his. A moment later, he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder, letting his face brush against yours as you disentangle yourselves.

Though you have just spent the last few moments passionately embracing and kissing, and though both of you are still flushed and breathless with exhilaration, the following moment is not awkward. You do not look at each other as you part, but you can sense your own relief and contentment in him.

You do not know what will come of this. You do not know if he will stay much longer. But in a moment like this, with your lips still swollen from his kiss and your skin still burning from his touch, you feel as though no heartbreak can be as vast as this perfect fulfillment you feel with him.

You stand slowly, glad that you are not as unsteady as you feel, and you lift the kettle off the fire just to have something to do. You can feel the man’s eyes on you, though he does not speak.

“It is a fierce storm tonight,” you comment, almost without realizing that you are speaking. The silence between you was comfortable, but you long to say something, to know that he is still at ease with you.

He takes his time in responding, especially since you have your back to him. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice deep and husky.

Stars, how you want to hear that voice in your ear, in your bed, murmuring to you while you both reach the height of your shared pleasure.

You swallow hard to banish your intrusive thoughts. You move to set the kettle down in your cabinet and scramble to think of something else to say. Rain continues to pound against your roof, sending a slight chill through the air despite the warmth of the fire.

“Will you be warm enough tonight?” you ask over your shoulder, still conscious of his eyes burning into your back.

Again, he takes his time answering. “Yes,” he finally replies. “Will you?”

You let the question hang, still standing with your back to him. You hope he can understand your wordless answer, especially after sharing such an intimate moment.

The only warmth I crave now is the heat of your body against mine.

Still trying to avoid meeting his eyes, you half-turn to pick up your two empty cups from the table. Doing so makes you lean against the side of the little square table, and you notice with great surprise that it does not tilt dangerously to the side as it has for the last several months.

The table legs are perfectly even now, and you suddenly raise your eyes to look at the man squarely. He is gazing at you with the oddest combination of expressions — desire, contentment, admiration, sorrow, longing, affection, and several others you cannot name.

“You fixed my table,” you observe, genuinely struck by the kindness of his simple gesture. You don’t know when he did it, but sometime in the last few days he must have noticed the unsteadiness and taken the time to fix it somehow.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It needed fixing,” he replies simply.

Your heart leaps into your throat, though you can’t say quite why. Despite the fact that just a moment ago you were wrapped up in his arms, sighing while he covered your neck with kisses, you are much more affected by his modest demonstration of kindness — fixing something of yours that was broken.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, returning his small smile with all the warmth blossoming in your heart.

You finish your task, setting the two cups in the cabinet to be washed tomorrow. The storm outside has quieted somewhat, but you can still hear the constant pounding of raindrops on the roof and walls.

Quiet thunder rolls in the distance as you turn to look at the man again. He is still seated, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, gazing at you curiously.

This is what you want: this man in your home, always, sharing your fire, sharing your space, looking at you as if you hold his heart in your hands.

The words spill from your lips before you can consider them. “My father always told me that a storm can make a person change their mind about anything.” You hear the significance in your own words, and you press on anyway. “He said it’s in their nature to bring about transformation.”

The man’s darkened eyes do not leave yours for a moment, and you hold his gaze steadily, wanting him to hear your unspoken plea.

Stay with me. Let me love you as I do in my dreams.

His face does not betray any decision, but his gaze is tender, filled with a weary longing. His eyes explore each feature of your face as gently as his fingers did a few moments ago.

“Perhaps I will listen to it for awhile, then,” he murmurs, and your heart sighs.

All is not lost. You must simply wait.

As you start towards the doorway that leads to your bedroom, you pause beside his chair. The man is looking up at you with eyes that melt you to your very soul. Overcome with your affection for him, you lift one hand and stroke the side of his face, smiling down at him fondly.

“Goodnight, general,” you whisper, and your heart whispers, Beloved.

Before you can drop your hand, the man wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. An unhurried kiss to the back of your hand, one that sends another shiver down your spine, and he releases you. His eyes burn into yours, intense, ardent, yearning.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, and your heart hears his whisper, Beloved, long after you have slipped into the next room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

[corviiids]

companion write-up to the fic i just posted, 'call me by', which is a lawlight bodyswap fic inspired by your name / kimi no na wa.

don't read this post without reading the fic lol it is not going to make any sense!! im posting this because i think the fic is (well, sort of intentionally) a little vague and it might be fun to provide more context for anyone interested.

you obviously can read the fic without reading this though. this is just a thought dump. :)

this is technically an au, but i wrote it to be theoretically canon compliant if you squeeze things around and close your eyes a bit (as long as you don't think about timeframes lol and how many days are lapsing). i did fudge their ages a bit because otherwise light would be about 15, and i wanted him to be 17-18 because i think that makes more sense for him at this stage in his life lol. otherwise, i think it's actually kind of fun to imagine this happening alongside canon.

light leaves notes in L's home when he's in L's body and vice versa. generally they leave notes at regular intervals. longer paragraph breaks means a longer period between.

the mechanics of the bodyswap for the purposes of this fic:

like in your name, a swap starts when they wake up and finishes when they go to sleep.

once they swap back, they can't remember the names or faces (or any other identifying information, like career titles or voices) of people they personally encountered.

this includes themselves (i.e. if light in L's body encounters himself, he will not recognise it as himself and won't remember himself when he's back in his own body) and other familiar people (i.e. light won't remember that L works with his father, light wouldn't recognise L if he met him in his own time)

but if a person could be identified with public information, then they can retain their memory of that person (i.e. L doesn't struggle to remember ryuga hideki).

light is two years before L. i loosely used the anime timeline, so the kira investigation kicks off in about 2006-7, which is when L is. light is in 2004.

light nicknames himself asahi for no particular reason and nicknames L ryuga hideki after his sister's favourite idol. LABB confirms that L likes to take his pseudonyms from his past, so i thought it would be funny if the reason why L named light&soichiro 'asahi' and himself 'ryuga hideki' in canon is because light-of-the-past came up with those names already. (in canon that means that light would recognise those names immediately of course.)

when light's dresser catches fire as a result of L's meddling, it's not exactly the same trap as the one light sets in canon, but i think it's something similar because that's the way light's brain works. it does minimal damage but he still gets in trouble haha.

L figures out who light is pretty early on, which is why he's so careful and reluctant when light persists in trying to connect with L outside of the swapping. he also (unbeknownst to light) starts concealing information about the investigation from light because he believes light will later become kira and doesn't want to give him an edge.

light knows that L is a famous detective, and might get a vaaague inkling, but i don't think it fully clicks for him.

the body-swapping stops right before the yotsuba sting in the helicopter. after it stops, light doesn't open L's note for a long time because he is hoping they will swap again.

after light opens the note, he realises that L had known perfectly well who he was and struggles to understand why L didn't tell him + why L emphasised so hard not to open that note until after they'd stopped swapping. he figures, or fears, that the reason they stopped swapping is because L died, which is more or less the truth.

the last note takes place in 2006 after light picks up the death note and finally puts the pieces together that he was the kira suspect that L had been investigating. at this point he realises that he has been given the chance he'd been hoping for to save L's life by choosing not to become kira. his choice whether or not to take it, but........

[up-the-anti]

saw this tumblr quote and thought of that GODDAMN orange turtle from that GODDAMN fic AGAIN💔

[kobrafangs]

rip newt you wouldve loved chappell roan

[estrellami-1]

(Healing From the) Pain

Steve spent most of his life feeling pain. At this point, he characterizes his life by it.

The pain of a backhand, courtesy of his father, at six years old. His lip doesn’t split, but it’s a near thing.

The pain in his wrist when he falls wrong at nine years old. His parent won’t take him to the doctor initially, so he goes to school the next day. When the teacher notices, she sends him to the nurse, who calls his parents. They’re upset at him. He doesn’t know why, but he promises them it won’t happen again.

The pain all over at fourteen when he gets into wrestling. He’s good, manages to pin his opponent four times out of five.

The pain at sixteen, getting his face bashed in by Jonathan Byers. Then the demogorgon, and really, Steve is just a walking bruise at that point.

Then there’s the Russians. The less said about that, the better. The only silver lining is Robin.

Now he’s trailing behind Dustin, breaking into Reefer Rick’s boathouse, and Steve is sure this is going to end painfully.

He’s shoved against the wall, something sharp against his neck, and he thinks he was right as he groans.

The something sharp against his neck digs in as he looks Eddie Munson in the eye, and a few things happen simultaneously.

Eddie drops the shard of glass, steps back with a gasp, and brings his hand up to his own neck.

Steve blinks at him, thinks there’s no fuckin’ way, and stoops to scoop up the piece of glass and test it.

He presses the point into his left palm. Eddie reaches out to stop him, then flinches away.

“Well,” Steve says, because finding his soulmate in a boathouse was not on his Bingo card for this year, but here he is, with the burning brand of a soulmark on his neck to prove it.

Eddie skitters back, breathing growing heavy, looking around with wild eyes. He doesn’t seem to see Dustin, and something snaps in Steve’s chest.

He drops the glass and steps forward. “Dustin, out,” he says, and something in his voice must be different, because Dustin doesn’t hesitate before closing the door behind him. “Eddie,” Steve says softly. “You’re okay. It’s alright. I know you didn’t kill Chrissy.”

Eddie glances at Steve’s neck, then his hand, before looking away. Something else breaks open in Steve’s chest. “I’m not mad,” he admits quietly. “Eddie, please. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He steps forward again, hope unfurling in his chest when Eddie doesn’t move. He takes another cautious step, then another, until finally he’s in front of Eddie.

Still being cautious, he raises a hand, well within Eddie’s line of sight, and lets it rest gently on Eddie’s forearm.

Eddie flinches violently, but doesn’t move away. Steve takes it as permission and places his other hand on Eddie’s other forearm. He gently rubs them up Eddie’s arms until they’re resting on his shoulders. “You’re shaking,” he whispers, swiping a thumb up and down the side of Eddie’s neck. The something in his chest heals a little.

“Y-you’re-”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, still whispering. “I am.”

“How-”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t really care. I’m just- is it weird if I say I’m glad I found you?”

Eddie manages a hysterical bray of a laugh. “A girl died on my ceiling, man, this is not the weirdest part of my day.”

Steve nods. “Let’s go back to my place,” he suggests. “It’ll be a lot easier to hide there, no one will think to look for you, and we can explain everything.”

Eddie takes a breath. Another. Lets his fingers trail along Steve’s arm. Nods. “Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Steve whispers back, smiling a little, and Eddie copies him. His chest heals a little bit more, and suddenly Steve knows everything’s going to work out just fine.

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[aureutr]

What’s your biggest grievance with the way people write luke skywalker? (As someone who loves dinluke but has never seen the movies lolll)

Writing him the way Disney does, basically. Or making him mean. Or holding him to a weirdly higher standard than they do other characters and then shitting on him for it.

Canon Luke Skywalker can be impulsive and quick to anger (and sort of whiny in the first movie, but he's supposed to be, he's young), but the core of him is that he is a kind man. Almost gentle, for an action movie hero. He's not traditionally masculine and this has always bothered some people. Even at the time of the original trilogy's release, Han was far more popular.

Disney stripped a lot of that away. Luke would not try to kill his nephew "because he was scared of what he would become." He would not have ran away from everything and everyone he loves. He would not have abandoned the galaxy for personal reasons. This is supposed to be the same man who turned himself over to the Empire because he felt the tiniest spark of good in his fascist father, who had 23 years of experience committing horrific violence on the galaxy and thought he could save him?

I'm not buying it

Even Mark Hamill has come out saying that the Luke he had to act in the sequels isn't even vaguely the same character. Luke's choice to choose forgiveness and kindness in the face of despair and rage and hate is the core of him.

Essentially, he doesn't have to be your favorite character, and you don't even have to like him that much, but if you hate Luke Skywalker the way Disney seems to, then you don't understand Star Wars.

(not you you, anon, but I hope y'know what I mean)

Now, I actually do enjoy alternate character interpretations and I don't really mind people pulling characters to an extreme of their personality. But you can tell when someone didn't do the "reading" beforehand. You gotta know canon to break canon in a satisfying way

Addendum: I hope you pick the movies up, anon! They're great. There's an alternate watching order called Machete Order that really makes the parallels between the originals and the prequels shine through:

A New Hope -> Empire Strikes Back -> Attack of the Clones -> Revenge of the Sith -> Return of the Jedi

You can put Phantom Menace in there before AotC, but the "official" Machete Order omits it because the guy who thought it up didn't like it. It's a polarizing movie for anyone who's old enough to have seen it in theaters. Your call, honestly.

What this does is make the finer details of Luke's refusal to turn and give in to his rage really obvious because you watch it on the tail of seeing Anakin completely crumble. And when Vader is watching Luke spurn the Emperor, you know the specific events he's remembering and some of the more specific feelings he's feeling.

Watching the OT by itself or with all the prequels before/after is just as valid, but if you're watching for a Luke Skywalker character study, then Machete Order is worth a consideration

[midnightwind]

I'm making the almost kiss messier, for me (okay technically this is a few days after, but close enough) if you don't like the idea of Spite being into the Rookanis relationship, maybe don't read this lol

Summary: Spite tries to help. Things might be worse now. (just kissing and little touches, very pg, lot of yearning tho)

Word Count: 1705

She stood numbly before the pantry door, her heart in her throat. An air of guilt hung heavy around her shoulders. She had tried to give him space, busying herself by helping Taash and Bellara outside the Lighthouse. Things had felt so fragile and she was almost petrified that she had egged him into doing something he didn't want. But she wanted to visit Treviso and it felt wrong to go without at least inviting him. So she tentatively raised her hand and knocked gingerly on the door.

“Lucanis?”

There was a quiet shuffle from inside, but it was brief. She cracked the door slightly, unsure. If he was properly resting, she didn't want to ruin that. He was perched on the cot, slumped back against the wall. A cup was cradled in his lap, fingers slack. Had he fallen asleep halfway through a cup of coffee? She couldn't help the fond smile that tugged at her lips. He'd make a mess if he startled awake. She slipped silently inside, the door closing quietly behind her. With soft steps, she padded to his side and paused.

She had reasoned the intrusion with the idea of moving the cup then seeing herself out, but now that she was close she seemed to freeze. His shoulders rose with each breath, slow and peaceful. The heavy bags under his eyes were more obvious from this close and even though he was finally, finally sleeping, the exhaustion hung heavily from his features. She wanted to ghost feather touches along his jaw, card her fingers through his hair, press gentle kisses to his skin, anything to coax the stress from him. Her hand started to reach for his cheek, unbidden, before she caught herself. Grinding her teeth in frustration at the desire, she turned the motion to the cup. Her fingers had barely brushed the dish when his hand suddenly wrapped tightly around her wrist. He moved so quickly she almost screamed, her instinct to jump backwards halted only by his iron grip.

“Rook.” Her moniker curled from his mouth with Spite's low voice.

Her heart skipped a beat, wincing as the demon pulled her closer. “Hello Spite.” She smiled nervously. “Your grip hurts a little, could you… be gentler, maybe?”

Their eyes narrowed, mulling over the suggestion just long enough for her to worry he'd leave bruises on her skin. And then the pressure lightened, still firm, but measured now. “Rook is. Trespassing.”

“I…” Her mind raced to find an excuse before she sighed. “Yup. Sure am.”

A wide, toothy grin spread across their lips. “Good. We can talk.” And then he was scowling, an annoyed growl rumbling free. “Lucanis has been. Hiding. Avoiding. Won’t explain anything.”

She could feel heat rushing to her cheeks. “O-oh, I don't know if I…”

“Rook will explain.” 

It didn't sound like a request, but neither did it feel like a demand. It was more just… an expectation. An understanding that she was simply someone who would answer his questions. It left her a little dumbstruck. Explaining to the demon the intricacies of messy mortal relationships didn't thrill her, but it would be a bigger fight to try and escape. And maybe she'd get some answers herself.

“I can try.” She offered slowly. “Emotions are complicated.”

“Rook will know.” His words had more bite to them this time, grip squeezing. “You will. Stay close. Need to show.”

A thrill of alarm shot through her, heart hammering against her ribs. It felt like a bad idea. “Alright, but… let me find something to sit on. Being hunched like this is uncomfortable.” When he didn't move she offered up a wane smile. “I won't run. I promise.”

He let out a displeased hum, but let her go. She did snatch the cup as she stepped back, placing it on the little side table before she turned to assess the pantry. With only a little sigh, she dragged a crate to the cot and sat down primly. Spite closed the distance in an instant, face close and eyes bright. Nerves had set her hands to trembling, unease curling in her stomach, but she kept her face placid. 

“Why does Lucanis. Refuse himself?” He asked suddenly, voice low. When she only offered him baffled blinks he almost snarled, bringing their hand to caress her cheek. “He thinks. Of touching Rook. Like this.” Their thumb traced the line of her jaw, a little rougher than she would have expected, but it set her heart fluttering all the same. “Always wants to touch. So many different ways.” The wandering motion dragged their palm across her cheek, leaving a trail of warmth before their fingers tangled in her hair, holding her in place. “Wants to be close. Thinks of it. Constantly. So why does he not?”

She could feel the flush creeping up to her cheeks. “Only Lucanis can really answer that. I'll only have guesses.”

That did earn her a frustrated growl. Her heart was back in her throat at the noise and Spite was narrowing their eyes again. A dangerous grin slowly crawled across their face. Spite brought their free hand up to tug her hair free from the pins that held it in place. She didn't dare move as it cascaded to her shoulders, barely daring to breathe. He dragged their fingers through her hair, trapping a lock and pulling it to their lips.

“Like fresh blood. Fire dancing in the hearth. Warmth in the bones.” He purred. 

A strangled noise was all she could offer. Both hands cupped her face, trapping her gaze with his purple blaze. They were so, so close again. Her breath hitched.

“Storms at sea. Sun through glass. Sharp edge of knives.”

He bent their face to the crook of her neck, beard ghosting along her skin. She shivered. Their breath was warm and it felt like the ground disappeared from under her feet. The world reduced to the space between them, a sliver of distance barely maintained.

“Red berries and jasmine. Dizzyingly sweet. Smells of desire.”

That sent an electric spark through her veins, her pulse jumping. She shouldn't be hearing this. The urge to run screamed through her, but Spite had placed a hand on the side of her throat. Their fingers were tangled again in her hair, their wrist pressing down on her shoulder, and that single weight felt crushing. She couldn't move. Their free hand traced the pointed edge of her ear.

“Lucanis wants. So does Rook. Can smell it. Hear it. Feel it.” He brought their face back to hers, head tilted, lips hovering over hers. “Yet you both. Refuse. Why?”

She swallowed thickly, her voice hoarse and wavering. “Fear.”

That seemed to give him pause, though he didn't retreat an inch. “Of what?”

“Expectations.” The words fell unbidden, rasping whispers. “Disappointment. Pain. Misunderstanding. There's… so much that surrounds feelings like this.”

Their brow furrowed as he digested the idea. The moment felt like it stretched on forever under their caging grasp. And then she watched as he dismissed the thought. “Needless. Solution is simple.”

The distance disappeared before the alarm could settle in her bones. Spite's kiss was a hungry need, clumsy but forceful. He moved their other hand from her ear to her cheek, trapping her completely. It would have made her laugh if she had been able to form a thought. Part of her was screaming to run, of course, but the other part simply felt relief. A need finally answered, content to exist in the bruising kiss for eternity. She clawed at their chest, grabbing a fistful of their shirt, but wasn't able to bring herself to push them away or pull them closer. The sharp bite of teeth ripped a gasp from her, more surprise than anything, and Spite finally relented. When he leaned back, he had a wolfish grin as he licked blood from their lips.

“Simple.” He purred.

And then his presence vanished like smoke in the wind and she was left being held by a Lucanis who was struggling to take it all in. His eyes staggered over her loose hair, the deep flush to her skin, and her wide eyes. Her breaths were too fast, shoulders shivering. He could taste iron on his tongue and something else, something new. They stared at each other, both petrified, before the curse finally slipped from his lips, quiet and wondering.

“Mierda.”

It seemed to startle them both, his hands leaping away from her as if he had been burned. She stumbled backwards off the crate, pushing her bangs out of her eyes just to have something to do with her hands. Her gaze was focusing anywhere but on him, unwilling to see the look on his face. Would it be horror, or want? It felt like both would break her heart right now.

“Rook,” his voice was staggering, uncertain, “I-”

“Sorry,” she cut in sharply, a nervous laugh coloring her words. “I just- Spite had questions and I- Sorry.” She took a clumsy step towards the door. “I think… I need air.”

It was her turn to run, stumbling past the tables and chairs. She didn't stop until the dining room doors were closed firmly behind her. Pressing her back to them, she slid to a crouch. Head in hands, she took gulping, shivering breaths. There was a knot in her chest, a confusion of emotions. She had wanted that from Lucanis, but she liked it from Spite, too. That caused a worrying flip in her stomach. She did not want to pick that feeling apart right now. Shaking fingers dabbed at her lips, feeling the shallow cut the demon had made. The bastard left a reminder for her. It caused her to groan, pressing her palms against her eyes.

“Rook?”

Her head shot up in alarm at Bellara’s voice. The elf was paused at the bottom of the walkway to Neve’s room, a bundle of papers clutched to her chest. She took a tentative step forward as Rook shot to her feet.

“Are you okay? You look… Did Lucanis do-”

“No!” She cut in sharply, launching herself from the doors and almost running past the Jumper. “That was not Lucanis.”

[the-apocrypha]

Cottagecore Series DVD Bonus Features

By popular request: the deleted scenes of how Dream and Hob ended up confessing their respective Big Secrets to one another. Below the cut are a series of conversations that take place a few days after Dream announces his pregnancy with Orpheus, and they are incredibly angsty. They also heavily feature abortion as a conversation topic. These were originally written to intercut with at least two miracles but didn't end up working out due to tone issues, and also don't really work as a standalone fic, so. If you're interested--enjoy!

The possibility of a child—their child, their own, of them—had occasionally crossed Hob’s mind, in the same way that other fantastical things like dragons and public libraries did. Fleeting. Unformed. Simple, wonderful little daydreams. 

The reality of it was both impossibly more exciting and terrifying than he could have ever imagined. 

Hob thought of a beautiful child with tiny pointed ears and glowing amber eyes. He thought of a babe born to the world still and pale, never to draw a single breath of life. He thought of all the stories his mother used to tell him, the skipping games and the toy swords and songs that lived inside of him, waiting to be passed down to someone small and new. He thought of a fae child, enamored of the forest and magic and books of learning, with little use for its mortal father. 

Once, when Hob was young, his mother had been called to help an ewe who had been laboring for the better part of the day. Twin lambs, both trying to emerge at the same time.

They’d had mutton for dinner, that night. And for many nights after that. 

Hob could not stop thinking about it. About everything.

What if the child came out completely human. 

What if the child came out completely fae. 

“You told me once,” Hob said, the words leaving his mouth even as lead weights sank pits into his stomach, even as his heart said don’t ask this don’t ask this don’t do it, but he had to, he had to know. “You told me once. That it took you a very long time to grow up.” 

Dream paused. “Yes,” he said, at length. “But time in the realm of the fae is not so… linear as it is here. It is—it was subject to neither law nor order. Time was fickle. Changeable.” 

“You said that it was almost a hundred years.” 

“That was… a guess,” Dream said. 

Hob stared. 

“It was unusual,” Dream added. He did not meet Hob’s eyes. “It. It was a choice I made. The rest of my siblings came of age much faster than I.” 

“How fast?” Hob asked, heart in his throat. 

Dream swallowed. 

“How fast?” 

“The child is half mortal, Hob it should not—it will not age as a fae child would. It cannot, it—it will not have the same power, the same gifts, and moreover, the laws of this universe would not allow—” 

“Oh, you know that, do you?” Hob asked, eyebrows raised. “Like you knew that a mortal man couldn’t get you pregnant in the first place?” 

Dream flinched. 

Hob sighed, and scrubbed at his face. “I’m just. I’m just thinking. We don’t know what we’re going to get, eight months from now—” If they were going to get anything at all. “—and we’ve got zero precedent to go off of, here. It. It could be anything. It could grow like a human and take sixteen years and be done. But, it could also…” 

“It will not,” Dream said, but there was a traitorous wobble in his voice.

“It could,” Hob insisted. “It could, Dream, and we just. I just want to be prepared for that. I want you to be prepared for that.” 

Dream stared, like the whole world was crashing down around him. As if he had not considered this at all. “No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Hob—” 

“But, listen—listen, it’ll be okay,” Hob said hurriedly, and took Dream’s hands into his own. Put on the bravest face he could muster. “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay. I promise. I’ll be with you every step of the way, for. For as long as I can be. Even if it means being stuck in the terrible twos for an entire decade. You just might have to do the teenage years on your own, that’s all. And. You know. The thousand years that come after that.” 

Dream closed his eyes. 

Hob tried desperately to rally. “And, hey! The good news is, at least I won’t be around to give any dodgy sex talks when it comes time for that, since I obviously—” 

“Hob,” Dream said. 

“Though clearly pregnancy prevention isn’t your strong suit either,” Hob allowed. 

“Hob.” 

Dream’s eyes were open again, and they were full of tears. 

“Hob,” Dream said again, and it caught in his throat. “Hob, I—I am not going to live for another thousand years.” 

Hob frowned. “But—”

“I made,” Dream said, and with the next blink the tears spilled over, “a bargain.” 

The reason that Hob had kept it a secret for so long (was because he was a coward) was because, in his opinion, there had been no good that would come of the truth. 

Dream had assumed that the people of Eskham had turned against Hob for being a hedgewitch. He’d assumed in turn that mortals were prejudiced against any being with magic, which was a category that happened to include the fae but more importantly included Hob, who did not have the ability to summon tornadoes or fell ancient oaks. Dream still sweetly seethed about the injustices Hob’s own people had done upon him. He had yet to even once seem concerned for his own safety. 

This was fair. 

Dream had, after all, taken out an entire village of mortals in one wrothful fell swoop. 

Now, Dream had confessed what had happened in the aftermath of that massacre—what he had so readily sacrificed, to save Hob’s life—and it had been devastating in its own right. It had left Hob awake at night, imagining what it would be like to grow older and older and older, while his child did not. 

But it had also pulled on the string that unraveled whatever remained of their tapestried joy at the possibility of impending parenthood. The happiness was gone. The happiness should never have existed in the first place, because the ache of its absence was far worse than to have never known it at all. Hob could not believe he ever felt such simple, mindless elation at what had quickly become a question to which every answer was more horrifying than the last. 

Hob thought of a babe with perfectly pointed ears, stolen away in the night, drowned in the river. 

Hob thought of a child with huge, phosphorescent eyes, tied to a stake above a pile of dried tinder. Screaming.

Hob thought of black-nailed teenager who had had forty-odd years of childhood with its parents before they succumbed to old age, and left their child alone in a world it did not belong in. Orphaned. Ostracized. Hunted. 

It filled Hob’s stomach and left him unable to eat. It pressed down on his chest at night, and he could not sleep. 

And he knew what he needed to do. 

At the same table where Dream had confessed not three days ago, Hob sat himself heavily on the bench. 

Dream stared back wanly. He’d spent most of the morning vomiting copiously, which perhaps made this timing even worse, but Hob knew if he did not say it now he might never say it at all. 

“Dream,” Hob said carefully. The words stuck in his throat like glass, and they tore him open one by one as he forced them out. “There’s. The other day, when you told me about the bargain you made. I—there’s something that I should. Something I should have told you, before—something. Something.” He swallowed. “Something I. Something.” His nails dug into his palms. His heart was pounding in his ears. “Something—” 

“Hob.” 

Dream’s hand splayed across his chest is like ice on fire. Hob sucked in a breath, and relished the burn. 

He seized Dream’s hand in his own. Looked Dream in the eyes. Prepared to pull this one last thread of sanity for the person he loved more than anything in this world. 

“Something,” Hob said unevenly, holding onto Dream like a lifeline, “that I should have told you a long time ago. About. About Eskham.” 

Dream tilted his head, brows drawing together. “Eskham?” 

Hob nodded. 

“What about it?” Dream asked. 

He had no idea. He had no clue. 

“That day,” Hob said, and he was gripping Dream’s hand hard as if he could prevent the inevitable withdrawal. “When they came for me.” 

And Dream nodded. He reached out with his other hand to rest it on Hob’s forearm—a gesture meant as supportive that only served to make Hob’s stomach drop to new depths. 

But this was not about him. This was not even about Dream. It was about their child, carried one day into a town square with pitchforks at its throat and devil spawn in its ears. It was about deserved truths. 

“That day,” Hob said again. He swallowed against a dry tongue. Against the heart that was trying to escape through his throat. “That day. The mob. They weren’t looking for me.”

Dream stared. 

Hob’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he might be sick. 

He watched, as Dream’s face went from confusion, to realization, to—

Bloodless. 

Grey. Dead eyes and parted lips. Staring, but not seeing. 

“I—defended you,” Hob made himself say. “I wouldn’t tell them. Where you were. I told them that I loved you, that you were just as natural as any other creature in this realm and that I would rather die before I let any of them hurt you, and—” 

Dream yanked his hands back. 

Hob tried to hold on, but he wasn’t quick enough. Not strong enough. 

“You,” Dream whispered. 

“I don’t regret it,” Hob said frantically, almost angrily. He was losing control, the tidal wave of panic and horror sweeping him out to a roiling sea he could not swim in, and he barely knew which words would leave his mouth when he opened it again. “I haven’t regretted it for a single second, Dream, not once, not ever, I’d have burned on that stake a thousand times over before I let them touch you, I’d—” 

And Dream bolted. 

Hob leapt to his feet to follow—but his calf muscle seized, and he careened to the side and just barely managed to grab the table at the last second. Stood there, panting, gripping the table as his calf cramped hard enough to render the entire leg useless. Staring at the empty doorway. 

He deserved this, he supposed. 

It didn’t make it hurt any less. 

The summer air was thick and sweet beneath the canopy of the forest. The trees mostly blocked the breeze, but so also the warmth of the sun, which made it about as pleasant as any place was during the midday heat. They were sat at the base of an ancient yew tree that Dream favored, not far from the cottage, and had been for some time. Ravens chattered and rustled softly overhead. A large halo of bird shit was slowly accumulating around them. 

Dream inhaled as if to speak, for the third time in about as many minutes. This time, though, the words came. 

“I do not want. Our child. To be hunted.” 

Hob closed his eyes. “I know.” 

“We do not know what powers it will be born to. What features it will be born to.” 

Unspoken—the slimmest chance, the highest hope, that it would somehow be born wholly mortal. 

A mortal body. A mortal magic. A mortal lifespan. 

“We’ll do whatever we have to, to protect them. Whatever it takes. You know we will,” Hob said, and even as anxiety turned his stomach over, rage flared through him hot and fast. “Anyone that tries to lay a finger on our child, I’ll—I’ll kill ‘em. I would. Anyone. Everyone. And if they think I’m terrifying just wait until they meet the thirty-foot forest nightmare right behind me that can summon hail and rent the earth.” 

Dream swallowed. “Hail and earth. Did not save you.” 

Hob tightened his grip around Dream’s waist. “Yes it did.” 

“You—” 

“Yes it bloody well did. You saved my life that day, you fought, and if you hadn’t been there I—” 

“If I had not been there,” Dream interrupted darkly. He barked one harsh, bitter laugh. “If I had never inflicted myself upon you in the first place, then no mob would have ever come for you at all. You would be—” 

“Lonely,” Hob said. He tried desperately to keep the frustration from rising. “I told you. I would have been lonely, and bored, Dream, and I would have died in that house feeling as if I’d never truly lived at all. You are the best thing to ever happen to me.” 

“I nearly killed you,” Dream said. 

“You saved—”

“And now,” Dream continued, staring into the depths of the forest, “I have attempted to thrust a child upon you, without your consent. I have tried to sentence you to spending the rest of your meager years consumed in the care of a creature that will only suffer as a result of my own hubris—my own selfishness—and it will resent us. It will hate us. It will hate me, and it will be right to do so for—” 

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” Hob said, scrambling around in front of Dream, and cupping his face. 

Dream stared determinedly to the side, with eyes that were red-rimmed and shiny. His breaths came uneven and jagged. 

“You and I both know that you didn’t get pregnant on purpose,” Hob said fiercely. “You didn’t know better. I didn’t know better. Right?” 

“Hob—” 

“This isn’t something that you’ve done to me. To us. Neither one of us is to blame here. Not one little bit. And it wouldn’t matter anyway if it was, because whatever happens, you know that we’re in this together. We’re going to do what we always do, and make it work. Figure it out. Pregnancy, childbirth, parenthood, all of it. Together. Yeah?” 

Dream set his jaw, and at last met Hob’s eyes. Slowly, he reached up, and pulled Hob’s hands away from his face. 

“You argue. That we are absolved of any guilt, for what strife our child may face in life. Because we held no intention of conception, in our couplings,” Dream said. 

“...Yes?” Hob said, eyebrows raising. “I don’t think we can be blamed for bringing a child into the world when we didn’t know it was possible in the first place.” 

“Incorrect,” Dream disagreed. 

Hob opened his mouth, but Dream continued too quickly. 

“Ignorance acquits us from blame in the conception of this child, yes.” Dream’s hand moved, in the periphery of Hob’s vision, delving into the folds of his robe. “But we are not without agency, in these early months of pregnancy.” 

Dread swung sudden and hard into Hob’s chest, like a fist. 

“...What do you mean?” 

Dream held out his hand between them, and uncurled his fingers. A cluster of flowers rested there. 

Tansy. 

“It sings to me of… release,” Dream said. His thumb brushed over golden petals like spikes. “Of choice. Liberty. Of the harmonization of poison and medicine, as one.”

Hob took in a deep breath, because he was, for the first time in days, hopeful. 

Hob was also terrified. 

Hob was sick, sick, sick, sick. 

“I believe,” Dream whispered, eyes boring in Hob’s, “that it would be enough. To—take care of it.” 

There was a cup of water on the table, steaming and yellow with tansy. 

Choice, Dream said it sang. Release. Liberty. The harmonization of poison and medicine, as one. 

But to Hob, it was silent as a grave. 

Dream was holding the cup so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The steam had long disappeared from the cup, leaving only a stagnant yellow tonic. Hob had offered to leave the cottage twice and allow Dream some privacy, and on the second time Dream had grabbed his hand, hard, and he hadn’t let go since. 

Hob’s fingers ached where they were threaded through Dream’s, but he did not complain. 

He sat in silence, and watched Dream raise the cup to his mouth. 

Watched him inhale. 

Watched him close his eyes. 

Watched him press the rim of the cup to his lips. 

Watched as Dream froze, and was perfectly still for an eternity save for the tremble of the cup in his grasp—

And the cup slammed down onto the table, sloshing poison everywhere, and Dream gasped, “I cannot. I cannot, forgive me, Hob, I—” 

Hob grabbed him and pulled him in hard. “It’s okay—” 

“—I cannot do it, I cannot—” 

“—you don’t have to—” 

“I should,” Dream snarled, gripping the fabric of Hob’s tunic and pushing back. There were tears streaming down his face. “I should end it, I should be rid of it. It is. It is the only humane option, the only option that guarantees that—that—” 

“I know, love,” Hob said miserably, his own throat going tight and hot. “I know that. But—” 

“Hob,” Dream choked out. He tried to inhale, but could not. “Hob, I can—hear it.” 

Hob’s heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went numb. “Y-you—” 

“I can—” Dream slapped his hands over his mouth. He stared at Hob in horror. 

Dream, who could hear the songs of river stones and the herbs in the garden. Who communed with foxes and ancient oak trees alike. Who had come to Hob with news of this pregnancy but without explanation as to how he knew. 

“You can hear it,” Hob repeated blankly. 

“I should not have told you,” Dream said, shaking his head. His eyes were blank and unseeing and wet with tears. “I. I should not have told you, I told myself I would not, I—it should not matter. It does not matter.” 

“What does it sound like?” Hob asked. 

Dream looked up at him. His mouth opened, but no words came out. 

“Dream, what does it sound like?” 

He shouldn’t ask. 

He couldn’t not know. 

“Like. A songbird,” Dream whispered. 

A songbird. 

“The most beautiful—” Dream choked on a sob. “The most beautiful songbird, Hob, the most wonderful songbird in the world.” 

And Hob. Hob, quite abruptly, could not imagine a world where he did not one day get to hear that song. He could not imagine a world in which he did not get to hold their child in his arms this winter and instantly fall in love with whatever features the world had seen fit to give them, mortal or fae or some splendid combination of both. 

He could not imagine what it would be like, for Dream to sit at this table and drink down poison and then listen to the song of their child go silent. 

Dream sobbed in his arms. He begged for forgiveness—from Hob. Their future child. The universe. I have failed, he said, over and over again. Selfish, and weak, and worthless, he named himself, and he would not be consoled with any combination or repetition of words Hob had to offer. 

But still, the tansy sat untouched. 

Eventually, it went out the window. 

And the songbird lived another day.

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

They need to work on their looks, unfortunately, because each one of them is a little off. Their Nightwing is too bulky, and his costume isn't made with Dick's flexibility in mind. Besides that, he's got an undercut that doesn't match the shaggy way Dick has his hair now, and his blue is too dark. And the swords. Those are different.

Their little Robin looks more like Dick, actually, Dick as he was before Jason's time, with his happy grin and his bright yellow cape. He doesn't match Damian's style at all, and Jason wonders if their intel was out of date. He tucks away his anger (the way he's used to doing, now) at these bastards roping some little kid into whatever con they're trying to pull. They can help the kid after they subdue him, and he stops trying to flip-kick people in the face.

The Red Robin outfit isn't bad, but the guy playing him is way too tall to be Tim. He doesn't use a bo staff, either, clearly preferring the armory of sharp little implements he keeps tucked away in his utility belt, including a wicked looking combat knife.

Which brings Jason to the current pain in his ass, the idiot trying to pass himself off as the Red Hood.

Yeah, they'd split off into pairs to fight. First off, for practicality's sake. Less risk of friendly fire if the only guy you're trying to punch is the one who isn't you. And secondly, it's just what you do, isn't it? Somebody gives you a set up like this, you go along with the poetic justice. No bat is immune to drama.

Jason is regretting that a bit, now. Fake Hood had taken him for a ride, leading him, he now realizes, far away from the warehouse where Nightwing and Robin had initially called in the disturbance. This other guy isn't the powerhouse that Jason is, but that doesn’t matter if Jason can't ever get in a hit. His movements are precise, deadly, and familiar in a way that makes Jason suspect League training. Jason is keeping up, but barely, and that's with the advantage of his guns. The other guy hasn't touched his, still gleaming red in his holsters, and Jason has a sneaking suspicion that they aren't filled with rubber bullets.

They're at a bit of a stalemate, standing on opposite sides of a dark rooftop, and Jason's trying to catch his breath but he can't relax, not when his gaze is locked onto his opponent, waiting for the minute twitch of muscle that will indicate his next move. He's wondering if he could get a shot off, wondering where to aim, when his comm crackles to life.

“Stand down!” Tim snaps in his ear. “Hood, Wing, the alternates aren't currently a threat. Deescalate however you can, and get back to the warehouse. We can explain this whole mess there.”

“Really?” Nightwing asks. He goes on to say something else, something about his doppleganger being incredibly threatening, thank you very much, but Jason stops listening, because there's something going on across the roof.

A mechanically distorted voice says, “What? No, I'd be able to tell. This guy isn't-” The imposter(?) cuts off suddenly, presumably listening to a response.

And then he… giggles.

“That isn't funny, Red,” he says, in contrast to the little peals of laughter making him subtly shake. “You- you get how fucked up that would be, don't you?”

Jason can't figure out what to do. Tim's intel is almost always good, but he can't get himself to stand down, not when, for some reason, that laughter is setting his teeth on fucking edge.

(He knows the reason. He'd know that cadence anywhere, he hears it in his fucking nightmares, but it isnt possible. He's in Arkham, right now, because Batman won't kill him and Jason isn't allowed to kill him and that uncomfortable truce is what got him his family back. Jason would know if he'd broken out, they wouldn't have kept that from him. They wouldn't.)

“Oh shit,” Tim says, and it makes Jason wonder how he knows, “Hood, is your alternate having some kind of fit right now?”

The sound escalates, from breathy little giggles to screeching laughter, and even with the hood's distortion, it's unmistakable.

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

And isn't this exactly some shit that Joker would pull, making a mockery of Jason's family, a twisted parody that fucks with his head? Tim's lying, he's trying to get Jason out of this situation, and Jason gets why, he does, but obviously the rest of them can't (won't) protect him from this, so if he has to take fate into his own hands, he will.

The green is creeping up, but Jason doesn't let it haze over his vision because he has to be in his right mind while he does this, not for them, for himself. As he stalks across the roof, he empties the clip from one of his guns and pulls out the live rounds, loads them into place.

He thinks Tim is calling for him, maybe the others, too, but the chatter over the comm is getting further away the closer he gets to his target. He should be smart, should take the shot, but maybe he's got more pit in his head than he wants to admit, because Joker, still laughing, pulls a knife, and Jason steps into his range to disarm him.

The strike is fast, but compared to the careful movements of before, he's practically telegraphing his actions. Jason sidesteps, and if the blade knicks him when he twists Joker's arm, he doesn't feel it. He's got the clown in a hold, now, and forces him to his knees with the gun against his temple.

If the hood is anything like his own, the bullet won't do it, not even at point blank range. Jason would like to get it off him, would like to see the life leave his eyes, but he doesn't have to. Jason moves the barrel beneath his chin, right where the armor ends. The pit rages inside of him, says this is too easy, says to make him suffer. Jason pushes it down. This is the compromise he'll make, this is what he'll do to try to maintain both his humanity and his peace of mind. The bullet will ricochet off the hood from the inside, will tear through Joker's brain at least twice, and he'll never come back from that, and Jason will finally be free.

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

“Nothing to fucking say?” Jason growls, jostling the clown in his grip, because there's always some joke, some shitty twist.

The Joker just laughs.

“Unhand him this instant!” someone snaps, and Jason's finger twitches but somehow the trigger stays still. And now what's he supposed to do, because of course fucking Nightwing- but wait, that isn't- but it is, he's right there- it's both of them, two Nightwings. Fucking fantastic. Twice the guilt trip.

“Come on, Jay,” the Nightwing who's actually Dick pleads, and hey, what the fuck, codenames? In front of the fucking Joker, Dick? “Let him go, we can explain everything.”

“I'm not doing this again!” rips itself from Jason's throat, and he'll think later about just how wrecked he sounds. “I'm not just standing here and letting him go, Wing, not when one bullet can put a stop to all this, not when I can end him.”

“Jason,” Dick says, slow with forced calm, “that's not the Joker.”

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Jason seethes.

His hand is wrenched to the side, the barrel facing open air, and before he can make a move the unfortunately familiar feeling of a high voltage shock courses through him.

By the time he's stopped seizing, Dick is at his back, supporting him with his own body and with arms under his pits and around his chest in a weird reverse hug. Technically, Jason's hands are free, but they're empty, the gun skidded to somewhere else across the roof.

Dick is murmuring into his ear, “Sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry,” and, “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay,” mantras meant to soothe his brother as much as himself. Jason wants to be angry, wants to snap at him to let go and fucking cut it out, but he's feeling strangely disoriented. He only has enough brainspace to pay attention to one thing, and that's the scene playing out in front of him.

Dick had clearly hauled them back a few steps, but Jason is still uncomfortably close to the bastard version of Nightwing (who, Jason realizes in hindsight, had tazed him while he'd been distracted by his brother, not cool) and the laughing maniac he should've killed. Nightwing is holding onto Joker's shoulders, his hands bouncing as the gasping, shrieking laughter continues.

“I'm going to remove your helmet now,” Nightwing says. He has a slight accent that Jason knows he's heard before, and his tone is professional, almost clipped. And yet, somehow, Jason can tell that this is a gentled version of the man's voice, the sharpest edges sanded away. His hands move from Joker's shoulders to the back of his head, carefully inputting whatever sequence allows for safe removal of the hood. Jason hears a hydraulic hiss when some sort of catch releases, and as Nightwing starts pulling the red metal up and away Jason can't help holding his breath.

At first, he sees what he expected to see. It's the Joker's expression, after all, his laughing face pulled into a rictus grin.

But the grin isn't right, somehow. The man is pale, but his face is unpainted, and the smile stretches wide, too wide, wider than even the Joker ever managed, and after a moment Jason recognizes the red, raised scar tissue on either side of his mouth for what it is.

Then, Jason takes in the actual features of the person in front of him. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, the cheeks, the jaw, the nose.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

The Red Hood, collapsed on his knees in front of him, scarred face bare with no hood or domino to protect him as he struggles under the weight of his own laughter, is Tim Drake.

He's crying.

Jason is suddenly glad that Dick's holding him, because he's certain that he'd be on the ground, otherwise. Then, he realizes that he can't breathe.

Jason knows, logically, that his hood has sensors and filters that keep him safer than he could ever be without it. It is only every once in a while, when something stupid happens, that he regrets that he, a man with claustrophobia, decided to stick his head into a metal bucket.

Dick can probably tell that he's hyperventilating, and doesn't fight him as Jason gets his hands on the back of his neck and pulls off his hood.

Jason gasps in polluted Gotham air, and Tim's eyes snap onto him. Nightwing says, “I'm administering the emergency dose of your medication,” and then stalls, like he's waiting for a response, but all Tim does is laugh and stare. Jason stares back. He can't look away.

Nightwing retrieves a small tubular device, almost like an epipen, and presses it against Tim's leg. That shouldn't work. Tim's wearing body armor, same as the rest of them, and there's no way a needle could pierce it, but Jason looks as Nightwing draws the device away and there's a small raised circle of hard plastic on Tim's thigh that the head of the device fits into perfectly, like it was designed for that purpose. An injection spot, built into Tim's clothing, specifically for whatever drugs fake Nightwing just pumped into him.

Immediately, there's a difference. He doesn't stop laughing, or smiling that horrible fucking smile, but the manic tension is gone. He doesn't look like he'll shatter at a touch anymore, too brittle to be handled. The curve of his spine gentles, muscles no longer pulling it to the point of snapping. Jason watches as slowly, oh so slowly, Tim gets quieter, leans more into Nightwing's hold on him, starts gasping more than laughing.

Dick is talking behind him, into his comm, it sounds like. If it's important, someone will get his attention.

Finally, Tim breaks eye contact. “T- tell him,” he says to Nightwing, struggling between gasps and giggles, “tell him what you, gave me. Jay doesn't, he doesn't like, needles.”

The strange Nightwing turns his head, and Jason gets the impression of a sharp, searching gaze behind his domino. He's nothing like Dick, not at all, but something niggles the back of Jason's mind, some sense of familiarity regardless. He tosses something, and Jason automatically reaches up to catch it.

It's the empty tube of medication, which does seem a lot like an epipen, up close. “It's a combination,” the man says. “The antidote for Joker venom, an antipsychotic, and a mild sedative.”

“What the fuck?” Jason hears from his own mouth as he looks down at the innocuous little tube.

“It's only used in emergencies,” Nightwing adds, and does not clarify any further.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that. He shakes himself out of Dick's hold and grabs an evidence bag out of his jacket. He watches Nightwing, to see if he'll object, but he doesn't. Jason slips the medicine tube inside the bag and tucks it away.

“There you are!” Dick says in a bright tone, one meant to cover his anxiety and relief.

Jason turns, and finds that their roof has gotten a little crowded. All four Robins have arrived, his brothers mingled in with their copies, copies who don't quite match in ways that are now sticking in his brain. Tim, Jason's Tim, is standing right there, pressing his mask against his face like he'd broken the seal on the adhesive, and it isn't sticking quite right. Other than that, he's normal. He's fine.

The Robin, the one in the classic colors who Jason had thought looked a bit like Dick (oh God, could that be-?) gives a little whistle. “Trust Red Hood to cause drama!” he says in a bright tone that is too too familiar (fuck, fuck he is). “Must be a universal constant.” He grins, cheeky, looking past Jason.

Jason isn't processing fast enough to be offended for his own sake, but he turns and checks on Tim, other Tim, the Tim who apparently also has a claim to the Red Hood name. Tim is propped up on Nightwing's shoulder, looking drowsy and relaxed. He's looking back at Robin, and his lips are pressed tightly closed, but he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes.

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

Jason snorts, to get the kid's attention, and rolls his eyes. “Comes with the job description,” he snarks.

The kid lights up. Jason feels distinctly weird, having that smile directed at him, but it's not… bad.

Yeah. This is fine.

-

I'm planning to add a reblog with more information on this au/fic idea, so if you're interested, watch this space.

[oldbutchdanielcraig]

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

armand/daniel, e, 17.7k

tags: Post-Season/Series 02, References to Devil's Minion Era (Vampire Chronicles), the odyssey of recollection, Blood Drinking, New York City, Leather Culture, Public Sex, Getting Back Together, Enriching Armand with the technological marvels of the 21st century, Spoiled Only Child Daniel, Gardens & Gardening, Canon-Typical Freak Behavior

“Did we call each other boyfriend? Surely not. Sounds weird even saying out loud.” “You were my beloved,” Armand says. “My lover. My boy.” “Your human pet. Your mortal fool. I get it,” Daniel says, not neglecting to notice his use of the past tense. “You want to go see a movie?”

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

How You Turn My World; Chapter 4

You finally find your way into the labyrinth, coming across some new and old faces; both friendly and malicious.

Character; Lilia Vanrouge

Content; Gender-neutral reader, reader is getting tired of being stuck here and smelling like a bog

Content Warnings; Swearing, some talk of death, reader passes out

Word Count; 2.2 K

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

As per usual, don't put my work into AI.

You were finally making some decent progress, what, with not being stuck in some bog and knowing somewhat of where you were going. A vast improvement really! Well, it would be, but unfortunately, you still reeked of rotten eggs and skunk — apparently the bog stench only got worse the longer it stayed on.

“Why did it have to dump me into the swamp,” you huffed, rounding yet another corner. “Like, it could have dumped me beside the water, but, no, no, let’s dump the magicless human right into the putrid bog water! A good guffaw, don’t you think? Ha ha ha HA!”

At least your au de Bog of Eternal Stench kept any would-be assailants away since you hadn’t run into anything (besides a rose bush, ouch) since you started making your way through the labyrinth. So maybe it wasn’t all that bad… damn, maybe your sense of smell was just used to it… hey, if stink helps you not die, then you would gladly stay stinky! Well, bitterly stay stinky is more like it.

“Assholes,” you muttered, rounding another corner. 

But it wasn’t a corner; it was a crossroad. Three paths merged off of the one you were on.

… aren’t labyrinths just one long line? THIS IS A FUCKING MAZE?! You groaned, looking at your possible options which all looked exactly the same.

Decisions, decisions, decisions. Of course nothing is easy here, no no no! Gotta make things difficult now.

The hedge behind you rustled, and you whipped around, getting into a stance where you could either land a pretty good sucker punch to the hedge-stalker or make a mad dash away. But out of the hedge crawled out a small, fuzzy, caterpillar. And back at home you would have thought it was cute, but you learned your lesson from the doors; don’t trust it, or anyone for that matter.

You looked down at the caterpillar, and the caterpillar looked up at you, blinking slowly. 

What are the chances… 

“Do you know a way out,” you asked the caterpillar, crouching down so that you didn’t tower over it.

The caterpillar blinked at you again (apparently caterpillars in the Underground have eyelids, which isn’t the weirdest thing considering everything). “No,” it chirped and continued crawling on its merry way, wherever that may be. “But you’ll find the way.” And it disappeared into the growth of the maze, humming a little tune to itself.

You sighed, and pushed yourself back up, straightening out your shoulders and looking up to the sky. “I’ll find a way,” you breathed, looking up at the cloudless sky which was starting to turn a brilliant amber with the setting sun. “I might want to find a way is more like it.”

You looked back down to the ground, looking at the three paths in front of you. They all look the same, save for the ground making up paths themselves, with the middle and right paths looking well worn with travel. And while they may be well worn, there was a voice at the back of your head that was whispering caution. The left-most path was not as well travelled, with dead vines covering parts of it.

“Hopefully you’re right, little buddy since I could use all the luck I can get.” And you made your way down the path, hoping that it was the correct one and didn’t lead you to your death or some other unpleasant thing.

…

…

Lilia was at the entrance of the labyrinth, in front of the two doors.

“Have you seen a human, about this tall, a bit of a temper, and smelling foul,” he asked the doors.

The doors looked at each other before looking at Lilia. “And what’s it to you,” they said in unison.

Lilia smiled, but it was one of mild annoyance, not joy or amusement. “Royal orders I fear. You wouldn’t want the mistress finding out about you both tampering with a royal matter, would you?” The smile turned cat-like since Lilia had backed them into a corner.

The doors paled, with the blue door speaking up. “No no, sir! We would never dream of such a thing!!! Yes, there was a human, a wretched one at that, horribly rude!”

Lilia hummed, cocking a brow at the door. “I do think wretched is a bit of an overstatement now,” he whispered to himself. “Well, tell me where about they are then. The sooner I can collect them, the better for you lot.”

The red door sighed, “Near the heart of it, they took the left path.”

Left path? Why the left path leads to… Shit. Lilia mentally groaned, knowing that regardless of the path you took, you would end up having to deal with them eventually. “Your cooperation has been noted,” is what he said though, giving the doors both a nod before turning into a bat and flying over the labyrinth, trying to find you before you ran into whoever them was.

“Please be clever enough not to die,” he whispered to no one, hoping that he didn’t have to deliver your body to the Queen.

…

…

The left path brought you to what looked like a forest; with old-growth trees, ferns and moss covering the ground, and a list mist hanging in the air. It was peaceful and beautiful, with the setting sun illuminating the mist without burning it away.

But that would not last, night was fast approaching and you had nothing to protect you this time; no rowan tree to haul your ass up, and no sort of weapon to protect yourself besides the oh-so-lovely smell of the bog to deter something from eating you. You were pretty sure it would also keep away anything that wanted to otherwise snatch you up.

“AH!” Something jumped out from a tree, and you couldn’t fully register what it was since you were also screeching, much like the creature was at you; you with fright, the creature with amusement and joy.

Two other creatures jumped out from behind the trees and startled cackling, jumping, and clapping. Together, they surrounded you, with no way to really escape them without fighting through.

… you really should have read about fae species, since you didn’t know what they exactly were, or how dangerous they were either. 

One pulled you near a pit and lit a fire, cackling in glee and dancing, trying to get you to join them. “Ah come on, human, have some fun! DANCE BABEY!!!!”

But you stayed still as more creatures came out of the shadows, dancing around the fire, giggling, cackling, and pulling a bit at your clothes to prompt you to join them. You didn’t know, cementing your feet down, your eyes watching their movements with caution.

‘Should you dance with the fae, you shall not stop dancing until you exhaust yourself. And once you wake up, you will continue dancing. This cycle will repeat itself until you dance to death.’ 

At least that was what the book said, and so you stayed still, regardless of how much the creatures pulled at you. While it looked like a grand old time, you remained where you were.

“I don’t have time for dancing,” you answered coldly, flinching from pinching fingers. You were also a bit shocked that Eau de Bog of Eternal Stench wasn’t keeping them away. Either, they couldn’t smell, or, they didn’t care that you smelled downright awful. “So this ‘baby’ won’t dance.”

And should I be offended by you calling me ‘baby’ or am I reading too much into it?

The main creature just shrugged and spun its dancing partner around. “Your loss human! More fun for us then! YIPPEE!!!” And it threw something in the fire to where you could feel the heat on your face.

What now? You were just standing there awkwardly as the creatures danced about, singing something that you couldn’t really make out. All you knew was that the heat, noise, and the dizzying dance of them was making your head pound, and throat scream in thirst. You hadn’t drank anything for over a day(?) — no, bog water did not count — and the heat from the fire made the thirst only worse. Shit.

“Ah, you don’t look too… hot there human,” one of the creatures snickered at its own joke at your expense. “Maybe if you dance with us, loosen up and have a bit of fun, then you can have a drink? Hmm? Dancing won’t kill you!” But its failed attempts at covering up its own malicious giggles were more than enough to stand your ground… which was coming at you quite fast since you practically collapsed.

Was it the thirst? The pounding migraine that wanted nothing more than to crawl into some dark hole and hide? Or your exhaustion from making that tiring trek, crawling yourself out of the bog and making the trek again, or the hours you had spent wandering around the maze with no real idea of where you were going? All you really knew was that you were now on the ground with the creatures poking at you to see if you were still alive.

“Aw, man! Are they already dead? That’s no fun!” One of the creatures pouted, raising up your arm, and you let it plop back to the ground. “Come on human! Get up! You’re not a party pooper are you?”

Scre you buddy! Can’t you read the situation?!

You were trying your best to stay quiet, which wasn’t all that hard, since all of your energy was gone. 

“They best not be,” a familiar voice called out.

From your position, you couldn’t see who it was, but you could make out the creatures jumping away from you like you were the hot fire instead of the fire pit. But someone else was approaching until you could make out a pair of shoes in front of your face.

They crouched down beside you, placing their fingers gently at the base of your throat; taking your pulse. “Hmph, playing dead, are we, Beastie?”

That irritating chuckle. The annoying nickname. Those mischievous magenta eyes that now looked at you with curiosity and amusement.

It was him — Mr. Sparkles.

And he had just blown your act of playing possum (well, not really, since you had actually collapsed).

But you didn’t say anything, instead favouring to give him a dirty look. Yet he just shook his head in jest, and proceeded to pick you up and wrap you around his shoulders and neck like some sort of bizarre ermine pelt; better than being carried like a sack of potatoes or the bridal carry you supposed.

“Her majesty sends her regards for not turning or killing her guest,” Lilia offered the creatures. It would be such a waste and pity to see such an entertaining Beastie leave us too soon now. “But do know she won’t take to their condition lightly.”

My condition? I’m not some Victorian child with some unknown illness wreaking havoc on their body you know?! But all that you did was groan and cough. You couldn’t even cough in Mr. Sparkles’ (Lilia’s) face, since you had a lovely view of the moss-covered ground and the fae’s shoes.

He patted the back of your calves, and you would have kicked him if you had more energy, but you didn’t. “Now, we really should be off, since Beastie has… an hour to get out of this maze before they turn into some sort of worm, or a hedge; never know what this old labyrinth will decide on really.” Lilia chuckled at the thought (was it merriment, or was he happy that you weren’t joining the caterpillar you met earlier?).

“No,” you wheezed. “WoRm!”

“See! They said it themself! No worm! How lovely that we are on a similar wavelength, Beastie! Marvellous even!” Lilia exclaimed, and the both of you started levitating off of the ground. “Now, do enjoy your party, Fireys!”

The creatures (Fireys apparently) groaned but got back to their party, dancing around the fire like they didn’t just try to lure you to your death mere minutes before.

“Tsk tsk, Beastie,” Lilia’s tutting brought your attention back to him and you grumbled. “You owe me two favours now, you know. Lucky that I found you… although that part wasn’t hard. I thought you learned your lesson the first time you decided to take a dip into the Bog of Eternal Stench?”

You lightly kicked him, letting your irritation be known, but Lilia just hummed. “Now now, no need to be like that! Do you want to smell like a bog when you meet the mistress? She wouldn’t take kindly to your… unique aroma.”

You hissed out a breath since he decided to pinch at your ear rather harshly — prompting for you to answer. “No,” you whispered hoarsely.

“Also, do read up on that book, since you will want to know about the government and fae species etiquette!”

From a smelly bog and fumbling around a maze for hours on end, to finding yourself being taken to fae high society… was it too late to become some worm in the maze? I think being a worm actually has a better chance of me living.

But sadly, you were saved from an eternity of being a worm. Hopefully, Mr. Sparkles (Lilia) would cover for your blunders a little for when you found yourself in front of ‘the mistress’.

...

...

...

...

To be continued!

~~~~~~~

Tags; @afunkyfreshblog @cheezy-moon @eynnwwyjth @identity-theft-101 @ithseem @lucid-stories @ryker-writes @twistwonderlanddevotee @xxoomiii

Link to Masterlist

[peaches2217]

Summer Rain

AO3 link!

~~~

There’s nothing quite like falling ten feet to the ground and landing flat on one’s back to bring a person back into reality. When he came to, Mario’s first reaction was relief. Rest, finally. Everything burned. His throat, his lungs, his muscles, his stomach. His ears rang and his head spun and his vision created doubles of every last block and obstacle overhead, and at long last, he was free to simply lay in the grass and observe passively.

As with all good things, it didn't last.

Get up.

The all-too-familiar voice, maybe his own and maybe some divine call from the universe, repeated these words in his head, but he couldn’t make his muscles obey. He could hardly breathe; air returned to him in unsteady gasps, and with each one, his short-lived relief melted further and further into frustration.

Get up. Something gurgled in his throat that was neither air nor bile, and the taste of copper coated his tongue. Get up. How had he slipped? He’d run this training gauntlet hundreds of times, if not thousands, in the past weeks. Had he grown complacent? Get up. This was no time for complacency. No time for failure. Get up, get up, get up.

“Mario!” He registered the cry of his name the same way he registered the pain in his spine or the ache in his limbs or the muted yet near-constant growling of his gut: with little more than passing acknowledgement. He knew he was hurt. He knew he was hungry. He knew someone was calling out to him. He didn’t care. His only concern was get up, get up, get up, sit up, stand up, get back to training.

Get back to her.

“Mario?”

Just as soon as he’d pulled himself to his knees, dizziness overtook Mario, and he barely caught himself on his hands, his arms shaking from the effort to support his weight. Her voice. All it took was the ghost of her voice to sap his fight, drain the furor that fueled him, until he was empty, empty, empty.

She wasn’t— he knew she wasn’t— and yet she— she sounded so near—

“Oh, Mario,” Peach sighed, pressing a gloved hand to her cheek, “what am I going to do? If I have to sit through one more unproductive commission on import tax rates, I think I’m going to scream.”

Mario chuckled sympathetically. “So I’m guessing third time wasn’t the charm after all?”

“I thought surely the senators would be just as sick of all the arguing as I am by now. Sadly, I’m fairly certain they enjoy it.” Another sigh. “So a fourth commission has been scheduled for Thursday.”

Thursday. Mario wracked his head for upcoming happenings, possible excuses, any circumstance he could twist in her favor, and he found it in short order.

“Hmm… it sure is a shame you won’t be there for that meeting, Princess.”

Peach halted in her tracks, and Mario stopped alongside her, meeting her confusion with pointed nonchalance.

“I… won’t be?”

“You didn’t forget, did you? That play in Mushroom City you were invited to? That’s Thursday night, yeah?”

Peach shook her head. “Mario, I’d hardly call a letter written in crayon by a child begging me to attend their Kindergarten theatre production an ‘invitation.’ More of a… um…” A pause. The realization clicked into place, her bright eyes glowing ever brighter in the twilight, and she graced Mario with a sly, cheerful smile. “Well, how many children have the courage to write to the castle directly? It would be rude to turn such a thoughtful invitation down.”

“My thoughts exactly!” He nudged her side, winking up at her. “Now, I know you’d rather sit and listen to grouchy old Toads shout over each other all day, but we all have to make sacrifices sometimes, yeah?”

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown.” A very un-regal giggle slipped her lips, juvenile in its conniving yet ethereal all the same, and Mario couldn’t help but feel especially proud of himself. “So we’ll meet at the carriage hold Thursday at dawn, then? Plenty enough time to escape before Toadsworth catches on.”

Her proposal didn’t surprise him; it had become customary, after all, to act as her guard any time she ventured beyond the palace walls. This made her invitation no less sacred to him. “You can count on me, Princess.”

Peach took a moment to breathe in the fresh spring evening, exhale her worries, and as their walk resumed, her hand found his, small and light but present and real and warm. “Oh, Mario,” she laughed, “you’re my hero!”

You’re my hero…

Another rush of oxygen hit his brain, and she was gone once more. Memories of golden hair in the waning light of sunset were washed out in smudges of green and brown and red — his fingers digging into the earth, damp from a recent summer rain, a trickle of blood dripping from his bottom lip onto the backs of his hands.

Some hero he was. 

A familiar pressure welled within his chest, and he huffed in relief. Anger. It made his heart pump harder and brought his surroundings back into focus and flooded him with unbearable energy, and he was finally able to clamor to his feet, spitting blood so he could breathe properly. Turning towards the gauntlet’s nearest springboard, he wiped his sleeve over his mouth and let that rage consume him once more, let himself believe again that it wasn’t rage at all, but hope. Hope in its rawest, most painful form.

She was counting on him. He would bring her home. He would have pleasant evening walks in the gardens with her again, he would laugh with her over tea and cakes, he would ensure no similar misfortune ever befell her again. Maybe he would even tell her that he loved her, just so he could say he no longer held any secrets from her. And until that day came, he would train and train and train until no force, earthly or cosmic, could stand in his way.

How could you let this happen?

That fragile illusion of hope burst into flames, its fire coursing through Mario’s veins, but now that he was on his feet again, he made no further effort to fool himself. With a final, sharp breath, he lunged forward—

“Basta così!”

Something caught his left wrist, and the unexpected intrusion snuffed Mario’s fire, like water tossed on a blazing bed of coals. He clenched his jaw and smoldered uselessly for a moment, quivering with unspent energy, giving his captor a chance to free him without provocation. The grasp ensnaring him only tightened.

“Lasciami andare, Lu.” He kept his voice as steady as possible, deathly quiet and low, because he knew it would shake if he raised it any louder, and he couldn’t afford to be perceived as weak.

“No.” Luigi’s voice was equally unwavering. “I’ve let this go on long enough. You’re coming home.”

Mario scoffed. Oh, now his timid little brother was choosing to stand his ground. Now, of all times, for all purposes—! He lurched forward to free himself. He didn’t have time for such games.

Luigi moved with him easily, and before Mario could reestablish his footing, he was yanked backwards by the arm so hard that his vision went blurry and his legs briefly gave out beneath him.

But he didn’t have time to collapse. Luigi powered ahead, and Mario was forced to twist his body in the same direction and stumble along behind him, and by the time his surroundings stopped shifting they were well past the athletic center’s gate and into the streets of Toad Town.

What in the Eight Realms was going on? His brother was strong, but he was stronger. It should have been easy to pull free or at least anchor himself and force an impasse, but he wouldn’t slow down.

“Let me go, Luigi,” he repeated in their mother tongue, half so the dozens of Toads craning their stubby necks as he was dragged past couldn’t eavesdrop and half because his grasp on the English language was one of the first things to go when he was upset. 

“You really think I’m that useless?” Luigi didn’t even look over his shoulder as he responded in the same tongue, yet his voice pierced through the ambiance of the streets. “I don’t need a missing friend and a dead brother.”

Another white-hot burst of fury flared within Mario, and he tried once again to break free (once again, to no avail). Useless? A “missing friend”? A princess — their Princess! — was abducted by a notoriously homicidal warlord who promised to kill her and seize her kingdom by force unless he was met with unconditional surrender, and all his brother cared about was how he was perceived? How these events affected him?

Mario was the only living person with any chance of bringing her home safely, or at least alive. He’d devoted himself to that cause wholeheartedly and without hesitation. Fought and trained and redefined himself over the past two months while waiting for royal spies to figure out where she was actually being held. He’d never thought Luigi to be so selfish, that he’d stand in his way. That he’d sooner trade Peach’s life for his. Did she really mean that little to him? The very thought nauseated him. Or maybe those were hunger pangs.

They arrived at their shared cottage in short order, and Mario spit one last mouthful of blood into the grass before he could be dragged onto the porch and through the door. This wasn’t just selfish. This was betrayal of the highest order. 

Luigi all but tossed him inside, and only then did he let go. Mario seethed at his green-and-blue-clad back as he shut and locked the door, rubbing his wrist absentmindedly, stimulating the once-restricted blood flow. Betrayed by the last person he would ever have suspected. The one person who should have been supporting him, who he’d thought already was supporting him before today. He held his internal fire close at bay, ready to make his disappointment and disapproval clear, and with a heavy sigh, Luigi turned to face him—

“This isn’t your fault, Mario.”

Mario’s belligerence fizzled out. Where there was once fire, there was now ice, still and cold.

“...What?”

“This isn’t your fault.” Luigi enunciated each word carefully as he approached his older brother. “N-no one blames you for this except for you. So you’re not proving anything to anyone by torturing yourself, bro, okay?”

For a long moment, all Mario could do was gape in bewilderment. Not once since the Princess’ abduction had a word been uttered about blame. There was no need, he'd just as quickly assumed: anyone with two functioning brain cells knew exactly who was to blame, and verbalizing accusations wouldn’t get her home any faster, so he bore his cross with a heavy heart and his head held high. 

Even Luigi had never spoken up on the matter. Mario just assumed that meant he agreed. Why bother kicking someone that’s already down?

“I-I…” Mario swallowed. No. No, he was lying. Reality was sinking in and he was lying in a last-ditch effort to defend what hadn’t already been lost. He knew just as well as Mario that… and yet he…

Selfish. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“I’m her guard, Luigi,” he finally answered, and unpleasant but ever-familiar heat rose once more within him, making his face and ears tingle. “It’s my job to protect her! Literally my job!”

“Yeah, during the day! But you’re acting like she was nabbed under your watch! You’re acting like everyone expects you to be on guard twenty-four-seven!” He drew closer to lay a hand on Mario’s left shoulder; what should have been comfortable and familiar instead felt foreign and cumbersome. “The truth is, you were exactly where you were supposed to be when it happened: in bed, conked out.”

A strike of lightning couldn’t have hit as hard as those words.

Mario jerked away from his brother’s touch, nostrils flared, breath coming to him far too quickly now. If he grit his teeth any tighter, he was certain they’d crack. Yes, he’d been asleep that night. He’d protected his Princess like always during the day and left her to fend for herself at sundown and he’d never forgive himself for it. So much for not kicking someone while they’re down.

“Thanks,” he huffed. “Very helpful reminder.”

“Mario, that’s not what—” Luigi sagged backwards, his eyes rolling to the ceiling in exasperation, as if he was the one who’d been slighted, and he cursed beneath his breath before refocusing. “She was never your sole responsibility. Everyone knows that but you. And no one wants to see you run yourself into the ground like this. Th-they trust you! They love you! Seeing how much guilt you're drowning in, seeing how badly you’re hurting, that hurts them, and—”

A deep, shaking breath. Mario tapped his foot impatiently, his fists clenched.

“A-and it hurts me too!" Luigi finally confessed. "Mario, you’re not the only victim here! How do you think I’ve been handling all of this?”

“Forget about that!” Mario fired back. “Just imagine what she’s going through! Can you think about something other than yourself for once and look at the bigger picture?!”

Alarms sounded deep in the recesses of his brain, warning signals, crying a mantra of Too far, too far, too far. He didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to care.

“She wouldn’t want this either! If she was here—”

That was the final straw. Putting words in the Princess’ mouth— what little patience or composure Mario still held, already stretched thin, snapped. 

“Well she’s not!” He stamped his foot like a child throwing a tantrum, grasping Luigi’s arm and forcing him to look directly into his eyes. “Don’t— don’t you dare tell me what she’d say or what she’d do! You don’t have that right! Because you’re not her, and she’s not…”

Mario blinked. Had… had Luigi always looked this tired? His eyes, normally so cheerful and blue, appeared dull and gray, wide with regret and brimming with unshed tears. And there were bags under those eyes too, and overgrown flyaways poking through his normally well-groomed mustache, and…

“...here.” All of his bravado, all of his energy, left him as he whispered that final word.

How long had it been since he’d fulfilled his role as the older brother? Peach was Luigi’s friend too. He was every bit as much Mario's responsibility as Peach was.

“I don’t need a missing friend and a dead brother.”

Only in the ensuing stillness did Mario realize how terribly he shook. He felt both weightless and impossibly leaden, cold and clammy, trembling not in outrage or determination, but something far meeker, far more pathetic: fear.

He was no hero. He was an idiot who’d failed someone he claimed to love and was desperate to make things right, no matter the personal cost. He was a useless brother that dealt with his own inadequacies by lashing out at those who cared for him most. He was nothing.

“Weegee…”

Luigi swallowed, taking a deep, slow breath before responding. “Martyring yourself isn’t the answer. I mean, think for a minute here. You can’t save her if you get yourself killed first.”

It overtook Mario again, a wave of unwelcome emotion, and his knees wobbled beneath him, threatening to buckle.

“Then… then what do you suggest I do? Huh? Clearly you have more answers than I do! So tell me what to do!”  He let go of Luigi’s arms to grasp his overall straps and pull him down, searching his face for those fabled answers. There was no spite in his words or his actions. He shouted at and jostled his brother not in anger, but in pure helplessness. “Tell me what to do!”

The uncertainty etched into Luigi’s face didn’t go away completely, but he buried it beneath something harder, more determined. He braced his gloved hands against Mario’s shoulders, grounding and steady.

“I’ll tell you exactly what you’re going to do,” he said, his voice low yet firm. “You’re going to sit right there on that couch, or on the floor, or wherever you feel like, and you’re gonna cry and scream and get all of this pent-up anger out of your system. And then — look at me, Mario, listen!” He jostled the elder brother back, shaking his shoulders. “Then you’re going to eat something. Okay?” He smiled then, the strain of it contorting his face into some pitiful mimicry of humor. “We can’t have you wasting away when the Princess sees you again, yeah? What would she say?”

Mario’s breath hitched in his throat, suddenly swollen shut.

What would she say? Maybe she would rush forward and cup his cheeks, demanding to know what happened and if he was alright, as if he was the one who had been swept away in the dead of night. Maybe she would be so exhausted and so weakened that she didn’t notice; maybe she would only have the strength to smile as he took her battered body into his arms, her face pale but her eyes vibrant. Maybe her gaze would be glassy and there would be nothing left to hold but an empty shell that had once been his best friend, her fate sealed the moment she’d chosen to place her trust in him.

Or maybe he would die long before he reached her. If only he could trust anyone else to save her, he would have been perfectly fine with that outcome. It was the least he deserved. But that would be far too easy, wouldn’t it? What would become of her then? What would become of Luigi?

He would be free of his suffering, and it would fall directly onto their shoulders instead.

How could you let this happen?

The breath trapped in his throat forced its way back out, some mix between a cough and a hiccup, and finally his knees gave out. He held on tighter and sunk his face into his twin’s shirt collar, and he tried to apologize, he tried to beg forgiveness, but the only sound he could produce was a breathless, almost primal whine.

“Ecco.” Luigi’s voice cracked yet remained soft as he sank to the ground with him, cradling his head close. “Sfogati. Ti sono vicino, fratello.”

Mario’s intended response came out once more as a whine. Ti voglio bene. Ho paura. Aiutami. Ti prego aiutami. Each effort to speak proved increasingly futile until he gave up entirely, surrendering to the wordless screams and sobs and tears his overworked, underfed body forced from him. And Luigi just held him, his fingers brushing through his hair as he fell apart.

Thunder rumbled distantly outside, heralding another summer rain.

~~~

“I’m sorry.”

By the time Mario was able to speak, he still didn’t have much to show for it; his voice was too hoarse to do anything but whisper, and the pounding ache in his head prevented him from doing even that very well.

Luigi shushed him, readjusting his head in his lap. “Just relax.”

“I don’t think you’re selfish,” he continued anyway, curling into himself tighter, soaking in as much of his brother’s body heat as he could. “Or useless.”

“I know you don’t.”

“I didn’t have any right to go off on you like that.”

“In your shoes, I doubt I’d be handling things much better.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I forgive you. Now we’re even.”

This remark wasn’t quite enough to make Mario smile, but it did make him feel lighter, if only a bit. From his spot on the floor, he watched the rain patter against the living room window, dark and dreary and soothing. With the rain outside and Luigi’s fingers still combing through his curls, he felt properly sleepy for the first time in ages, a feeling far more pleasant than the exhaustion that had plagued him for eight, coming up on nine weeks.

Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d slept in his own bed? Most nights he’d find the nearest wall to slump against or a decent patch of grass to crash in when he couldn’t make his body cooperate any longer. And when was the last time he’d had a proper meal? Luigi had forced him to sit down and eat a packet of crackers a day or two ago, Toad brought him soup sometime last week and refused to leave until he downed at least half of it, but…

“Weegee?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m hungry.”

The hand in his hair stilled, and the response came after a few seconds of comfortable silence.

“Well duh. Of course you are.” His voice wavered, yet Mario could tell he was smiling. “What’d’ya want? We’ve got plenty enough to make anything. Don’t hold back.”

Mario hummed, closing his eyes. Making that choice on his own was a mental process he didn’t have the resources for. “Surprise me.”

Luigi vocalized his approval, but he didn’t move to stand quite yet. Instead, the hand in Mario’s hair found his own hand, and he gladly took it, permitting himself that comfort at least.

“Hey Mario? Can you… promise me something first?”

Mario nodded, a small and rapid movement of his head. He knew what was coming: Promise me you’ll eat everything I put in front of you. Promise me you’ll take a bath. Promise me you’ll get into clean clothes and sleep on a bed tonight. He was all too ready to agree. It was the least he owed his long-suffering brother.

“When you save the Princess… promise me you’ll come home too. Okay?”

Mario’s eyes snapped back open. The rain still fell against the window before him, steady and unending.

Easy enough to promise, at least in theory. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to make more pleasant memories with his friends, with his love, with his brother especially. There were so many adventures he still wanted to go on. So many things he wanted to see and do. But if worst came to worst, and he had to lay his life down to save Peach’s… he’d already made up his mind.

“This isn’t your fault.”

He took in a deep breath through his nostrils, exhaled it slowly through his lips. Luigi was strong and selfless. He’d had the strength to lie just so he could ease Mario’s woes. The least Mario could do was offer up a comforting lie of his own.

“Yeah.” He nodded again, and if maybe he held Luigi’s hand a bit too tightly, that was okay. “Yeah, I think I can promise that.”

[escapist-of-fiction]

One shot - Troy Otto x Fem Reader

Description - just a bit of fluff really. Something that has been floating in my head for a while and needed to write it down. Troy is a bit of a tease in this but I like him like that.

Warnings - none really. Mild swearing.

If you do read, a like, reblog and/or a comment would make me smile :) enjoy!

‐-------------

It had become abundantly apparent to everyone that something was developing between you and Troy.

There was something about the way he looked at you from across the room, never intrusive but always keeping one eye closely on you, watching your every move. You didn't mind though. It made you feel safe. You didn't feel so alone in the crowd.

Every chance Troy had; loading supplies from the trucks, collecting empty dishes at meal times, showing you how to hold a gun in the right way to defend yourself, any excuse to have just a little bit of contact with you. You didn't mind. You wanted him to do it. Your skin tingled at his touch. If he stood close to you, you would hold your breath without even realising. It was just the effect he had on you. In a group situation, he would always somehow find his way next to you, by now it was almost an expectation.

You wondered how long it would take for him to make a move. It had taken so long that you were unsure whether it was all in your mind and he had no interest in you at all.

"You can see it, can't you?" Alicia said one day as you sat together at lunch.

"See what?" You responded innocently.

You needed someone else to spell it out to you. To make it seem real. It seemed too good to be true in your own mind. After all, why would someone as complex as Troy be interested in someone as basic as you?

"Troy. There's something about you two. The way he is around you, it's like you're precious cargo or something. He speaks to you so differently to everyone else, with a whole new level of respect. He doesn't even speak like that to Jake, his own brother."

You didn't know how to respond to this, so you decided not to say anything at all.

On the day the Militia headed out on their short mission, you stood with everyone else at the gates. Going on missions was a weekly occurrence in the post-apocalyptic world but today everyone seemed a little on edge. Everyone except Troy.

You stood a little away from the small gathering, leaning against a table where supplies were piled up high. You watched as Troy fooled around with some of the Militia members, his trusted and closest comrades obviously. He wasn't normally this way before a mission, which made you think it was a little more serious than the average. He was trying to put everyone at ease. Rumours had been going around the Ranch that you were heading out to confront another group, who were threatening to steal water supplies. It wouldn't be an easy mission and lives were potentially at risk.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn't notice someone pick up a box beside you, until their voice brought you back to reality.

"You aren't normally here to see us off," Troy noted.

"I'm surprised you would even notice," you answered with the tiniest of smiles, watching for his reaction.

"Dont worry, I notice."

You watched as he walked towards the truck and placed the final box in the back, hitting the side panel to signal to the group that they were ready to go.

You expected Troy to climb into the driver's seat as normal, rev the engine, turn up his heavy metal music and speed out of the Ranch, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. But not this time.

This time, he turned and walked back in the direction of you. You lifted your head to look up at him as he got closer and closer, until he was stood toe to toe with you. He had a look on his face, a mixture of uncertainty and, was that yearning?

You were perplexed by Troy's actions and you were just about question his odd behaviour when he suddenly grabbed you by the waist and....kissed you.

The briefest of kisses that lasted long enough to make your head spin, your toes curl and heart race all at once. It stunned you but made sense to you all at once. You felt Troy's hand press firmly into the small of your back to pull you against him as his other hand gently caressed your cheek.

Then no sooner had it started, it stopped and Troy pulled away. No explanation. No second glance as he turned and walked back towards the truck and the waiting Militia.

You stood there in shock, your fingers reaching to your lips to trace the echo of his touch.

What the hell was that?

Five days passed until Troy and the Militia returned.

Five days for you to mull over your encounter and ask yourself a million questions. You flitted from the feeling of lusting after Troy and more from that kiss, to being filled with a mild rage at how the bastard had acted in such an impulsive way and walked right out of the Ranch with no explanation.

By the time they returned, you had made up your mind on what to do next.

You never normally gathered with the others at the gate but this time was different. This time you had a reason to stand amongst the friends and family. You wanted Troy to know he had left someone behind. Someone who cared about him, his reckless behaviour and the consequences that came with it.

You watched him exit the truck last of all. He looked tired and weary, having been on the road with little to no sleep and carrying the responsibility of everyone's safety on his shoulders. There was a part of you that wanted to rush to him, embrace him but something made you hold back and wait.

Eventually, Troy looked up and spotted you, his eyes lighting up as they met with yours. You gave nothing away. He approached you, watching your expression tentatively, wondering how you were going to react since your last encounter. He took the fact you were here at all as a good sign.

Coming to stand in front of you, he rested his hands on his hips and tilted his head with a cocky smile.

Words were lost on you. You tried to think of something smart to say, to chastise him for what he did the last time you saw each other but you just kept losing your train of thought in those azure, blue eyes.

Instead, you communicated in the only way you both knew how.

Stepping forward and rising to the balls of your feet, you placed a hand on the back of Troy's neck and pulled him down to meet you.

Your lips pressed firmly against his. A kiss almost sweeter than the first, full of promise and something that you couldn't quite describe but you knew you needed more of it.

Reluctantly, you pulled away to look up at Troy, your hands pressed against his chest. Judging by the hazy look in his eye and the delectable way he licked his lips, it told you everything you needed to know. He felt exactly the same way.

And then, just like that, you found your voice again,

"Hi."

Troy laughed softly,

"Well it took you long enough, darling"