#stout hearted series

[shaisuki]

𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗧 𝗕𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦

ft. bully! gojo satoru and geto suguru

content warnings past mentions of being bullied, harassment, injuries, mentions of death, chapter's short.

notes were getting nearer. thank you for the comments and the reblogs and the notes. you're all the best.

taglist: @missakward123 @lupitalove @i00bear @socialanxietyvictim @tourmalxine @labelt-san @ghostlyworld @kashxyou @chiiiiiiiiiiifuuuuuuuu @cute-sucker @skii-high @boyimjustaloserforyourlove @jossayuuu @bubblesandsand1-0 @ply4vnce @witchymermaid12 @luna-v-roiya @mariyumemi @sinfullygay @higurumapet @kvk6433gkcigv @s-j320 @bts-skz @imcreepininyourheartbabe @hazzelle-kento @cashcadaver @n1vi @kiruupon @vebbiewuzhere @its-princessmara @ssetsuka @unicornqueen05 @idkwhattfimdoinghere2 @sunnytyun @tomriddles-wh0re @ya-mamaaaaa @wateriswhatiam @red-writes @saltyladyflower

SERIES MASTERLIST

synopsis you finally started what you want.

a brush with death's hands and it given you the life to start again or maybe it was the help of your two new friends. nanami and haibara gave you the chance to maybe enjoy life and be just gone with it. put all things behind since you consider it as your second life. if only it was that easy. never been it was easy for someone like you.

bright-eyed you entered the university dead eyes is when you leave it. must be hard that you have to endure all that humiliation for some godforsaken dreams your parents didn't achieve. first in the family they say. you hold no grudge for them. after all children are the extensions of the parents dreams and you were like any of it. you have to achieve it and then you endured. what would they say that their child who wasted their money for a selfish reason. was it still selfish that it was starting to kill you in that position and you wanted to protect yourself. if only you could disappear. you were granted of it. sort of. it only took you a trip to the hospital and almost meeting your creator.

you overdosed. that's what they said and how you could that happen. you never done it your entire life but who cares about it now. you were getting your freedom back. with a heavy heart you have to say goodbye in silence to your parents. apologize that you were never a good daughter to them and for wasting their efforts. in due time, you will pay back for all of that. you need to suffer first to get things your way and to get things on your way now, you needed to disappear.

getting to another university proves to be difficult not when you want to disappear to people like gojo and geto. first thing when they started to make your life hell is to get to know all the important people in your life. they made you remember that you were in no place to fight them. they hold everything dear to you in their palms and what powerless you could do? stand in shame and let do it their way to you. and you know that they will find you after your sudden disappearance.

when satoru and suguru started to show their interest to you and when things started to get extreme and the people that you asked to helped you started disappearing, you knew you have to slowly plan your escape from them but how could you that you were locked under their gaze. they even show how far things can escalate when one of those who believed you got beaten in front of you.

“this is what happens to people you asked for help, (y/n)-chan.” gojo whispers to you. holding your shoulders while you were forced to watch as suguru helplessly beat him. tears welling up in your eyes as he helplessly took every punch. harder than the last one and when suguru sees you with tears rolling down your eyes, he smiles as the man he beat up falls to the ground. face bloody and eyes swelled shut.

he holds both of your cheeks in bloodied hands. “i don't see the reason why they'll go out of their way to help you. what they would gain from you. certainly you have but you're not what pretty should look like. unattractive and stout. how would you match the girls here? you're only good when we fuck you.” suguru explains it to you like it was the reality you needed to wake up to. “try to reach out someone for help and they will get worst than this. understand, hmm?” he hums, smearing your round cheeks with blood. you look up to him. dried blood in his cheek and you nod. understanding that he can do it again and again if he'll have to. he's more of a brute than satoru when angered and you took his anger many times you can count and it always ended with you having to take classes off to recover.

they spun you around. slowly walking away from where your almost savior lays down. you craned your neck to look at him. he managed to open one of his eyes and looks at you and more tears poured from your eyes. mouthing him with i'm sorry, i really am. your lips trembling as remorse took you over. repeating the same words again and again and hoping that it would reach him. you should never asked for help. you should never put someone in danger. it's all your fault. it's all your fucking fault.

you blink the tears away, remembering the day how it ends up to someone who helps nor approach you in anyway.

“i appreciate it but you can't. please yuu, don't.” you tearily told him about your decision. haibara explains it to you what he can offer to help you with nanami by his side.

you thought about it but you won't be accepting any help but haibara shakes his head. “i promise, they won't find out. nanami and me are good at hiding secrets.” the brunette offered you a smile. “but why? you never have a reason to help me, nanami. haibara.” looking at the both of them. nanami kept silent. drinking his can of coffee from the vending machine. “you seem nice.” was haibara's reason to you and you cry harder. tears blurring your vision and haibara panics at your crying expression. “are you kidding me!? nice? nice won't cut it out for you offering me this! helping me!” you cry harder. “i can't do anything for now! a-and i don't have anything for me to offer to both of you!” you sob and haibara softens up. you were like his sister and even though he knows the consequences of what will happen if they were about to find, he does not care. they only recently find out about your situation but he wants to help in any capacity he can do and nanami must surely wants the same.

“we don't want anything from you but your trust, (y/n).” his voice is somewhat sincere and comforting and he was like a big brother from how he is acting towards you. “you can start a new life, away from them.” your tears stops to roll down on your cheeks. “we're your friends and this is what friends do.” haibara said to you and for the first time in your life, you could finally breath.

with nanami and haibara, they helped you transfer hospitals. sooner or later that gojo and geto where about to find where you are. they can't afford to see you cry and be hurt because of them. you were really grateful and somehow was ashamed of it, but nonetheless you wanted to be away, away from what their madness can do to you.

that was the start. nanami and haibara took care of your papers for your transfer to another university. one that they wouldn't suspect of you transferring. far away from a maddening crowd but enough to provide you a good education and a degree that you would find useful later in life.

there wasn't a day where you didn't cry. first when you said goodbye in secret to your parents. simply disappearing in their lives like you didn't exist. promising that you would come back when the time's right and when all dues are paid and the last is when you stand in front of the university's main entrance. a final tear for the memories you desperately wanted to forget and for them. there's only an end to where you tolerated them. it's your time to play now and what makes it right is you're now standing in front of the building as the new employee. a multinational corporation hailing at a time where japan started to be a first world country after the war. the company's name in sleek and in big bold letters glinting in the sunlight.

this would be the start of your life.

[megalony]

It's Complicated- Part 3

I know it's been a long while since I started this series, but after a lovely idea from a mutual I've managed to get back into this Evan Buckley series.

I hope you will all like it, please let me know what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @classyunknownlover @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @kyky9103 @wutheringhearts2275 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana @shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii @bellsbomb @western-pyro @itsgigikay

Series Taglist: @itsmytimetoodream @xceafh @senjoritanana @anea08 @lebguardians @piabeach @4-ln4 @zephyrmonkey

Evan Buckley Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Summary: Things start to get tricky when Evan falls in love with his best friend's sister. It causes complications within the team. And things only start to get worse when an accident occurs.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mr Buckley, please calm down," With an exasperated sigh, the nurse held her hands out in front of her as if she was offering him an olive branch.

When Evan stepped to the side, the nurse followed in suit like they were stepping in tandem with one another, about to perform a dance. She didn't step back when Evan tried to step forward and it caused his shoulders to hunch up and a growl to vibrate in his chest.

She was deliberately getting in his way and preventing him from leaving the room and he didn't like it. She wasn't even helping him at this point, she was just being an obstruction.

"Can you sit down-"

"Tell me where (Y/n) is." Tears welled up behind his eyes and Evan finally looked down at the nurse.

She was older than him, nearing fifty or possibly a bit older. She was stout, she barely reached his shoulders and she was a little plump. Her face was warm and her expression was kind yet concerned and her hands were dry and flaking, probably from all the washing and hand sanitising she had to do.

"I have, she's gone for some scans, now please sit back down." She tried her luck resting her hands on his arms to usher him back towards the bed, but Evan wasn't cooperating.

He shrugged off her touch and tried to walk round her yet again. He wasn't doing this. He had already gone for an MRI, he had had his hand and wrist stitched back into place and bandaged up and he had been brought back down here. All while he was told (Y/n) was still in scans and deliberating whether or not she needed surgery. Why had he been helped so quickly yet her treatment was dragging out?

All he wanted was to go and see her. He wanted (Y/n). He wanted to know if she was alright. His mind was swimming and the only comprehensible thing was (Y/n).

Eddie had gone to get them both a drink and to call Bobby and Maddie because Evan needed his sister. But now he was gone and Evan was alone, he needed to find (Y/n). He couldn't sit here and wait any longer.

"Then I go to her. I want my wife."

"You know that's not possible now sit down before I have to go and find that brother of yours."

A groan tumbled past Evan's lips and he tilted his head down as tears began to flush his face. He couldn't keep getting these answers. Where was (Y/n)? Why was it taking so long? Why would no one let him see her? Had she died and they were trying to calm him down so he didn't go and find her? Had they moved her somewhere? Were they never going to allow him to see her? Didn't they know she was his wife- wasn't she?

He could feel his head spinning again and he wanted to be sick. The morphine they gave him had only taken a small edge off, but Evan was feeling horrid once again.

He could see the room spinning and the more angry he got, the worse he felt. If they just let him see (Y/n), he could calm down. But his body was writhing and shaking in frustration, his throat was tightening like he was going to be sick again and his head was pounding like a boombox.

"I want my wife!" The tone of his voice was shrill and the volume surprised even Evan who winced.

He pulled away from the nurse and tried to bypass her, but he paused when his right arm jerked. He looked to the side and huffed, realising he had a tube taped into the back of his hand.

Whatever that was, it was holding him back and he didn't want it. Evan could barely feel anything when he undid the tape and pulled the strange-looking green tube sticking out the back of his hand. Nope. He didn't want that. He tossed it on the floor, causing the machine to begin a horrid beeping that had him wincing and crying at the same time.

"Mr Buckley! Sit down, you need that IV you're dehydrated- I'll get the doctor." Her threats were futile when Evan pushed her out of his path at the same time as he tore his left arm out of the sling.

It was annoying him.

"Where have you hid her?! Where have you taken (Y/n)?" He wasn't quite sure who he was talking to and he stomped his boots down on the floor when he heard another beeping noise fill the room.

Unbeknownst to Evan, the nurse had pressed the emergency help button. She was going to need backup.

Evan barely reached the door before it opened and a bewildered Eddie stepped inside, quickly setting his drink down when he looked at Evan. He could see his right hand hanging by his side, blood dripping steadily down his fingers and pooling onto the floor from the missing IV.

"Buck, what are you doing? You need to rest-"

"I need my fucking wife! Do - do none of you realise she's pregnant? She's hurt, where have you taken her?!"

A brief look of fright flooded Eddie's eyes and took over his face when Evan lurched forward. Despite the bandage tightly strapped around his wrist that was padded with gauze, Evan seemed to have control over the battered hand. He dug his hand into Eddie's chest and gripped his collar with his good hand, pulling Eddie closer until he was almost stood on his tiptoes, nose to nose with his best friend.

"I want (Y/n). Now." The guttural tone to his voice made Eddie shiver and he felt for a dreaded moment that he was going to get punched.

Cautiously, Eddie lifted his hands to grip Evan's elbows and slowly tried to walk him backwards, away from the door. He couldn't have Evan roaming the hospital, shouting and screaming for (Y/n) in his state. He could cause a panic and make himself worse, he needed to rest and wait, the same as Eddie.

"We have to wait, okay? As soon as she's on a ward, someone will come and find us."

"No I want my wife!"

Those few words repeated on a loop like Evan was a scratched record, unable to say anything else. He rose his voice higher and higher and started to dig his boots into the floor when Eddie continued to hold him at bay.

This wasn't fair! Why were he and (Y/n) being kept apart? She was pregnant and she was hurt, Evan had to go and be with her. Someone had to take him to her.

"Buck sit down." The stern tone to Eddie's voice did nothing to make Evan waver and give in. All he did was scream and repeat those words again until drool was foaming on his lips and his face had gone the brightest shade of red Eddie had ever seen.

With a grunt, Eddie hunkered down and pushed his shoulder into Evan's chest to get him back towards the bed. His efforts seemed to work and he finally got Evan to sit down on the bed, but when he realised Evan was no longer screaming his repetition, Eddie looked up.

Evan swayed to the left and flopped onto his side, ignoring the agony that sparked in his bandaged arm when he pinned it between the bed and his chest. His head hung off the side of the bed and he suddenly threw up, splurting up a whole lot of water that he had drank when he got here, curtesy of the nurse who assured him it would help his concussion. And the last of his lunch crawled back up his throat.

"Fuck! Alright, alright Buck stay there, that's it." Pushing one knee on the bed, Eddie held the back of Evan's neck to keep his head tilted forward.

The nurse told him that Evan had aspirated into his lungs earlier when he passed out after throwing up. They couldn't have that happening again and risk an infection or pneumonia in his lungs.

He slid his hand up and down Evan's back when he finally stopped throwing up, but he didn't like the way Evan started to shake.

His arms twisted and pinned to his chest and his whole body rattled before his trembling hands moved up to cup his face. He seemed irritated by the bandages on his hand, but he didn't seem to notice the blood covering his right hand that was now smearing into his face.

His head was throbbing.

He could feel every inch of skin vibrating and pulsing and his blood was pounding in his ears.

A horrid, grating scream left Evan's lips when he realised he could barely hear a thing over the sound of his blood pumping in his veins. He didn't like it. He didn't like having one of his senses turned off like this. His nails punctured into his face, around his left eye that was already turning a very dark shade of purple and adding to the scratches littering his face and neck.

"Buck, Buck it's okay, come on, calm down for me buddy, please."

Eddie cringed at the way his sister's name tore so violently from Evan's lips, it was as if she was dead and they were both mourning her loss.

Another round of "I want my wife!" Spluttered past Evan's lips, but his voice was croaky and his volume was wavering from loud to little whispers, depending on how loud the blood was in his ears.

"You can see her very soon Mr Buckley, there now, that's it." The nurse leaned over his other side and carefully tugged him back on the bed.

She rolled Evan over so he was laid on his right side, facing her with his back now facing Eddie. She didn't want him laying on his left side and cutting off the blood to his arm or tearing the stitches beneath the bandages.

Eddie couldn't quite believe how Evan's mind tapered off. He went from screaming and shouting to laying there, motionless. And once his eyes rolled to the top of his head, it was clear he was on the verge of passing out. He didn't fight the nurse when she held his right hand and got the IV back into his vein which she taped up.

"I'm going to give him some tramadol for the pain, and some blood thinners, with his history of clots."

Eddie nodded and tilted his head back, running his hand all around his neck to try and get some feeling back and loosen the tension in his muscles. That was a good idea. Evan needed to be dosed up to keep him asleep for as long as possible, until (Y/n) was on a ward and safe. And he needed to be pain-free or else he was going to be a menace, and having him in agony wasn't fair.

The pair of them glanced towards the door when another nurse peeked her head round and for a dreaded moment, Eddie worried she was going to give him news on (Y/n). Right as Evan had passed out. That wouldn't be the best thing to happen.

She had a look of sympathy in her eyes when she looked over at Evan, spark out on the bed.

"We have a room on the trauma ward, we're ready to move him. And doctor will assess him once he's up there."

"Oh thank you." Eddie managed a small smile and he got up from the bed to stretch his arms up. He ran his fingers through his hair, did a few stretches and then moved over to the door.

He would get out of the way and let the nurses get the bed ready to transport. They couldn't get Evan in a wheelchair now he was passed out, they would have to move the bed which wouldn't be too much hassle. At least having him on a ward meant he would be booked in and he would have hourly checks. And Eddie wanted a doctor to check on him again, he had thrown up a lot and he had a concussion. He needed observation.

When he trudged into the hall, a sudden thought struck Eddie in the chest and he leant against the wall in fear of having another onset panic attack.

His parents.

He hadn't even told them yet. Eddie was down as (Y/n)'s emergency contact at the hospital, but they hadn't needed to call him because Eddie had been on the phone with Evan in the first place. Their parents would have no idea (Y/n) had been in an accident and they would want to come down here the moment they found out.

His fingers trembled as he fished his phone out his pocket and scrolled down to his parent's home number.

He prayed his mother would be the one to pick up the phone. Eddie didn't want to have this conversation with his dad. He could of cried when he heard his mother's voice on the other end of the line and his free hand moved to pinch the bridge of his nose, warding off the tears.

"Ma, it- it's me."

What was he going to say? How was he going to tell them? How did Eddie explain this mess?

He could hardly tell his mother that he found (Y/n) sleeping with his best friend and subsequently went off into a tangent at her. He couldn't admit he had been ignoring his sister when he found out she was pregnant. Or that he felt responsible for her crash.

If he'd of only swallowed his pride and talked to them earlier, if he calmed down and had a proper conversation with them, they wouldn't be in this mess. (Y/n) wouldn't of crashed, she might not have been out in the car at all if Eddie had talked to her earlier and put her mind at rest.

"No, I… I'm at the hospital- ma it's not Chris, he's fine, he's with Abuela. It's (Y/n), she was in a car accident."

The sound of his mother's shocked cry and the panicked tone of her voice as she called for his father made Eddie shiver. He didn't want to be doing this, but he had to. It was his fault, his responsibility to call them and say he had failed looking after his little sister.

"I don't know yet, she's- she's gone for a scan, she might need surgery, I've no idea what's happening. They can't tell me much."

He couldn't tell them. It wasn't worth telling them over the phone that (Y/n) was pregnant because Eddie had no idea if she had lost the baby. She might have already lost it. She might have to go for surgery and have a medical termination. She might lose it after any surgery, the possibilities were endless and Eddie couldn't tell their parents in case the worst happened.

He knew it would be easier for them to live in ignorance and it would be easier for (Y/n) not to tell them she had ever been pregnant if she lost the baby.

***

"Trauma ward, this can't be good." Hen's quiet comment clearly wasn't appreciated when she saw the stern look Bobby threw at her over his shoulder and the agony that flooded Maddie's eyes when she looked her way. But she couldn't help it.

The name of this ward didn't give the best impression. What kind of state would Evan and (Y/n) be in if they were up here?

The team barely knew (Y/n). They had seen her once or twice and thought she was sweet, but they had mostly heard about her from Eddie. Maddie had heard lots of stories from (Y/n), unknowing that it was Eddie's little sister her brother was smitten with.

The team were still reeling from the fight Eddie and Evan had had down at the station last week. None of them could believe Eddie would ever throw a punch at his best friend, nor at Evan for taking the hit and not responding. And now they were all down here, wondering if their teammate and family were okay or not.

"Here we are, room five." Bobby pointed before he rapped his knuckles on the door and pushed it open.

He took a quick look inside before hurrying in when he noticed Eddie waving him along.

All four of them crammed into the room where Maddie moved first and hurried to her brother's side. Tears pooled in her eyes and she smothered her mouth with her hand to fight off tears that were inevitable. She thought she had seen the last of her brother lying in a hospital bed, looking battered and bruised.

But here he was, passed out like a light with one arm bandaged up and strapped to his chest. His left eye a worrying shade of black, his brow slightly swollen and little cuts and bruises dotted all across his skin. Not to mention his right hand was wrapped up in a bandage to cover his IV and there were two sick bowls laid next to him on either side of the bed.

"What happened?" Maddie sat herself down on the side of the bed ad reached out for Evan's right hand. She held it on her lap and began tracing her hand up and down his arm while she looked across at Eddie.

"A drunk driver crashed into them, head on. Buck was on the phone to me when it happened… his hand went straight through the window, he broke a few ribs and got concussed pretty bad. They gave him a few painkillers and it knocked him out."

"Where's (Y/n)?" Hen rested her hand on Eddie's shoulder and stood beside him at the end of the bed. While Bobby moved to stand on Evan's other side and gave his shoulder a light squeeze, despite his sleeping state.

"I don't know… Buck must have got a pretty bad concussion." Eddie wrung his hands together in front of him, dancing his eyes across the room when he got a few curious looks.

"What makes you say that?"

"He was calling (Y/n) his wife, screaming for her. I nearly had to restrain him."

The way Evan had been calling for her made Eddie sure that he hadn't just said she was his wife to make sure he got updates on her. He had been confused. He wouldn't have been calling out for (Y/n) that badly, repeating the word 'wife' if it was just a ploy to stay close to her. He really had been confused enough to think they were already married. And Eddie prayed Evan would remember soon that they weren't married- yet.

Seeing how panicked Evan was to know if (Y/n) was okay made Eddie feel bad for punching him. It made Eddie feel horrid for giving them both such a hard time. He shouldn't have been so hard on Evan, but he didn't realise how much Evan loved (Y/n) until now.

"The baby?" Maddie's voice was meek as she looked over her shoulder.

She had wanted to be angry when she saw Eddie. After learning from Chimney about the fight, Maddie wanted to give Eddie a piece of her mind, but seeing him now, she didn't have the heart. She could see he had been conflicted and he had clearly made some kind of amends with Evan.

It hurt that Maddie had learned about the pregnancy second hand, from Chimney. He had come home with the gossip but he broke the news gently that Evan's new girlfriend was Eddie's sister, who also happened to be pregnant.

It led to an hour-long phone call between Maddie and Evan where he told her how madly in love he was with (Y/n) and how much he wanted things to work out with them all.

Eddie shrugged his shoulders, biting his lower lip so he didn't burst into another fit of tears.

"Can we-"

Whatever Bobby was about to say was cut off by a tepid knock on the door and a middle-aged nurse peering her head around the door.

All eyes fell to Eddie and he brushed his hand across his face and weaved behind Hen to go to the door.

Eddie was losing the will power and the energy he had come down here with. It was starting to get late and the longer he was here without any answers, the more deflated he was starting to feel. He had rang his abuela after his parents, just to check Chris was okay and she could have him for the night. He would go get Chris first thing in the morning to get him ready for school, but he dreaded the conversation he was going to have with his son to explain everything.

He stood just outside the door with the nurse who had a tender smile that was more promising than he had been expecting.

"Miss Diaz has been for all her scans, everything has come back okay, she has a bit of swelling around her spine but nothing evasive."

"Where is she?"

"We've moved her to the next room, so family can visit the both of them easily, and you don't have to stick to visiting times. We know someone will have to stay with Mr Buckley to keep him stable and calm."

Almost everyone on this floor had heard the palava Evan had created and knew he was going to be a tough patient to handle. It wasn't in his nature to be rude or cause a scene or make trouble, but where (Y/n) was concerned, normal behaviour flew out the window.

"Thank you." Eddie popped his head back round the door to look at the team after the nurse walked away. "She's in the next room, I'm gonna go check on her now."

Everyone nodded, all of them silently understanding that Eddie would need a few moments alone with (Y/n) and the doctor too, before they went ahead and bombarded the room to see her.

Eddie could feel his heart jumping into his throat when he burst into the room on the right without knocking. He wasn't expecting to find the doctor still in there, or a nurse doing the last few checks on (Y/n). He let the door swing shut behind him and his eyes focused on the nurse for a few moments.

There was (Y/n), seemingly knocked out from the painkillers they must have given her. Eddie hadn't seen her when she got brought in like he had seen Evan after his initial assessment in the emergency room.

She had cuts along her arms and a few dotted on her face. An oxygen mask placed over her mouth. IVs and an ECG and a lot of wires sticking out beneath the hospital gown to keep check on her vitals.

Eddie couldn't help but look over the machines. Her pulse was high; they would need to give her some medication to control that or else it would become a high risk problem. The blood pressure reading that had been taken was far too high for a pregnant woman. Her oxygen intake was the only good thing and that was only because she had a mask on to keep her levels where they should be.

"Are you a relative?" The doctor's voice brought Eddie out of his thoughts and a shudder passed down his spine as he turned to give his attention to the doctor.

"I'm her brother, her partner is in the next room. How is she?"

"Three broken ribs on the right side and her right knee was dislocated, but we put it back in place. Scans came back clear, no internal injuries, just some swelling on the spine to be monitored. But as for the baby…"

The lack of response caused Eddie's heart to rocket up into his throat. Oh God. This was his worst nightmare. What had happened? Had she lost the baby? How was he going to tell her- would Eddie even be the one to tell her, or would he have to let Evan do that?

How would he tell Evan?

"But what? Is the baby okay?" The persistent tone in Eddie's voice added with the extra step forward he took and made him seem very uneasy. He couldn't help being impatient, he wanted answers and he wanted them now.

"The impact and the shock to her system has made her and the fetus both unstable, she's at a high risk of miscarrying."

His fingers began to shake when he carded his hand through his hair, disshevelling the strands even more, making him look like he had received an electric shock. That wasn't good news. This was all his fault. His sister was still pregnant, but he had put her at high risk of a miscarriage.

(Y/n) wasn't going to cope if she lost the baby. Evan was going to have a meltdown if he found out. All Evan ever wanted was a family of his own and he wouldn't handle something like this.

"If she has constant rest and monitoring and we can get her stabilised, the fetus might be okay. We will just have to wait and see."

Eddie wasn't sure he liked the odds here, it didn't sound like the doctor was very hopeful. And how was (Y/n) going to rest, which implied no stress, if she had been in an accident? She was going to be unwell, she would be worried about Evan. If their parents came down, they would surely stress her out. This whole situation was a recipe for disaster.

Eddie might just be able to wait and see what would happen, but he knew Evan wouldn't.

***

A shiver rolled down Evan's spine when he stood to his feet. He could feel his balance falling off kilter like the fluids in his ears weren't in equalibrium. Maybe they weren't. Maybe the concussion had set them uneven and therefore he couldn't keep his balance.

His head still felt like it had been split apart like a coconut. The left side of his temple was swollen where he had collided with the window. His eye thankfully wasn't swollen closed, but it was black and he was littered with bruises.

He looked down at his chest with a grimace. The binding the nurse had wrapped around his chest had been tight to help his broken ribs.

When his eyes danced across to his right hand, Evan carefully twisted the cap and disconnected the IV before he reached over the bed for the hoodie. He took care to slip it over his frame, trying not to sway or wobble as he did so and he ignored the pins and needles coursing up his left hand.

When he glanced towards the chair beside the bed, a softness fell over his features. Maddie was asleep. He didn't blame her. She had been here since he woke up and when he woke up, Eddie had been there too. Eddie had explained that (Y/n) was okay, she was right in the next room and he could see her in the morning when they were both better and not dosed on morphine.

Eddie had gone home to be with Chris. He would come back in the morning, and he would bring Chris by to see them both after school tomorrow.

Well, Evan wasn't waiting around to see (Y/n). He wasn't going to lay here and wait for insomnia to take over. He didn't want to waste away all night, thinking and crying out for (Y/n). He was awake now, he was up and the morphine wasn't as strong as it had been earlier. He was more himself than before and he wanted to see her.

With the jogging bottoms and matching hoodie shrugged on, Evan padded barefoot across the floor and slipped out the room. He didn't want to wake Maddie and he knew she would know immediately where he had gone once she woke up and realised he wasn't here in the room with her.

He ran his hands over his face to try and liven himself up a bit more, ignoring the way the bandages scratched and rubbed at his skin.

He could feel the way he swayed from one side to the next but he tried to hold himself upright when he pushed open the door and gingerly headed inside. He wouldn't want to wake (Y/n) if she was sleeping, he would just sit and hold her hand if that was the case.

The lights had been dimmed. Evan wasn't sure what time it was, all he knew was that it was late.

He shuffled over to the chair and let himself plonk down into the surprisingly plush chair that was as soft as sitting on a cloud. He slouched down so his knees were pushing into the bedframe and he slid his hand across to gently take (Y/n)'s hand in his.

It felt better to be sitting down, Evan had barely been on his feet for a minute and it had already drained him down to nothing. He probably needed more sleep, his head needed time to recover and his body was running on empty, but he didn't care.

(Y/n) was here. Her hand was in his and he could rest now he was next to her.

He was about to close his eyes when he suddenly felt (Y/n)'s fingers squeezing his hand. He sat upright in his chair rather than slouching down and leaned both elbows on the edge of the bed so he could be close as possible to (Y/n).

His thumb stroked across the back of her hand and a small smile pulled at his lips as adrenaline fuelled his stomach and fluttered up to his chest. It felt like weeks had passed since he'd last seen (Y/n), when in reality it had been twelve hours or less.

He leaned down to press a kiss to the back of her hand and he could of started laughing with joy when (Y/n)'s head started to move and a small mumbling of his name passed through her lips.

"Evan…"

"It's me, baby. I'm here."

His left hand began tapping on the bed, despite the ache it caused rattling up his arm. He leaned closer when (Y/n)'s eyes began to flutter open and he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, leaning as much as he could to be close to her.

He could see it took a lot of effort for (Y/n) to try and get her senses into order and work out what was going on around her. But when she finally locked her eyes on Evan, she squeezed his hand again and tilted her head to the left to look at him.

(Y/n) tried to shift her elbows and press them down into the bed so she could sit up, but it didn't work. When she tilted her chest forward, a shockwave coursed down her back and had her whole body trembling. She felt Evan's hand let go of hers so he cold nudge her to lie back down.

"You hurt your back, sweetheart, stay lying down for a while."

"The- the car…" (Y/n) reached back out for Evan's hand and he realised she was shaking when she held onto him. The look in her eyes was clear; she didn't remember what happened. She was asking for an explanation.

He pushed up from the chair and shifted over so he was sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. He kept their fingers entwined and continued tracing his thumb over the back of her hand while he placed his left hand on her thigh.

"Some drunk crashed into us, we uh, we got a bit banged up. You broke a few ribs, dislocated your knee, and they said your spine is bruised. You'll need a lot of rest, sweetheart."

(Y/n) bit down on her lower lip when she reached her free hand up to trace the little cuts littering Evan's face. She didn't want to touch his black eye and cause him any pain, but she traced her hand down his shoulder towards his hand that was visibly bandaged beneath his hoodie.

"It's not broken, only my ribs." He murmured softly, flexing his fingers to prove his point. Although he wondered if breaking his wrist or his hand might have been more preferable to getting his vein sliced open. Now he was back on blood thinners and his hand and wrist had swelled up from the stitches. He had a constant aching from his elbow down to his fingertips.

Evan hated the horror he saw welling up in (Y/n)'s eyes and he knew exactly what dawned on her mind. He shuddered when she moved their entwined hands down to her stomach.

She was only four months pregnant, there wasn't much, if any, change to her shape or her stomach yet. It was something Evan had been waiting for since they found out about the baby, and now it was something that might not happen.

He couldn't help the way his hand started to shake against her stomach and he tried not to press down in case he caused her any pain.

"The baby?" (Y/n) tightened her hand around Evan's, dithering between wanting to press his hand down into her stomach to prove the baby was still there. Or to try and pull herself up into a sitting position and cling to his arm like it was her lifeline.

She settled on pressing his hand down into her stomach, watching Evan's reaction for any sign she could see. She couldn't tell if she was still pregnant or not. She didn't feel any different, but it was too early for (Y/n) to feel as if she were pregnant at all.

She didn't want to lose the baby. They wanted this baby. (Y/n) could still feel the worry in her throat when she told Evan she was pregnant and gave him the positive test. She could still see the light bubbling up in his eyes and feel the way he lifted her up and spun her round.

She had worried this might be too early, they hadn't been together long, Hell they hadn't been together a year. But she knew she loved Evan and he clearly loved her. She was thrilled at the thought of soon being able to have a baby, having a family of their own.

"Evan…?"

"The baby's unstable, but still here. Right here." His fingers began brushing up and down her stomach. But when he saw the tears falling down (Y/n)'s face, he moved.

Evan twisted around on the bed, laid his legs out beside (Y/n)'s and laid on his right side beside her. He liked the way (Y/n) took control of his left arm and laid it out across her like it was a blanket of protection. Her hands clutched tight to his arm and she twisted her head to bury her face in his chest, trying to hide herself away in his embrace.

"Will I lose them?" Her voice was so quiet Evan almost didn't hear her, but he felt her words vibrating through his chest and piercing his heart all the same. He tilted his head down until his lips were smothered against the top of her head and he closed his eyes, breathing in her scent to calm himself down.

"I don't know, baby." He had to be honest. He didn't know what was going to happen. He thought it was a miracle she hadn't already miscarried after the crash. "One day at a time, hm? It's gonna be okay, I'm gonna look after you."

[dreamingkitsunewrites]

Here's to you! My first prompt for the Spookinky2024 event, conceived by @tsukimefuku is finally here!

You'll find the rest of my JJKPENNYDREADFUL Halloween Series here This one is inspired by one of my favorite novels ever: the absurdly-underrated Perfume:The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind. As usual, I've picked a song that matches the vibes of this fic! Warnings: dark and smut/nsfw content ahead (MDNI). Obsession, stalking,sexual descriptions, olfactophilia. Roughly proofread (English is not my first language) 1.8k words I’m pouring my soul into this series, I really hope someone will enjoy it. If you do, please feel free to interact and/or reblog! Thank you in advance for reading!🙏🏼

"For people could close their eyes to greatness, to horrors, to beauty, and their ears to melodies or deceiving words. But they couldn't escape scent. For scent was a brother of breath. Together with breath it entered human beings, who couldn't defend themselves against it, not if they wanted to live. And scent entered into their very core, went directly to their hearts, and decided for good and all between affection and contempt, disgust and lust, love and hate. He who ruled scent ruled the hearts of men." P.Süskind

Fall comes as a surprise, pushing summer away. It brings along a mix of smells, spreading them like tiny stars in the night sky: the smell of old smoke from chimneys, the sweet scent of cinnamon and pumpkin wafting from bakeries, and the fresh aroma of damp leaves in quiet woods. Every single smell, every tiny aroma unlocks a feeling, bounding the mind to the celebration of an ever-lasting memory.

Just a few days ago, you walked down the busy sidewalk during rush hour, trying to reach the subway. You mindlessly moved through a sea of students and workers. Huddled in your coat against the first autumn chill, you failed to notice the pale, stout man in unusual garb who had begun following you onto the subway platform.

The stranger,named Choso Kamo, is a half-cursed spirit, whose existence has always been bound to the ill-fated story of the mother, whose affection he couldn't know… her body had been exploited and abused to generate him and his beloved brothers until it collapsed, leaving him, the eldest of her sons, with the difficult burden of taking care of his brothers' cursed-wombs. He was now standing in the middle of the crowd with his usual vacant expression, surveying the many passersby as instructed by his associates… deep down, Choso knows they brought him back to life just to take advantage of his strength, but at least they have given him a purpose to pursue in his miserable life.

In the precise moment you mindlessly passed him by, adjusting your scarf around your neck, a gust of wind unleashed the essence itself of his renewed purpose: Choso found himself entranced by the intoxicating bouquet of your vibrant youth, sublimated in an ephemeral fragrance that danced upon the crisp evening air, weaving a spell that ensnared his senses. Enveloped in a tempest of longing, the crowd disappeared from the awareness of his senses,and he could think of nothing else but you, a siren call beckoning him to follow. With trembling resolve, he boarded the same train, trying to stay as close as possible to your graceful frame, in the desperate attempt of tracing the path back to your intoxicating perfume. He ended up following you up until your doorstep, now torn by an all-consuming obsession.

Night after night since then, Choso had been tormented by his desire, passing restless hours awake under the pale lunar light, when even his strong hands could not tame the wild hunger that throbbed and begged for release. At every nightfall, he surrendered to the echoes of his desire, rigid and raw, a prisoner of this exquisite torment, yearning for the touch that could soothe his restless soul. He vowed he would never find peace until he had found you. So Choso retraced your path, desperate to breathe in your sweet scent once more. He lurked in the shadows, stealing small tokens of your presence- discarded trinkets that bore the faintest whiff of your essence, each one a precious relic he hoarded within a secret chest, a shrine to the object of his obsession.

Your very existence had become a haunting, lingering thought, driving him to the brink of madness with an all-consuming desire to possess you. Choso found himself teetering on the precipice of madness, surprising even himself indulging in dark thoughts of violence, should any rival dare to encroach upon what he believed was rightfully his—the very breath of your existence, the haunting aroma of your skin.

(...)

And then came the witching hour, Halloween night—a tapestry woven with shadows, the spookiest eve of the year. While in the city streets echoes of children's laughter drift through the air, you languish in the solitude of your living room, binge watching the whole Scream series. You lay half asleep under a blanket on your couch, distracted by the dim glow of your flickering television, oblivious to the stranger spying on you just outside your window. Hidden by the welcoming veil of darkness, Choso bursts into the warmth of your apartment, drawn by an irresistible magnetism that thrums in the air. He slips through the half-open window of your bedroom, a tall, well built silhouette against the moonlit night, and the moment he crosses the threshold, he is engulfed by an intoxicating familiarity, a warmth that wraps around him like a silken shroud. His heart races, a frenetic drumbeat as his ravenous gaze roams the sacred space you occupy, etching every detail into his memory: the hue of the walls that cradle your secrets, the books piling atop your bedside table, the delicate arrangement of your bed adorned with ornamental pillows, each whispering tales of your essence.

Your very presence saturates the air, a heady perfume that drives him to the brink of madness. Yet, his brow furrows as it lands upon the disheveled heap of laundry piled carelessly in the corner. In that moment, all restraint shatters—his longing overcomes him. He dives into the chaos, seizing your garments, letting the subtle scent of your skin engulf him. In an instant, the pressure swells within his baggy pants, an undeniable urgency that demands release.

With a fervor that borders on the frenzied, Choso collapses onto your plush bed, a wild creature succumbing to the lust that consumes him. He sheds his loose robe, exposing the sculpted lines of his body, yearning to lose himself in the essence that lingers in your sanctuary. His hands, trembling and desperate, explore his length, as lost in an urgent trance, but it is not enough. His mind conjures up haunting visions of you—your soft skin beneath his fingertips, your lips parted in exquisite pleasure, your breasts quivering with each of his deep, ravenous thrusts.

Lost in a fevered reverie, he begins to grind against your pillows, surrendering to a trance where he imagines your warm, welcoming heat enveloping him. Clutching your underwear, the fabric cradled in his grip, he feels his knuckles whiten with the force of his need. Memories flood his mind—how your delicate hands had clutched your scarf in that crowded subway, and the thought of those soft fingers caressing him sends a shudder of bliss through his core. A moan escapes him, mingling with the scent of your freshly laundered linens, the bedspread now stained with white, thick stains of his desire.

His face twists with a rapturous anticipation, the gates to a forbidden paradise poised to swing open. But just as the world around him begins to blur into a cascade of ecstasy, you materialize at the threshold, your eyes wide with disbelief at the sight before you—a tall,pale sublime-looking stranger lays in your bed, lost in a primal dance of pleasure.

You stand transfixed, mesmerized by his unconventional beauty— you notice how his uncanny, unearthly features merge perfectly on his graceful face, etching a unique,twisted kind of charm on it: his curious hairstyle, the sharp line of his clenched jaw, those haunted eyes, their irises of golden honey, matching the unhealthy purplish puffiness beneath his eye; the tribal dark mark etched upon the his skin of his face his hair. You soon understand that you stand in front of a non-human creature…yet, your senses catch a glimpse of his kind soul, buried deep inside the shadows of his eyes. Rather than fear, a flicker of arousal ignites within you, an electric thrill coursing through your veins as you drink in the sight of this beautiful,mysterious demon.

He pauses, the moment stretching as you lock eyes—his pupils dilate, revealing a tempest of desire and hunger, yet glimmers of tenderness shimmer beneath the surface. In that gaze, you read an unspeakable promise—of safety, of reverence. Your heart quickens, and instead of retreating, you advance, a moth to his flame. You kneel down on the edge of the bed, your trembling fingers hovering over the mark crossing his face, the silent blossoming of a connection. He whimpers as your skin brushes against his,his gaze incredulous. A soft smile graces your lips, and he blushes under your father-light touch, the heat radiating off him palpable.

"You... You look so beautiful," he stammers, his voice grave, each breath a desperate whisper. In an instant, he rises, revealing his hardened desire—long and throbbing, its tip glistening with the evidence of his lust. He lunges,burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, finally rejoining with your essence. He feels overwhelmed by your presence, intoxicated by the heady mix of your unmistakable scent and a hint of a fresh thrill of anticipation that dances along the delicate curve of your neck.

��Finally…” he breathes against your skin, his dry lips grazing your soft flesh, igniting a fire that spreads through your body, causing you to arch into him, surrendering to the magnetic pull of his presence. And then, in a whirlwind of passion and primal instinct, he takes you—your senses clouded as he pins you to the bed, unleashing a torrent of fervor that leaves you gasping for breath: he runs his strong fingers through your silky, perfumed hair, now cascading freely on the pillow below your head, then he starts carefully peeling each layer of clothing off of your body, trying not to get lost in the enveloping scent unleashing with every garment falling to the ground, just like fragile, autumn leaves. The veins on his big, strong hands popping out under the pressure of his constrained need. Once you lay bare in front of him, he grabs the silky skin of your thighs, spreading them open as he buries his face in the spring of your essence. He breaths you in, needing to feel you, the purest you, straight into his lungs. His mind is clouded by the highest form of ecstatic haze, and his resolve falters…in this moment he would surrender to your every darkest order, he would be your puppet forever, exploiting his half-demonic strength for whatever purpose you put forward, you… his muse. And just like that, something inside of him snaps at the willingness conveyed through your half-lidded eyes and he releases the depths of his pent-up need on your body, worshiping every hidden corner of your skin.

You lay beneath him, quivering under the disclosure of a brand new, unearthly, unadulterated form of passion: you lose count of the waves of pleasure that crash over you, each thrust a divine revelation, each moan a prayer whispered into the dark. Words remain unspoken, yet the reverence in his touch, the fervent grunts that escape him, speak volumes of his devotion to you, body and soul.

As the night wanes, Choso pauses, drinking in the sight of your blissful surrender���a vision that etches itself into the very depth of his soul. In that moment, clarity washes over him; he grasps the essence of devotion. You are his goddess, and your bedroom, now steeped in the mingling scents of passion and your sweet essence, becomes a temple where he will forever worship.

Unleashed, his half-demonic nature finds solace in the storm of ecstasy, surrendering to the sanctity of your spread legs—the sacred gates to his paradise. Now that he has discovered his faith, he knows there is no turning back; he yearns for more than a mere taste of your forbidden fruit—the very essence of you, a heady nectar that lingers in the air, binding him to you eternally.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

A-Z Sherlock Fan Fiction Tropes Bingo

Ahhh, so I saw this Fanfiction Bingo Card by @swissmissing going around, and even though I wasn't ever tagged, I wanted to do some recs of my own because, like, that's my whole brand LOL. I hope no one minds...🙃 I needed to have a list ready for this Sunday, and this was perfect, LOL.

And because I'm always trying to overachieve on these challenges, I'm going to do full black out, BOTH tropes in each square.

This will be a Combination of my read fics and "to read" fics [to fill in spaces I don't have tags for], which I will append the latter with (MFL) just like so, for those of you who only want fics I've personally read. And apologies, I had to remove some of my standard links to fit them all within Tumblr's link limits, so author names aren't clickable AND I've removed all series' links, so be sure to check out other stories by the authors!!

AND FINALLY, this is a rare list that I DON'T have in word-count order, just so y'all know! I hope you guys like the fics I've pick for y'all. Literally random picks from my lists, based on tag searches, LOL.

AU: A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada & ShinySherlock (E, 125,492 w., 23 Ch. || Historical Pirates AU || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Doctor John / Pirate Captain Sherlock, Sailing, UST / RST, Masturbation, Action / Adventure, Mild Angst & Peril, Romance, Shaving, Molly/Janine, Bottomlock, Hand / Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Slow Burn, Mild Violence, Facial Shaving, Happy Ending) – Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship's surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there's more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin' the eye, he has to choose... is it a pirate's life for him?

Amnesia: I Need You To See Me by Mssmithlove (E, 12,625 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, Amnesia, Soldier!John) – After going back to war, John is yet again invalided home, this time with a broken ankle and a chunk of his memory missing, unable to recall the last five years he's spent being Sherlock Holmes' partner and husband. Part 9 of Happiness Awaits

BDSM: Lock and Key Series by 221b_hound (E, 59,509+ w. across 14 works || Series WiP || Post-HLV, Tattoos, First Kiss/Time, Anal, Hand Jobs, Captain John, Cuddling, Sherlock's Scars, Possessive Johnlock, Exhibitionism / Voyeurism, Frottage, Blow Jobs, Masturbation, Sherlock in Panties, PWP, Dirty Talk, Sexual Fantasies, Restraints, Photographs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Assorted Kinks, Sherlock in a Sheet, Sex on Furniture, Domestic Fluff) – John has been back at Baker Street for a year, following the debacle that ended in Mary's death. Things are good. Back almost to what they used to be. Sherlock might wish they were something else, now, but he only has himself to blame, he thinks. It's too late, now, for the things he first denied before he'd ruined any chances he might have had. Sherlock also thinks that people who get tattoos are idiots. But perhaps he's about to learn a thing or two, not least of which might be it's not as late as he thinks it is.

Bodyswap: Inexplicable by emmagrant01 (E, 34,664 w., 6 Ch. || Body Swap, TSo3, Magical Realism / Artifacts, Infidelity, Angst) – So what was in that matchbox, anyway? John and Sherlock find out, the hard way.

Crossover: Perdition's Flames by i_ship_an_armada (E, 63,435 w., 21 Ch. || Star Trek Fusion || Established Relationship, Genetic Engineering, Angst & Fluff, BAMF!John) – Sherlock would do anything to save him. Risk anything. Give anything. His money, his life. His soul. What he does, though, is change both of their destinies forever. Genetic re-engineering is the only option left. It turns out researchers underestimated the life expectancy and potential abilities of genetically re-engineered subjects. The British government and what would eventually become the United Federation of Planets, however, had not. Part 1 of PF Universe

Crack: Fucking Cake by Random_Nexus (E, 12,965 w., 1 Ch. || Pre-Slash, Humour/Crack, Inanimate Object Smut, Frottage, “For a Case” / “Experiment”, PWP / Kinky, Mutual Pining, Fluff) – Sherlock brings home a chocolate cake, John finds him about to have sex with said cake, then exceedingly weird hijinx ensue. Part 1 of "Fucking Baked Goods" - Sherlock BBC

Domestic: Back to the Start by slashscribe (M, 14,088 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock’s Violin, Pining Idiots, Fluff, Domestics) – Sherlock hasn't played the violin since John's wedding (which is long since over), and when John returns to 221B, Sherlock relearns the violin as he and John relearn each other. Post S3 fic with an obscene amount of pining, idiocy, and attempts to pawn off tea duties.

Disability: Breakable by MissDavis (E, 117,627 w., 34 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Established Relationship, Major Character Injury, Fluff/Angst, Depression, Paralysis/Disabilities, Hurt/Comfort, POV Sherlock, Mental Health Issues, Drug Use, Happy-ish Ending) – After John is seriously injured, Sherlock struggles to figure out how to help him, keep himself sane, and maybe, just maybe, get their life back to the way it's supposed to be. Part 1 of Breakable Not Broken

Established Relationship: Caught In The Act Series by ShirleyCarlton (E, 9,217 w. across 7 works || Established Relationship, Unintentional Voyeurism, Alternate POVs, Humour, Blow Jobs, Walking in on Someone, Switching, Public Sex) – This is a series of six scenarios written from the points of view of six different people as they accidentally walk in on Sherlock and John having sex.

Enemies to Lovers: Synchronicity by Calais_Reno (T, 46,424 w., 10 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Case Fic, POV John, Bullying, Coming Out, Forgiveness, Drinking/Bars, Boarding School, Drunk John) – John and Sherlock meet again, years after they were school boys together. John hasn't forgotten why he still hates Sherlock Holmes. (MFL)

Future: Uncharted Territory by J_Baillier (T, 19,603 w., 4 Ch. || Dystopian Future / Black Mirror AU || Alternate First Meeting, Angst, Drama, Homophobia, Bisexuality, Technology, Humour, Romance, Near Future, Happy Ending) – The System puts people through a series of assigned relationships in order to determine who their Perfect Match is. John believes that it works; Sherlock really, really doesn't. One of them is probably going to be wrong.

Fluff: A Lifetime Together by LondonGypsy (M, 8,886 w., 1 Ch. || Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Falling in Love, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Pining Idiots, Alternating POVs, Domestics, Retirement) – John and Sherlock falling in love.

Gen: Octopus by glass_rose_paperweight (G, 705 w., 1 Ch. || Established Relationship, Fluff, Bed Sharing, Limpet Sherlock) – A week after Sherlock and John finally get together, and John is finding sharing a bed with Sherlock Holmes to be ... difficult, sometimes. If not downright suffocating.

Genderswap: Cockscomb by birdie7272 (E, 115,302 w., 32 Ch. || Femlock / Gender Swap || Light Dom / Sub, Sensual Play, Cocks, Lace, Safe Words, Pining Sherlock, Case Fic, Truth or Dare, Slow Burn, Feminism, Relationships, Sexuality Crisis, Cheating, Power Play, Manipulation, Control) – Lace, whiskey, and a case full of cocks leads to a brand new kind of adventure. AKA The One With All The Cocks… When There Are No Cocks (MFL)

Historical: Enigma by khorazir (M, 289,667 w., 23 Ch. || Codebreaker / WWII / Imitation Game-Inspired AU || Case Fic, Espionage, Period-Typical Homophobia / Sexism, Pining Sherlock, Inexperienced / Virgin Sherlock, Implied / Referenced Drug Use, Non-Graphic Violence) – It’s the autumn of 1941, war is raging in Europe, German U-boats are raiding Allied convoys in the Atlantic, the Luftwaffe is bombing English cities, and the cryptographers at Bletchley Park are working feverishly to decode their enemies' encrypted communications. One should consider this challenge and distraction enough for capricious codebreaker Sherlock Holmes. But the true enigmas are yet waiting to be deciphered: an unbreakable code, a strange murder, and the arrival of Surgeon Captain John H. Watson of the Royal Navy. (MFL)

Humour: Equine Arse Anonymity by Kayjaykayme (E, 3,834 w., 1 Ch. || Established Relationship, Public Sex, Coming in Pants, Humour, Halloween, Hand Jobs) – Sherlock needs to speak with suspects at a fancy dress ball. He chooses a couple's costume for himself and John. It is logical, practical and well thought out. John doesn't agree and exacts sweet revenge.

Illness: Only To Be With You by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (M, 40,768 w., 4 Ch. || Black Mirror / Future AU || Character Death, Future Technology, Sickness/Cancer/Illness, Heavy Angst with Happy Ending, First Person POV John, Pining John, Heart-Wrenching Angst, Promise of Forever) – I tell myself that next time I’ll come near this same place again. Wait around for the mysterious stranger in his coat to dash past me, hot on the heels of a new criminal in black. I think this all the way back to my Exit, planning where I’ll wait and what I’ll say when I see him. Scheming on how to get his name. It’s only once I reach the Exit Point door that I realize two hours and forty-five minutes have passed, and I realize that this won’t be the last time I Visit. It won’t be the last time at all.

Imprisonment: THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON by skyefullofstars (T, 110,758 w., 24 Ch. || Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Angst, Violence, Whump, Nightmares, Murder, Drug Addiction, Torture) – While Sherlock grapples with his new-found feelings for John Watson, he faces a very real threat: John's kidnapping and shooting at the hands of James Moriarty. And the knowledge that the love of his life is being used to test an addictive drug - at the risk of John's sanity and life. Prequel to THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET. Part 1 of THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON

Jealousy: The High Tide Series by stardust_made (E, 15,269 w. across 3 works || OMC, Angst, Jealousy, Developing Relationship, First Time, Romance) – A little favour Sherlock stupidly agrees to do for Mycroft leads to John meeting a handsome, afluent man, who is going out of his way to woo him. Sherlock struggles with the situation and with his own reactions to it.

Jilted: Love Is Series by SilentAuror (E, 36,903 w. across 2 works || Post S3, Alternating POV Each Story, Angst, Unrequited Love, Rejection then Reconciliation, Romance, Mary Divorce, Eventual Happy Ending) – At Mrs Hudson's urging, Sherlock finally decides to tell John how he feels about him.

Kids: The Baker Street Nativity by SwissMiss (E, 99,662 w., 23 Ch. || Nativity! AU || Teacher Sherlock / TA John, Pining, Sherlock POV, UST, Angst, Christmas, Music/Song Fic, Anal / BJ’s, First Kiss / Time) –Fusion between Sherlock (BBC) and Nativity! (2009 movie starring Martin Freeman). Sherlock is a primary school teacher and John is assigned to be his classroom assistant. Together, they are charged with putting on the school's Nativity play. What could possibly go wrong? Part 1 of The Baker Street Nativity Verse

Kink: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times Series by wendymarlowe (E, 247,051+ w. across 45 works || Series WiP || Short Stories, Assorted Tags with Assorted Genres, PWP) – A collection of short imaginings of how Sherlock and John might finally allow their relationship to become physical. Don't be afraid of the giant cloud of tags - each fic stands alone and you can read them in any order.

Long: Free Falling by twistedthicket1 (M, 203,574 w., 38 Ch. || Guardian Angels AU || Guardian Angel John, Fluff and Angst, Humour, Kidlock / Teenlock, Light Mystrade, Passage of Time, Possessive John, Drug Use / Overdose, Victor Trevor, Graphic Bullying, Big Brother Mycroft, Hard Drug Use, Depression, Possessive Sherlock, Possessive John, Panic Attacks, Nightmares/PTSD, Pining, Healing Abilities, Kidnapping, Violence, Torture, Blow Jobs, Virgin John, Emotional Development / Attachment, Mortality, Happy Ending) – All Guardian angels are born with a Chosen human. When this child is born, the angel comes into being to protect and care for them during their life on Earth. For John Watson, all he cares about in the world revolves around his Chosen, Sherlock Holmes. Watching him grow up though, the angel soon learns that God must have had a sense of humour the day he decided to make Sherlock, as trouble seems to follow him like a magnet wherever he goes. John can't decide what's worse, the idea of losing his Chosen one, or the fact that he may be breaking the most taboo law of heaven as he disguises himself as a human to better protect and befriend the beloved detective he's always watched from afar. He was meant to care for him. But what happens when caring evolves into something more? What happens when an emotion an angel is supposed to be incapable of possessing comes to life suddenly and viciously inside John's chest? 

Love Triangle: Isosceles by SilentAuror (E, 56,609 w., 7 Ch. || Post-S4, POV John, Original Male Character / Sherlock Dates Another Man, Love Triangle, Jealous John, Virgin Sherlock, Sexual Coaching, Angst, Romance, Domesticity, Unrequited Feelings, Miscommunication, First Kiss/Time, For a Case, Friends With Benefits, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Spooning) – After solving a case for a major celebrity, Sherlock gets himself asked out. When John asks, he discovers that Sherlock has no intention of going, at least not until John agrees to coach him through whatever he might need to know for his date...

Magical Realism: The Frost Child by twistedthicket1 (M, 9,994 w., 2 Ch. || Frozen-ish AU || Magical Realism, Christmas, Angst, Fluff, Powerful John) – In a world where people are born with a Gift of varying levels, simple John Watson is the last person one might look at when thinking of any strong Magick capabilities. Hiding comfortably in the shadow of Sherlock's brilliant deducing abilities, John is content to keep it that way...

Major Character Death: I Think I've Come A Long Long Way To Sit Before You Here Today by ArwenKenobi (T, 18,251 w., 3 Ch. || Grief/Mourning, Passage of Time, Major Character Death, Alternating POV, Sherlock Whump, Pining Sherlock, Hospitalization, Coma, Revenge Murders, Hallucinations, Love Confessions, Brutal Accident, Mystrade, Ghost John) – One year after John is killed Sherlock starts to wonder whether John has actually gone anywhere.

NSFW: Caves in the Mountains Are Seldom Unoccupied by starrysummernights & TheMadKatter13 (E, 7,925 w., 1 Ch. || Were-Creatures ||  Werebear John, Pseudo Bestiality, Rimming, Dub Con, Rough Sex, Come Inflation / Eating, Size Kink, PWP, Bratty Sherlock, Rutting) – “This isn’t something to play at, Sherlock,” he snapped. “If it doesn’t work out- what you’re asking of me- we can’t shrug and say 'oh well, at least we tried'. If we do this… I could seriously hurt you. Do you understand? I could lose control. I could… I could kill you.” 

Next Gen.: If Equal Affection Cannot Be by blueink3 (E, 31,156 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Family, Retirement, Grown Up Rosie, Angst, Reunion, Loneliness, Sussex, Fluff, Sexy Times, Happy Ending) – Sherlock fled London a couple of years after John left him in hospital with nothing but an old walking stick and a half-hearted goodbye. Rosie grew up thinking that Sherlock died when he committed suicide in front of her father by jumping from Barts' roof. So it's somewhat awkward when they run into each other in a Sussex general store between the loaves of bread and the Mars bars... (MFL)

Omegaverse: A Fold in the Universe by darkest_bird (E, 152,869 w., 26 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Omegaverse / Prime Universe Crossover || OmegaJohn / AlphaSherlock, First Kiss / Time, Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Dubious Consent, Humour) – Alpha Sherlock and Omega John are in a relationship. Prime Sherlock and Prime John are not. So what happens when a freak fold in the universe switches one John for the other?

Only One Bed: The Cure for Snoring by Goddess_of_the_Night (G, 1,278 w., 1 Ch. || Sleepy Conversations, Bed Sharing, Cuddling, Fluff, Domestic, Platonic / Sleepy Cuddles) – Sherlock and John spend the night in Scotland after finishing a case. The sole Inn in town only has one room left...one bed. This would be fine - if not a bit awkward - if Sherlock hadn't developed a habit of snoring loudly. John suffers through many hours of sleeplessness before he discovers that skin-to-skin contact stops the noise. Part 1 of Dreamscapes

Parenthood: Iris by slashscribe (E, 11,948 w., 1 Ch. || Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Post-S3) – Sherlock does his best to make John happy when John comes back to 221B with his new baby after the events of Season 3, but Sherlock has a track record of getting things wrong in this area. This story is an exploration of their gradual shift from friends to lovers, told from Sherlock's perspective, full of a lot of pining and lack of emotional awareness.

Platonic: The Green Blade by verityburns (T, 72,929 w., 15 Ch. || Case Fic, Bromance) – As a serial killer hits the headlines, the police are out of their depth and the next victim is out of time. With faith in Sherlock Holmes at an all time low, this is a case which will push loyalties to the limit...

Queer: Rupert Street by WritingOutLoud (M, 27,262 w., 9 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting || Case Fic, Sexuality, Demisexual Sherlock, Drugging, Smart John, Sherlock Has Internalized Biphobia, Fluff, Angst with Happy Ending, Gay Bar, Flirting, John Manipulates Sherlock to Eat, John Deduces, Arguments, Kidnapping/Torture, Hospitalization, John Whump) – Discharged from the war with nothing but the clothes on his back and a realisation of his bisexuality, John Watson has to learn who he’s become. He can’t afford London on an army pension, but the city is the only friend he has. In an effort to understand his newfound queer identity, he heads to a bar one night, where he stumbles across a mysterious stranger who turns his life upside down. ‘I dug around inside myself, and I'm not quite sure what I found, but it was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time.’

Quest: Licence to Kiss by fellshish (T, 13,739 w., 4 Ch. || Post-ASIB, Sort-Of Bondlock, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Angst and Humour, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock loves John, and John loves... James Bond. He only made Sherlock watch every single film. Tedious. And now John's birthday is coming up. Sherlock can't tell him how he feels, but he can organise an amazing gift: John's very own spy adventure. Sherlock begs Mycroft for a real case with some extra gadgets. And perhaps some actors pretending to be criminals. What could possibly go wrong?

Retirement: Through the Clouds by Mazarin221b (E, 20,004 w., 6 Ch. || Retirement, Sussex, Bees, Home Improvement, First Time, Romance) – Sherlock takes a remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a change of pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the South Downs, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quiet contemplation, bee studies, and book writing. They might go completely insane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you're living to find the life you want. Part 1 of Through The Clouds

Road Trip: Hitting the Water at Sixty Miles an Hour by what_alchemy (E, 30,568 w., 5 Ch. || Fake Rel., Road Trips, Slow Burn, Mummy Holmes) – “You love your mother, Sherlock?” John watched the muscles in Sherlock’s jaw jump. He nodded in one sharp jerk. “Then we’re going to her party and making her happy.” John let out a resigned sigh. “As a ruddy couple, you bastard.”

Soulmates: The Heart On Your Sleeve by flawedamythyst (T, 5,441 w., 1 Ch. || Soulmate AU || Sherlock POV, Heartmarks, Pining, Fluff and Angst, Semi-S1 / S2 Canon Compliant, Reunion) – Sherlock stared at the imperfect circle on his left wrist in horror, then sat down on his bed with a bit of a thump. After over thirty years, his heartmark was finally showing activity. This was not good.

Slow Burn: Tomorrow's Song by agirlsname (M, 24,645 w., 5 Ch. || Post-TRF, POV Sherlock, Angst with a Happy Ending, Virgin / Repressed Sherlock, Love Confessions, Slow Burn, Pining, Jealous Sherlock) – How can he think a relationship with me would be a good idea? I am the sort of person to take a break from my life and when I come back after two years, I expect to find it exactly as I left it. In reality I find it shattered to pieces. (I actually equate you with my life. When did I start doing that?)

Teen AU: The Sky is Full of Fiddles by agirlsname (T, 25,659 w., 6 Ch. || 1895 Teenlock || Romantic Fluff, Bed Sharing, Swedish Folk Music, Dancing, Sherlock’s Violin, Poetry, Skinny Dipping, Summer Love, First Kiss, Proposals, POV John, Gay Surprise) – It's 1895 in the heart of Swedish folk music and dance. During certain weekends, boys are allowed to visit girls at night, wooing them with fantastical poems. If a girl lets a boy into her room they can share a bed all night, fully clothed, to talk and eat caramels together. John is seventeen and looking for a girl to marry like everyone else. He's very surprised when another boy suddenly stands outside his door, wanting to share his bed… (MFL)

Time Travel: The Engine by stitchy (T, 8,294 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Post-HLV, ASiP Do-Over, Sci-Fi, Time Travel) – Shortly after the events of His Last Vow, Sherlock has an opportunity to revisit the night of A Study in Pink and get some perspective on the destiny of he and John's relationship.

Undercover: The Skin Over My Heart by standbygo (E, 8,849 w., 1 Ch. || Post-Hiatus, Fake Relationship, Case Fic, Dog Tags, Military, Homophobia, Gay Bashing, POV First Person Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Declarations of Love, Undercover, Haircuts, Flashbacks, Touching, Pining Sherlock, Hospitalization, Metaphors, Introspection, Hand Jobs, On the Couch, John’s Past, Angst with Happy Ending) – Sherlock and John are still trying to adjust to Sherlock's return from his hiatus when John's friend Bill Murray brings them a case. Someone is targeting the LGBTQA+ members of Bill's unit. John and Sherlock go undercover at the unit, but when they end up having to flirt to flush out the suspect, Sherlock realizes he's in over his head.

Unrequited: Love Is Series by SilentAuror (E, 36,903 w. across 2 works || Post S3, Alternating POV Each Story, Angst, Unrequited Love, Rejection then Reconciliation, Romance, Mary Divorce, Eventual Happy Ending) – At Mrs Hudson's urging, Sherlock finally decides to tell John how he feels about him.

Vampires: Bleed Me Out by antietamfalls (E, 87,987 w., 14 Ch. || Vampire AU || Bonding, Vampire Sherlock, Fluff & Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, Magical Realism) – John isn’t exactly surprised to discover that Sherlock isn't human. His vampirism doesn't pose a problem, even when their relationship gradually grows into something more. That is, until a deadly revelation about John’s blood sends their lives spinning dangerously out of control.

Villain POV: Genesis by pasiphile (M, 19,521 w., 1 Ch. || Graphic Violence, Moriarty’s Past) – Before he was Jim Moriarty, he was just Jimmy, a street kid with more pain in his past and more ambition in his head than he could handle, and only one other person he could bring himself to trust. Part 6 of This Life Is A Trip (When You're Psycho In Love) (MFL)

Whump: Trapped and Upside Down on the M6 by BootsnBlossoms (E, 4,256 w., 1 Ch. || Whump, Car Accident, Hurt / Comfort) – Everything felt wrong. His hair was going the wrong way. His arms were bent in ways he wouldn’t choose to bend them. His neck hurt and he couldn’t really feel his toes. Something was dripping on his face – and rolling up. A car crash. He had been in a car crash.

Werewolves: John Watson’s Moon by patternofdefiance (E, 11,314 w., 1 Ch. || Supernatural Creatures || Werewolf John, First Time, BAMF John, First Time, Anal, Fleeting Depictions of Violence) – Sherlock finds out John is a werewolf and wants to see the transformation. It, uh, gets really kinky.

Xenomorphism: Forest King by Elphen (E, 141,856 w., 27 Ch. || Magical Realism / Omegaverse AU || Mythical Creatures, Group Sex, Body Worship, Drinking / Impairment, Dubious Consent, Anal Fingering/Sex, Transformations / Shapeshifting, Mpreg, BAMF John, Possessive Sherlock, Celtic Mythology, Paganism, Sherlock’s Violin, Frottage, Illnesses, Caring Sherlock, Netherworld/Underworld, Coping Mechanisms, Paternal Lestrade, Defensive John, Big Brother Mycroft, Insecurity, Self-Esteem Issues, Misunderstandings, Mild Jealousy, Pregnant Sex, Male Lactation, Birthing, Emotional Support, Parenthood, Family History) – After falling out with his sister, John ends up in a Cornwall Midsummer’s Eve celebration in the middle of a forest that’s rather…different. After the hazy night of magic and passion with a pale-eyed man, he goes home to London. He’s in for a surprise when his stomach starts growing and buds appears on his head. Not one to just accept things, he returns to Cornwall to demand an explanation. When he meets the forest king, Sherlock, again, he has to come to terms with not only what’s happened to him but what kind of magical world he’s been thrust into. Plus, there’s the questions of whether he trusts the antlered man and how he'll survive being apparently pregnant. Sherlock isn’t much help. That doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to somehow make John understand his feelings, however, even if he’s greatly hampered by being Sherlock. They slowly move forward but problems beyond their control may arise from an act done with the best of intentions. How will they cope, separately and together? (MFL)

Xmas: Our Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained by withoutawish (M, 32,961 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post-TRF, Case Fic, Mild Gore, Sherlock Whump) – The list that is tacked haphazardly on the refrigerator of 221B reads, ‘Kidney(s), and/or a full cadaver (preferably male, late 30s, under six feet tall), bag of fresh toes, sixteen cow’s eyes (corneas retained), dual exhaust hand –held flame thrower, an unopened first edition copy of Joseph Conrad’s 'Heart of Darkness', and no less than ten abhorrently gruesome murders in the upcoming month.” The one neatly hanging next to it simply reads, “Sex.” One of these lists is not John Watson’s. If John Watson were to put what he really wanted in list form, to live in a land somewhere beyond ‘almosts' now that Sherlock Holmes has indeed returned to him, he would never be able to look his flatmate in the eye ever again.

Zombies: The Hollow Ones by antietamfalls (M, 100,244 w., 23 Ch. || Walking Dead Fusion || Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Slow Build, Emotional Constipation, Protective John, Hurt/Comfort) – The dead walk. Mangled corpses of the deceased rise and mindlessly feast upon the flesh of the living. John wakes up, alone and confused, into the remnants of a city gone mad. He will search for answers. He will find Sherlock at any cost. And he will learn that the living are far more dangerous than the dead. (MFL)

Zoomorphism: How to Build a Heart out of Ashes by Teumessian (E, 144,931 w., 31 Ch. || Changeling AU || Slow Burn, Drug Use, Mentions of Child Abuse / Bullying, Mentions of Student/Teacher Relations, Uni-Age) – In an AU where a small number of the population become Changelings at a young age, at 17 John Watson believes he's destined for Normal life but then the Change takes him and he is sent to the Baker Institute. There he meets Sherlock Holmes.

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter one: as it was

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon) 🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter CW: Blood kink, masturbation, minor character death, Astarion being racist/hateful towards gnomes

A/N: This fic incorporates vampire bride lore and headcanons. Special thanks for the wonderful @locallegume for beta reading.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“Sometimes, however, the emotion may be close to what mortals classify as love. The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers. In these cases, the vampire might actually believe it is bestowing a gift when it turns the mortal into its bride - the gift of freedom from aging and death.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Come to me.

Astarion allows their connection to slacken. With each step she takes nearer to him, springy anticipation pulses through their bond. It’s not unlike the wag of a tail.

And the slow dawn of his smile behind the fan of his fingers isn’t so different from the sun peering between the clouds. The sight of his most precious pet stokes that same delectable warmth inside of him.

“My sweet sunlight,” he calls to her, “how was your trance?”

His voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling of the throne room. There’s enough space in the chamber to hold dozens, but there’s only seating for two. The lavish chair at Astarion’s left is vacant as it always is. And this morning, only one needy patriar comes to the Crimson Palace to pay its lord homage. Lord Ventris is stout for a human, with a face lined in age and a dark, well-manicured beard. His attention follows Astarion’s eyeline as the gilded doors at the head of the hall groan apart. 

Finer company comes his way, following the red runner that crosses the checkerboard marble. Naomi’s shift sways just past her knees. The silk robe draped over her shoulders hardly offers any modesty; she didn’t bother to cinch it.

“I was well,” she answers primly, “until I woke without you.”

Astarion adores her in that shade of mauve. It wakes the faint trace of pink in her cheeks, the flush that only blooms after she’s fed. There’s hardly any hint of it now. Astarion’s smile fades.

Lord Ventris balks, scandalized by the sight of those lithe, lilac legs striding past him. “My lady!”  

Naomi matches Astarion’s unflinching stare, a slight lift at the corner of her mouth. His heart skips to the soft sound of her bare feet climbing the dais.

“It’s nearly midday,” Ventris prattles on, “surely some shoes, at least slippers--”

“Are you worried I might step on something sharp?” Her voice is steel as she stops, her cheek only halfway turned.

“I-I’m merely expressing benign concern. Not many drow hold title here, so perhaps you’re uneducated on the typical decorum befitting your husband’s house. But--”

“You shouldn’t worry so much. This is my home. I know exactly where all the sharp things are.”

Astarion pats his thigh expectantly. Like a sword to a sheath, Naomi slides into her customary place in his lap. He lets out a long, satisfied sigh while she settles against him. Her smile curves against his collar. 

To Ventris, he snaps, “Our house is the reason why you still have one. And I understand it’s a further favor you came here to ask. Do get on with it.”

“I-- “ he stammers, “of course, Lord Ancunín. As I was saying, you’ve invested greatly in the city’s revival, in the restoration of so many of our most prized institutions. I know you recognize the value of legacy, and its role in the renewed prosperity of the Gate. The preservation of its eldest, most distinguished lineages…”

Ventris speaks as he’s commanded, but Astarion doesn’t deem to listen. His head dips to the fine edge of Naomi’s ear, nosing past a stray wave of ivory hair hanging free of her bun. His arm winds her waist, clutching her close.

“Are you well now, darling? Now that I’ve remedied my wrongs?” 

Naomi hums contentedly, eyes shut, head tucked into the crook of his neck. And yet, he’s acutely aware of the disquiet lurking at the fringes of her happiness, circling their safe haven like a mangy dog seeking scraps.

“I think not,” Astarion murmurs darkly. “You're hungry, aren’t you, sweet thing?” His fingers stroke beneath her chin and guide her gaze to his. 

Even as the ascendant, he can’t curtail her hunger entirely. He can only see to it that she never feels it for more than a moment.

“Only as much as you allow me to be,” she says, batting her eyes open again. There’s a glimmer of laughter in them, among his favorite shade of cherry. He expected her eyes to change color when she turned, but he hadn’t expected she’d keep a tinge of her former violet. A lovely surprise.

You’re full of surprises, he’d told her once, when they were only just beginning. Aren’t you?

Astarion had known he was making a bride, and not simply a spawn, the night she knelt for him. He’d known they’d be bound for eternity. Aeterna Amantes. As it should be. As it was always meant to be.

As it will be. Forever.

But how was he to know how heady her delight would feel, when it fluttered like a hummingbird from her mind to his? How intoxicating her submission would taste, when he could witness the very moment her thoughts bent for him, feel her mind yield before her body gave way exactly the way he wanted? 

Without compulsion. Without question. Without barriers. With a bond like theirs, nothing between them is secret and all of it is sacred.

Perhaps accounts of other such unions exist. But there’s never been a vampire ascendant before; there’s never been an ascendant bride, either. None of the crusted scrolls he inherited from Cazador could’ve warned him how utterly offensive her slightest discomfort would come to feel.

That he’d feel it exactly as his own discomfort.

“How could I sit idle while my precious treasure starves?” He implores her with a blooming pout. “What manner of husband would I be, hm?”

Ventris, on the other hand, seems to have forgotten his manners entirely. He dares a step towards the dais, volume rising with the red in his cheeks.

“...and so I ask you, Lord Ancunín, what manner of philanthropist makes donations to some Sharran sanctuary? Hasn’t this city seen enough fanatics? They say those cultists have a new compound, thanks to you! And the Upper City has a new, so-called theater in your so-called lady’s name! Well, sir, I see no lady here! And that should tell you what opinion I have of that den of debauchery she’s opened!”

Astarion arches a brow. Ventris’ lower lip quivers as he babbles on.

“And you build all of this while my own house remains half-ruined! It was a proud estate before that business with the brain. Curious how all of my neighbors managed to escape the worst of the debris. Curious how they’ve already rebuilt what was broken!”

Naomi raises her head, surveying Ventris lazily. Astarion hears her effortlessly, as if the words were said aloud. Were you going to kill him with or without me? 

Astarion’s answer is honest, if not innocent at all. You’d be fed either way. It’s simply a happy accident.

“It’s quite simple, Ventris,” Astarion shrugs. “You’re not necessary. Your daughter will marry that sweetheart of hers that you hate so much, what’s remaining of your pride will be inherited by their heirs, and the world will be better for it. Without you and those gaudy pillars in the way of what should be a pretty sea view from the Upper City.  A pity the mindflayers didn’t finish leveling your estate. Though, I suppose they made the job easier.”

“How dare you!” Ventris fumes, spittle flecking his beard. “I’ll have your name dragged through the streets! The city will know you spent coin on the Sharrans-- and that gods forsaken whorehouse--”

“You won’t. Besides, Grand Duke Ravengard already knows. He’ll suppress any slander because he knows every other patriar is in my pocket. After all, their own coffers are so pitifully empty these days. That’s why you’re here, Ventris. To beg.”

Ventris shrivels into his ill-fitted suit coat. Astarion’s free hand curls around the armrest of his throne.

“So I’ll say it a second time,” Astarion sneers, “There won’t be a third. Get on with it.”

“I--” Ventis stammers, cheeks purpled with indignation. “You won’t get away with--”

Naomi snaps her fingers. Violet light sparks between them. “On your knees.”

It’s not the kind of compulsion Astarion can wield, but a spell that works in the same vein. Ventris drops with a shrill cry, kneecaps crunching against the hard stone. 

Naomi slinks from his lap. Astarion catches her hand as she goes, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. The faint, lingering thrum of her magic tingles pleasantly against his lips.

She stalks forward, predatory. As her hands slip from his, her robe slips from her shoulders, pooling like spilled wine at her heels. Ventris quivers, a little leaf buffeted by the wind, but he can’t flee. And he still can’t help himself from staring, ogling at what isn’t his. 

Astarion’s grip on the armrest tightens to a chokehold.

Sunlight slices the room in brilliant rays, as righteous as any flaming sword. And in it, Naomi is scintillating. The sheer fabric of her shift seems more mist than material. His eyes burn across her supple shape, taking in the ripple through her breasts with every step, and the tease of her nipples, pushing pert against her nightgown. 

Astarion wets his lips, letting a fang tug at the tender flesh. Anticipation thrums through him again, only now, it’s hot. Thick. Permeating.

His grip on the armest eases as he leans back in the chair.

Ventris’ mouth hangs open, a great gaping maw for such a middling, waste of a man. His wide eyes bore into the last sight he’ll see. And what a sight she is. Naomi tilts her head one way, then the other, peering down at her meal like a bird choosing a worm.

She’s careful, picking her vein. She’s not, when she claws a hand into his hair, lifts him from the floor by a fist of it, and rips into his throat.

Because she wants it to hurt. 

Screams slap wet against the palace walls. Astarion’s head falls back in his chair, his eyes slitted. The ceiling swims in a blur above him. He can feel the blood flooding warm in Naomi’s mouth, the spray of it coating the back of her throat. The thickness of it, swelling stiff within his trousers. 

He parts his buttons hastily, stroking his hardened length, scarcely feeling his own touch. It’s her tongue he feels instead. Surrounding him. Sucking so greedily. Taking, just as he taught her to. 

Her cheeks hollow as she pulls for more, more. And of course, more is what she gets. Blood leaks sticky sweet down her chin. Astarion’s cock throbs with her every moan. 

It's effortless now, to pretend it's her mouth around his girth and not his own hand. He doesn't even have to picture it. She lets him feel every pleasure that ever paints her pretty lips. Like they were his own.

She is his own. Naomi and all her tenderness belong to him. Every pleasure she takes, Astarion takes, too. And while she’s taking her fill, she feels the familiar fit of his cock in her mouth, pouring fresh heat into the body he made perfect forever. Into the woman he’s unmade an untold number of times.

His hips buck into empty air. A groan splits through his teeth. Naomi peels from her meal with a slick pop of lips, gasping with the raw edge of a growl. Astarion’s release spurts warm across his fingers. He slouches limp and boneless in his seat, relishing in the feel of her soaked within and without. Just as she should be.

He blinks blearily, chasing the breath he takes for pleasure and not for purpose. Slowly, the room steadies. He sits up, wincing as he tucks his sated, sensitive cock back into his trousers.

Naomi eases back, crouched over the corpse that was Ventris. Her chest heaves. She pants in tandem with Astarion. Not because she has to; her body echoes his own, reeling from the feel of his ascended heart thudding within his ribs.

When they’ve both come to their senses, Astarion comes to her. 

“What memory kept you tranced so late, dear?” His voice is soft, even as he scolds. What could ever be sweeter than meeting again in the flesh?

“I missed you, too.”

Astarion raises his hand lazily, and she leans forward, still kneeling. One by one, his fingers slip between her plush lips, her tongue wicking away the spend still left on them. When they’re clean, he grips her chin and turns it aside so he can see the marks on her neck that made her his evermore.

Blood blooms in stains near the neckline of her shift. It reminds him of the flowers found in their courtyard garden. His eyes drip with the leak of her leftovers, roaming over her the fresh flush waking in her skin. What a lovely, murderous, and reverent thing she is. Pride flares like a lively hearth beneath his ribs, fed by the warmth billowing from her head into his. 

She’s hungry no longer. And happy. An easy smile lifts his lips.

“Well?” He prompts, expectant.

“I was remembering our wedding hunt,” she answers dreamily, eyes-half lidded.

Astarion’s smirk widens, his fangs peering out. What a delicious memory to sink into. Savory enough to trance the day away.

There was the night they wed truly. After taking her fill of him, Naomi knelt, and Astarion had his fill of her. He bit her thrice, drained her dry, and bound her as his bride for all of time to follow. The papers that came later put her surname on record as Ancunín. But they didn’t make her his; she belonged to him already.

There was the party. Mostly, they hosted it for the patriars they intended to weave into their web of influence. They spared no expense for the lavish affair. He could think of no finer way to spend Cazador’s fortune than on his and his darling’s debut into Baldurian high society.

And then, there was the hunt.

Wordlessly, it slips into his mind from hers: not the extravagant soiree, but the party of unfortunate souls that stumbled into the palace drunk that very eve. They later woke to white, opalescent stone walls. Pearly bricks laid where Astarion had once shrieked and bled uncounted times beneath Godey’s blades. 

But that night, not a speck of blood or dirt stained the corridors to the old kennels. Astarion still hasn’t settled on the chambers’ future use, but he rather likes them better this way, as a polished blank slate. The sheen is crisp enough, he can see his clear reflection every time he stalks those halls. 

He sees his own stunning visage again in the play of Naomi’s memories. He sees the seven huddled, sniveling figures that awaited them there, and feels their spines shudder again. His mouth waters at the mere recollection of it.

“The last of you alive will live forever,” he told them cheerfully, before cutting them free of their bonds. “Run along now! Go on!” 

And off they scampered, scrabbling over each other in their desperation to reach a destination forever out of reach. There’d be no escape. Not a living one, anyway. 

Astarion had turned to his bride. So beautiful, sheathed in an ivory gown with the finest of shimmers, her long white hair plaited back, a sheer veil draped over it. A teardrop train of lace fanned from the flared edge of her skirts, and her eyes glowed with the promise of violence.

He lifted Naomi’s chin in a delicate grip. “Now, feast, my sweet.”

The memory smears, vivid red. Red, like the dripping trails down the walls. Red, like color she stained his pristine coat when their lips collided, a hungry mess of blood and adoration. Red, like the streaks across her wedding gown as Astarion tore through it. He swore he saw handprints at her skirts, in the brief blur before he ripped her free of them. Perhaps her victims gripped them for mercy. 

Astarion’s grip on her hips was anything but merciful. Binding, perhaps. And liberating, all the same.

It was hours later, his body weak with bliss, Naomi bare and drifting towards trance in his arms, that he lifted her from his throne and brought them both to bed. 

Presently, she muses, “It took me forever to find that fucking Harper. Could’ve been her that you made spawn instead of Zylar.”

Astarion smirks. Naomi drained all but one of their late-night guests that evening. Their final victim was a promising twenty-something human named Zylar with no surname, no family, and nothing but a fervent dedication to his duties as a Flaming Fist. Astarion took that dedication for his own. Now, Zylar will be young forever, live out all his small dreams of climbing the Fists’ ranks, and, most importantly, serve the interests of the Ancuníns above all else.

When Zylar rose as Astarion’s second spawn, gaping in horror at the blood-smeared walls that surrounded him, Astarion told him, “Clean it up. With your mouth, if it pleases you.”  

Within the hour, the old kennels were spotless once more.

Now, he snaps his fingers at the cloaked shadow lurking at the edge of the audience hall. At once, Zylar peels from the perimeter, prowling towards the corpse at the heart of the room. There’s barely blood on the tiles at all, but Astarion’s sure there won’t be a speck of it left by the time they return here.

“Your lessers will see to the scraps, my dear,” he says, offering Naomi his arm. She takes it, rising to his side. “I have something to show you. A present.”

The happy hum in her head is a knowing one. They enter the ballroom, where the white marble tile swirls with gold, and a long, windowed wall overlooks the palace gardens. There waits her latest gift, shining radiant in the sunlight. Her smile is a fitting match for it.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.

They’ve had three such marvels call this ballroom home in just as many years. She’s said the same of the other two as well. He’s inclined to agree. The grand piano shimmers, resplendent. All but the keys and its insides are coated in gold leaf. The lid is propped, shedding light on landscape painted on its underside: Baldur’s Gate, by view of the sea, vivid in the setting sun.

Astarion allows her to part from his arm and rush to the piano, as if it’s a lover she’s running towards, and not away from. His arm sways, empty at his side, in the wake of her momentum. The delicate stroke of her fingers down the keys plays the most delectable shiver down his own spine. A long, stuttering sigh leaves his lips.

Strange that, only three short years ago, she didn’t know what to do with the first piano he gifted her. He remembers, crystal clear, the timid trepidation that crept across her face, the hesitancy with which she reached and just barely brushed the keys. 

“Little love,” he’d purred in her ear, “whatever could be the matter?”

“I-I don’t know how to play it,” she’d confessed, sheepishly retracting her fingers. He’d seen those same nimble hands curl the neck of a fiddle and flit effortlessly across a flute at least a hundred times over.

Astarion only grinned, letting his teeth graze the slant of her ear. “You’ll learn it. We’ve an eternity now, darling. You can take as much time as you wish and never run out of it.”

He never tires of taking his time with her. Taking her here, in the ballroom, even at the expense of their most expensive furnishings. No, this one won’t last any longer than the others, he decides as she saddles over the cushioned bench, her hands poised. He wets his lips, mulling over at least a dozen ways to put an arch in her back as she straightens tall.

But, in the interest of not breaking her gift so soon after it's been given…

He turns, like the perfect vision of restraint he is, and says, “Why don’t you play me something as pretty as you are?”

The instrument was made for her, and Naomi plays it as if it’s what she was always meant to do. What pours from the piano melts across his ears and leaves a saccharine taste on his tongue. It carries the tang of her magic with it, as all her music does. Tantalizing. Mesmerizing. Numbing, in its own way. Astarion could spend hours soaking in it. He’s spent so many mornings this way, warmed by the sun, staring out over the city he and his consort share, complicit with her in shared contentment.

Siren, some call her in whispers. They’re right to whisper. Astarion’s seen Naomi kill with one.

He stiffens to the sound of a throat clearing. It’s a cutting, and unwelcome intrusion. Claude, the rancid little gnome who tuts at him so expectantly, is eternally an intrusion. 

It’s the carrot of vampirism Claude chases. It’s easy enough to dangle it, just out of reach. He served Cazador with a religious fervor. He serves Astarion with even more zeal. He’s mortal, still, and Astarion can’t think of a single good reason to turn a servant already so eagerly playing their role. The thought alone makes his stomach roil.

“My Lord,” the nasally wretch says, “they’re waiting for you in your office.”

Astarion scowls. For all the patriars they’ve killed, there’s still a bumper crop of them crowding into his office every other week. Wanting the favor of Baldur’s Gate’s best-loved benefactor. Unknowingly begging at the heels of the one and only Vampire Ascendant. 

Such is the ignorant bliss of the cattle. He’s more than they know. But they know well enough to beg while they still can. 

What they do know is that he’s a hero. A savior of the city. The holder of its purse strings, while his heroine lover pulls the strings of the city’s heart. All in service to the web of power and influence that will see him named Grand Duke by summer’s end.

“Shall I tell them you’ll reschedule?” Claude asks.

“No,” he relents with an exasperated groan. “You shall not.”

Naomi plays on as he passes, but he feels a tug in the back of his mind. A flicker of a familiar feeling: her hand leaving his, and his arm left loose with an empty grasp.

I won’t be but an hour, my sweet. And then, I think, it’s back to bed with you. I think you might never leave it.

Her answer floats about his mind like a dandelion buffeted by the wind. I think I died happy.

Happy, Astarion muses, already half a palace away from her. He pauses by the mirror in the corridor, adjusting his high collar before he makes for his office door and the waiting patriars. As you should be.

Astarion drums the richly polished oak with restless fingers, his chin situated in his other palm. From his seat at the table’s head, he has a prime view of today’s entertainment: a pair of bickering magistrates. They hold the table’s attention as they trade barbs, too ablaze in their own irritations to notice their host’s growing disinterest. 

Do try to pay attention, dear, Naomi snickers in his head. We paid a hefty sum to get this little feud off the ground, after all.

Ostensibly, Lady Ancunín isn't interested in politics. Such manners bore her, and would detract from her management of the city’s finest theater. In reality, it's as if his little love never left his lap at all. She should be in this chair. He’s the one who's bored. 

Naomi’s left the piano now, though it plays on without her. Her steps patter in the back of his mind as she takes to the footpath through their gardens, her music still wafting pleasantly with the scent of the roses. With their minds linked, she listens more closely to his meeting than he can bear to.

Astarion’s gaze drifts to the open windows, to the bustling Gate, throbbing with life. Ripe for the taking, all due to his careful tending. A breeze ruffles the curtains, carrying the salt of the sea with it. 

It used to thrill him, to sit here, steeple his hands, and watch his empire be built brick by unwitting brick. He’s amassed enough influence to carry a current, even while sitting entirely still. There’s an inevitability to it all now that should please him. Instead, he feels the restless urge to pluck those bricks from the pile and dash all the heads in this room with them. To hear fresh screams instead of circular whining. But instead, he must endure their peevish--

Silence.

Abruptly, Astarion stiffens. The patriars prattle on unbothered, but beneath their noise, a stagnant quiet furls through his halls like a fast-moving fog, setting his hairs on end. Across the palace, the piano ceases playing. It’s not a remarkable change on its own; the magic expires after some time without Naomi’s touch.

That familiar, slipping sensation comes again: the feel of Naomi’s palm sliding from his and leaving it empty. His head feels empty as an echoing, vacant cathedral, only home to his own thoughts. His own mind. 

Darling? The word reverberates inside his skull, making it no farther than it would if he said it aloud in this room without her. His nails claw the table’s edge.

Naomi? Answer me. He calls again, anger flaring, but it feels futile. Like banging his fists against stone. 

Footsteps race down the corridor. His head turns for the door before the knob even moves. By the time it opens, he’s already standing. Every head in the room turns to Claude stammering frantically in the doorway.

“M-My lord, a visitor--”

Astarion grips his collar, storming from the room with the little wretch in tow.

“Lord Ancunín,” an old crone of a tiefling barks from the other end of the table, “what is the meaning of--”

Astarion slams the door on her inane protest, not even pausing to savor the flinch that passes through his captive audience.

“Where is your mistress?” Astarion growls. 

“The throne room,” Calude answers meekly. “W-we think.”

“You think?!” Astarion releases his grip on Claude’s shirt, wiping his hand on the leg of his pants. 

He doesn’t wait for Claude to elaborate. Astarion sheds his form and flies. Moments later, he materializes again before the great shut doors to his audience hall. A blue veil of magic simmers over them.

With a boiling vitriol, he rounds on the other elf kneeled near the doors. Strictly speaking, Emilia is his favorite of his lesser spawn. It isn’t the highest of praises; her only competition is Zylar, and her knack for magic makes her useful. And yet, he feels a dawning hatred for her as she crouches there, glowing hands outstretched in vain.

“What in the hells is this?” He shouts, the sound bounding like fitful thunder. 

“A magical barrier, my Lord,” Emilia says, strained. “It’s elaborate, but I’ll have it down shortly.”

“Who cast this? Who’s in there with her?”

“We received a visitor at the front door. He said the gatekeep allowed him entry, that he was a scholar from Waterdeep here to inform you of something of great import. He didn’t give a name. We intended to turn him away, but Claude went to Lady Naomi to inform her, and the lady said she would see him in your absence. She awaited him here, but all the doors closed when he entered, and the barriers appeared at once.”

Astarion grits his teeth. “And the guards at the gate simply let him pass?”

“It seems so.”

How could that be?! Astarion snarls, his fist curling with flame. He hurls it at the barrier, but the firebolt only melts harmlessly against its surface, dissipating into useless smoke. 

His bond with his bride can be turned like a faucet on either end, but neither of them can stem the drip of it entirely. Naomi would never wish for such separation. But even if she had, she could never hide from him fully. 

And yet, he hadn’t even an inkling of this stranger’s arrival. The last he felt her, she’d been in the gardens raking her fingers through thorns, savoring the sting of the cuts, and thinking of his fangs. 

“I believe Zylar is in there as well, my Lord.”

Astarion tenses, thoughts racing. Zylar never stays anywhere alone with Naomi if he can help it. Ever since the wedding hunt, he’s stayed terrified of her.

His mind blanks abruptly. The barrier dissipates, flecks of magic raining down from the doorway like sleet. The doors part. Through the narrow split, he sees Naomi as her knees buckle against the marble. 

A cloaked figure looms over her, one hand outstretched, the other clutching a fluttering scroll. Red magic twists just above Naomi’s forehead, coiling on itself like a knotted vine. Astarion surges towards them.

Ascension made him swifter than anything he’s yet to encounter. Sharper. Stronger. But now that he’s  near enough to see the spell reflecting in Naomi’s irises, near enough to see them washed in fear, his bones feel leaden. Slow. 

Weak.

The spell flares into a blinding, burning orb. Bloody light scorches the room. Astarion feels the heat of it spear through his temples. Carving, like the tadpole used to. Cutting. His lips split around the pain, but it’s Naomi’s scream that pierces his ears.

The quiet that comes after lays against the room like a knife to a throat.

Naomi wavers where she kneels. Astarion skids across the floor, catching her before she can collapse. The light vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving the cloaked mage crumpled in a limp heap. 

“Master!” Emilia gasps. “Master wait-- she might--”

“Shh,” Astarion coos, caressing a hand through Naomi’s hair and down her cheek. Blood leaks from the corners of her fluttering eyes, drying in dark trails. The magic burns a ruby outline around her body before it sinks beneath her skin.

“I’m here,” he rasps, pleading. “Come to me, darling. Come back to me.”

He holds a taut breath as her eyes open wider. Naomi blinks dazedly up at him, lips trembling, face glazed in confusion. Her gaze settles to his and sharpens. 

“W-who are you?”

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did in box at the end here. It's scary and exciting and invigorating to share a new story!

And HUGE thank you to so many Tumblr moots and discord friends who have supported me along the way in drafting this one. 💜

[xuchiya]

"stuck in this fairy tale" || choi san || series || fourth part

| genre: prince! san. fluff. angst. adventure | mentions: cursing. | here's the first part

back to masterlist | chapter 5

San had brought you to the castle, and now you found yourself in the heart of a grand but intimidating court meeting. The room was vast, lined with towering columns and tapestries that told ancient stories of kings and battles long past. A massive, polished oak table dominated the center, and it was crowded with ministers, advisers, and other court officials. Their eyes were all trained on you—some curious, some wary, and a few downright hostile. You were at the far end of the table, while the ministers gathered closer to the prince, who sat silently, observing.

The air was thick with tension. The murmurs of conversation had grown louder, with officials firing questions and accusations at you from all sides.

"Who is she?" 

"Could she be a spy?" 

"A witch, maybe. Look at her clothes."

They were relentless, making you roll your eyes. One voice, louder than the others, called out, "She’s a threat to the prince’s life!" That was enough to push you over the edge.

You rose sharply from your seat, the chair scraping against the marble floor with a grating sound. The room fell into a brief hush as everyone turned to look at you. Fury flared in your chest as you slammed your hands on the table, your voice rising above the din.

“I just saved your prince’s ass from being killed by some decrepit, floating fart-figure—and you’re calling me a threat?! You should be thanking me instead of throwing baseless accusations!”

The court erupted into a fresh wave of whispers, and one of the advisers, a stout man with thinning hair and a pompous air about him, sneered at you from across the table. “You could be trying to build a facade, manipulate us into trusting you.”

Your eyes narrowed as you shot him a cold glare. You tilted your chin up in arrogance, your patience snapping. “Yah!” you yelled, your voice reverberating in the large room. The echo hung in the air as everyone froze. “You dumbass idiot! If I wanted to manipulate you or harm any of you, I could kill you right here and now!”

The entire court fell silent. The ministers who had been so quick to accuse you now looked at you with wide eyes, some of them visibly trembling. The sound of their fear was palpable, their breathing uneven as they exchanged uncertain glances. You stood tall, hands firmly planted on your hips, refusing to let their judgement weaken you.

Your eyes swept over the room, and your voice dropped to a dangerous low. “I don’t know what this is all about, but if I were a real threat, I would have the prince’s head on a silver platter by now—with the powers I have.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of San. He hadn’t said much during the meeting, standing by quietly, observing the chaos. But now, a flicker of admiration danced across his face. He was impressed—though he tried to hide it, his slight smile was noticeable enough to you.

Raising an eyebrow at him, you asked, "Not gonna say anything?"

San opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, another adviser’s voice cut through the tension, this one full of venom. “Show some respect, you wench!”

Without thinking, you rolled your wrist slightly, and a ball of fire appeared in the palm of your hand, glowing and crackling with energy. You didn’t even turn your head to acknowledge the speaker, but you felt their fear radiating through the room. Your eyes focused on San, who watched you with a calm expression, but you knew everyone else was watching the fireball.

The coward who had insulted you let out a small gasp and whimper in their seat, and you smiled, your lips curling upward in a quiet victory. With a sharp motion, you crushed the fireball in your hand, the flame disappearing as quickly as it had formed. “In this moment,” you said coolly, “I’ll show some respect. But remember this—respect is not something given only to those above. It is something everyone deserves.”

The ministers looked at one another, unsure how to respond. The prince, who had remained silent throughout the ordeal, finally spoke up. "That’s enough for today," he said, his tone firm but measured. “We will revisit this tomorrow.”

With that, the court adjourned, and the once-bustling room emptied out quickly, the officials too eager to leave your presence. You sighed in frustration as the adrenaline slowly faded from your system. You had saved their prince, and yet, they treated you like a criminal.

That evening, after the chaos of the meeting, you were shown to your own room in the castle. It was elegant, grand even, with tall windows that overlooked the sprawling gardens below. The furniture was Victorian in style—rich mahogany bedposts and velvet cushions—but it only made you feel more out of place. You glanced down at your own clothes, a pair of ripped jeans, a hoodie, and your high-top Converse, which looked ridiculous in comparison to the flowing gowns and embroidered tunics the castle’s residents wore. 

From your balcony, you gazed out at the unfamiliar world. A sunset painted the sky in soft hues of orange and purple, but your thoughts were far from serene. Your mind drifted back to your own timeline—was time frozen there? Had people even noticed you were gone? Your friends? Your family? 

“Aww~ eomma.” Your heart clenched painfully at the thought of your mom. She had always needed assistance, especially after the weakness in her spine made simple tasks difficult. You worried about her more than anything else. What if she had fallen sick? Who would take care of her in your absence? The uncertainty gnawed at you, but without answers, you knew you couldn’t afford to dwell on it, not even you could solve anything with just minimal evidence.

 With a sigh, you turned back into the room, exhausted and ready to sleep. But as soon as you moved toward the bed, you froze.

A figure stood in the shadows by your door. You opened your mouth to scream, but before you could make a sound, a hand clamped over your lips. Panic surged through you until you recognized the familiar face before you.

“Wooyoung?!” you mumbled against his hand.

He nodded, removing his hand slowly, his finger pressed to his lips to signal for silence. The relief hit you like a wave, and before you knew it, your arms were wrapped around him. He hugged you back just as tightly, his breath warm against your hair. Staying in the same position as you don’t want to pull away as you fear that this instance of comfort will disappear from you.

“I was scared, Woo,” you whispered, your voice trembling, the courageous and loud lady a while ago vanishing as you shook in his arms. Wooyoung sighs, his breath also shaky as he feels the guilt gnawing at him. “I didn’t know what was happening. I was so—”

“I know,” he interrupted softly, pulling back to look at you. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”

You frowned, noticing the tension in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Wooyoung sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. He motioned for you to sit, and you both moved to the bed. Sitting side by side, finally noticing, you took in the details of his clothing—the same style as San’s, noble, regal even. It clicked in your mind.

“You’re a prince too?” you asked, though it felt more like a statement.

He nodded. “Yes, but that’s not important right now. We need to talk.”

Your frown deepened as Wooyoung leaned closer, his tone growing serious. “You need to help San break his curse. You’re the key to ending this.”

You blinked in disbelief, shaking your head. “Wait, wait. Hold on. I’m here to help San? I’m supposed to be the one to turn this whole nightmare into a fairytale ending? What do you think I am? Some kind of witch?”

Wooyoung chuckled, his expression softening. “Not exactly, but you are the answer.”

Your frustration boiled over as you stood up, throwing your arms up in disbelief. “Enlighten me, then! How am I supposed to do any of this?”

Wooyoung stood up as well, handing you something—it was the book. Your fingers trail on the dirt and burn edges of the book. “This will explain what you need to know,” he said, a familiar teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’ll figure it out, my nerdy girl. Like you always do.”

You looked down at the book in confusion, but when you looked up again, Wooyoung was gone. “Wooyoung?” you called out, looking around your room but there was no answer.

Groaning in frustration, you collapsed back onto the bed, the weight of the day crashing down on you. The whirlwind of events—the court, San, Wooyoung, curses—it was all too much to process. Your head pounded as exhaustion finally caught up with you.

As you laid there, staring at the ceiling, your mind raced with unanswered questions. Sleep was what you needed, but it refused to come, haunted by thoughts of what lay ahead.

The next morning, you awoke groggy, your mind foggy from the little sleep you'd managed to get. Your body ached, the weight of the previous day's events still lingering. You felt the press of the book sprawled open on top of your chest, its pages fluttering slightly with your breath. Sitting up, you half expected to find yourself back in your own world—surrounded by the familiar mess of school papers, textbooks, and your ever-glowing laptop.

But as your eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light filtering through the ornate, floor-to-ceiling windows, the reality of where you were settled in again. The lavish Victorian room, with its high ceilings and intricate wallpaper, greeted you. The rich fabrics and wooden furnishings felt worlds apart from the comfort of your bedroom. You blinked away the last remnants of sleep, rubbing your hands over your face before they slid into your hair in frustration.

Tears welled up unbidden, and you found yourself burying your face in your hands, letting out a small, strangled cry. Yesterday had been a whirlwind—being accused of witchcraft, nearly incinerating the court with your fiery outbursts, and the shock of seeing Wooyoung again, dressed like a prince from a forgotten era. The weight of it all felt suffocating, and the uncertainty gnawed at you.

How did you end up here?

What happened to your life back in your own world?

You wiped the tears away roughly, forcing yourself to focus, but the sense of helplessness was all too real. The unknowns crowded your mind until you could barely breathe. You glanced around the room, taking in the elegant but foreign surroundings—the intricately carved bedposts, the silk curtains, the delicate lace on the hem of your Victorian-style nightgown. The sensation of it against your skin was yet another reminder that this wasn't a dream.

You slowly stood, wincing as your body protested with stiff muscles. You walked to the balcony doors, pushing them open. A cool breeze kissed your face as you stepped outside. Below, the town bustled, people moving through the streets in their period clothing. Your jeans and hoodie from yesterday were folded neatly on a chair in the corner, a sharp contrast to the elegant gowns and tailored suits everyone else wore.

It made you feel like an alien, stuck in a world where you didn’t belong.

Sighing deeply, you looked down at the book Wooyoung had left you. It felt heavy in your hands, like it carried the weight of the answers you were desperately searching for. Yesterday, he’d called you the key to solving San’s curse, the answer to finishing this strange fairy tale.

“But why me?” you muttered aloud, flipping through the pages again, frustration seeping through your voice. It was as if the book mocked you with its cryptic contents. You were no witch, no storyteller that could craft happy endings.

 You were just… you. And yet, here you were, tasked with untangling the threads of a curse you barely understood. Running a hand through your tangled hair, you decided you needed to get through the day—no matter how foreign or overwhelming everything felt. Maybe, just maybe, you’d find some clue in this chaotic world to get you back to where you belonged. Or at least, find a way to help San and end this madness.

Bracing yourself for the unknown, you pushed open the door to your room, stepping into

“Good, you’re up.”

“Ring Ding Dong… fuck! Seriously? Early in the morning?” you huffed, startled out of sleep as your hand flew to your racing heart. San stood casually against the wall, arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face. Ignoring your outburst, he pushed himself off the wall, turning his back to you and walking away with a calm, measured stride.

“Don’t stand there. We’ve got a long day ahead of us, and it’s already past breakfast,” he called over his shoulder. You scrambled to keep up with him, your shorter strides forcing you into a jog beside him as he led you down familiar corridors toward the courtroom.

As you reached the entrance, San stopped abruptly, blocking your path with his arm. His eyes scanned you up and down, and he let out a quiet sigh. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat and tossed it at you. “Here. Put this on.”

Confused, you caught the coat and stared at it for a moment, your brow furrowed in uncertainty. But San was already walking inside. Shrugging nonchalantly, you draped the coat over your shoulders, its warmth offering a small comfort. You smoothed down your hair and stepped into the courtroom.

As soon as you crossed the threshold, the room fell silent. The same people were gathered as before, but there was a new presence—one that commanded your immediate attention. The king himself was here. His imposing figure sat at the head of the room, eyes sharp and calculating. A heavy weight settled on your chest as you instinctively pulled San's coat tighter around you, your earlier confidence slipping away. You bowed your head low in deference.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” you greeted softly.

When you straightened up, your eyes found Wooyoung's across the room. He offered you a small, reassuring smile and nodded in greeting. Instantly, the tightness in your chest eased.

“Good morning, Prince Wooyoung,” you replied, returning his smile.

“See! She’s a witch! First, she knows Prince San, and now she knows Prince Wooyoung’s name!” A familiar, accusatory voice rang out across the room. One of the court officials pointed an accusing finger at you, his voice filled with contempt. “This is getting ridiculous, my king! They are sending threats—she’s already starting!”

You bit the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, but your patience snapped, and you glanced sideways with a small eye roll.

“Do not roll your eyes, child.” The king’s voice boomed through the room, freezing you in place. His gaze pinned you where you stood—intense, yet not hostile. There was a curious edge to it, like he was trying to decipher something about you.

He leaned forward, placing both hands on the table in front of him. “You present yourself with confidence, but there’s something about you. An aura… one that says you are not to be trifled with.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You glanced quickly at Wooyoung, who blinked at you slowly—a signal only you two understood.

‘Do it.’

“What kingdom are you from?” The king’s question was measured, but his tone carried weight. You took a steady breath, gathering your composure before answering.

“I have no kingdom or town, Your Highness. I am from the City of Seoul. I am no princess, but I am not a commoner either. I am a protector—a soldier—of my city.”

Murmurs erupted throughout the room, and you could feel the curiosity shifting into speculation. San, who stood just behind the king, shifted on his feet, crossing his arms with a curious expression. The king nodded thoughtfully.

“And should I know the name of this protector from Seoul?” he asked.

You nodded, standing straighter. “Your Highness, I am Brigid.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. Whispers hissed among the courtiers as the weight of the name settled over the court like a heavy cloud.

As you laid there, staring at the ceiling, your mind raced with unanswered questions. Sleep was what you needed, but it refused to come, haunted by thoughts of what lay ahead. The king’s curious gaze, San’s lingering silence, Wooyoung’s cryptic message—it all danced through your thoughts, preventing sleep from taking hold. Frustrated, you grabbed the book you had been reading earlier and flipped through the pages, hoping it would distract you.

As this is basically from a century ago, light bulbs were still being established around this time so you settled using the oil lamp just by the desk near your dresser. You groan as another match snaps in half and your hands smack the box of matches on the table defeatedly. 

Then a spark pops in your head though it makes you smack your forehead as you remember that you discovered something new today. You have powers— flame. With the snap of your fingers, the tip of your forefinger lit up, placing the fire inside the oil lamp and the dark room was covered with red and orange hue as you read the book.

 Dragon Mountain.

As you did, you noted that this started during the first war. It did not introduce the Utopia, instead it shows the story about the lives of dragon tamers. Dragons evolved from Pteranodon and with the belief of Gods and Goddess, the first scavengers who learned about the ritual had called the Goddess of Fire— Brigid. 

Your hand traces the picture of the Goddess. Her fiery hair yet her face is gentle as a mother’s love, “She was summoned by the scavengers and traded their goods to evolve the dinosaurs to something more— eerie.”

“They have tricked the Goddess that they will use their agreement to transport for a better way of going around but in reality, when it was too late— Brigid learned from the worst that the scavengers had kill every living using the Pteranodon— what now she calls pseudodragon. They were still small, similar to a dragon-like creature but not close to being an actual dragon.” Until she had enough and wouldn't dare to use them for no good and she took care of them, it was one night that she was ambushed by his fellow Gods and tried to kill the “creature” because of the threatening it looks to the human kind, fleeing and securing a place between the valleys. A river surrounded by trees and after trees and mountains after mountains where she and what now she evolved her pseudodragon to actual fire breathing dragon to defend themselves.

“Brigid birthed the first fire dragons … “ You mumble as you take the book and move towards the bed. You also remember the town square has this same image, a statue of Brigid— an honorary statue for her.

Your head tilted to the side in confusion, “Does this kingdom have anything to do with Brigid?”

You found yourself being pampered by maids, all under the king’s orders. While the luxury made you uncomfortable—since you were used to doing everything on your own—you were dressed in a white short-sleeve blouse with a corset and a high-waist blue skirt with big pockets on your side, the book fitting inside. Lunch was prepared as you sat, adjusting to the strange royal treatment. 

Taking a bite on your breakfast, you read the book about Brigid— a mythology book that you saw among the rows of books inside your room. 

“Not bad,” he teases, as he enters your room. The maids halt in their work and bow at the prince before continuing to work around your room. “Pulling something like that in front of King Choi? You’ve got guts.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but his comment opens a floodgate of thoughts. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you sigh deeply. “Wooyoung, if this is some kind of quest or trial… after everything from last night, I’m starting to wonder if this is my reality now.”

Your voice wavers, and Wooyoung’s playful demeanor falters. He sat beside you, “It Iis your new reality, it made me wonder why it chose you to be the key but—” His voice cut off when he clutched his chest, his expression twisting in pain as he dropped to the floor.

“Woo!” You moved to his side in an instant, kneeling beside him, worry flooding your chest. “What is it? Are you okay?” He exhales shakily, trying to steady himself as he shifts to sit on the ground. You gesture for the maids to call for help, but Wooyoung shakes his head, reaching out to stop you.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. “It’s just… a part of the curse.”

Your eyes widen at his words. “Curse? What curse, Wooyoung?”

He exhales again, the sound ragged. “It was placed on us. It’s part of the reason we—San and I— and the others are tied to all of this.” 

"Others? There’s more?" Your voice rises in surprise, eyes wide as you process the implication that it wasn’t just these two involved.

“They’re our distant cousins... so yeah.” Wooyoung’s voice is quiet, the weight of his words pressing down on you both.

Your eyebrows knit together. "Is it Brigid?" you ask, your voice soft but steady, the question hanging heavy in the air. Wooyoung shakes his head, "No ... never. The Goddess never dares.", but a small cough escapes him. Instinctively, you reach out, ready to help him lie down, but he waves you off. "It's fine. Just… a recurring thing. Been like this for a while."

Your heart tightens painfully in your chest, eyes beginning to sting with unshed tears. "How did I not notice?" you whisper, guilt washing over you like a wave.

He chuckles softly, though the sound is strained. Reaching out, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle. “Because it’s not noticeable, I'm fine nerdy girl. Just a normal cough in our world… nothing more.”

But you both knew better. The door creaks open as the doctors arrive, and you step back, giving them space and do their work, your mind spinning. You drift towards the balcony, eyes distant as you stare out over the kingdom bathed in the afternoon sun, but your thoughts are far from the present.

“What kind of curse was it to have them weak inside…” you murmur to yourself, confusion wrapping tight around your heart, squeezing the air from your lungs.

What did this mean?

A voice cuts through your thoughts, low and familiar. “You’re quite casual with the Prince of Sanil.”

You turn to find San leaning against the balcony door, arms crossed, his sharp eyes studying you closely. His expression is unreadable, though a flicker of something crosses his gaze.

Your mouth opens to respond but closes just as quickly, a sigh escaping your lips instead. You move to sit down on the sun chair provided, brushing off his comment. “I don’t need a lecture right now, San.”

“Why not?” His voice is calm but curious, probing, the fact ignoring how you address him by his name. You tilt your head, meeting his gaze, your expression serious. “Because both you, Wooyoung, and this entire kingdom are doomed if I don’t focus right now.”

The shift in the air between you is subtle, but you notice the way his breath hitches, the way his body tenses slightly at the mention of his kingdom. His eyes darken. Without a word, San steps forward, crossing the distance between you with a few swift strides. He grabs your elbow, pulling you to your feet before you can react, his grip firm but not painful.

His face is mere inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin as his gaze locks onto yours, intense and searching. “You address me and Wooyoung by our title! And what exactly can you do with those powers of yours? Burn us?” he challenges, his voice low and edged with suspicion. "I can’t afford to be tricked by your witchery.”

His words hit you like a slap, your nostrils flaring with irritation. You yank your arm away sharply, but even as you pull back, the space between you remains charged with tension. "Believe whatever you want, but I'm doing this for Wooyoung, my friend is suffering because of this curse—I'll do whatever it takes to break it."

San scoffs, his eyes narrowing as he leans closer, his expression hard. "You don’t even know what this curse is, and yet here you are, making empty promises."

You roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you meet his glare with your own challenge. "Don’t test me, Your Highness."

He closes the gap between you even further, his voice dropping to a near whisper as his breath grazes your skin. "Do tell, witch."

His words are laced with provocation, a deliberate attempt to push you past your limits. But you hold your ground, your resolve strengthening as you feel the weight of everything at stake. 

Your voice is steady, unwavering. "Your story will end if the curse begins."

taglist: @passerbyforfun . @seongwars . @candied-czennie

[bettyfrommars]

Ring of Fire

a biker Steve au

Part 2: More Than Words

masterlist playlist

18+ONLY, MDNI, longing, friends to strangers to lovers, mature themes, mention of sex work and violence, reader has secrets, so does Steve, eventual smut, dirty deeds, biker!Hopper. It's the mid 90's and Steve is in his early 30's.

word count: 4.3k

Summary: Getting to know the town of Hawkeye, including Munson's Garage and Patsy's diner. Steve has dreams of another life he never lived. Reader has dreams of Steve. Hopper spends his spare time looking out for Lorelei.

A/N: There will be references to I'm on Fire in the first part of this chapter by way of dreams, but it is not a crucial plot point to the story, just in case you are not familiar with the other series. I keep wanting to bring more of the places/people in from IoF, but every time I do, this Steve morphs into the old one, and I love the idea of exploring him this way, without the other backstory.

Morning cracked open through your blinds, a bright sun void of warmth.  Rolling to face the wall on your floor mattress, you curled the lemon-yellow comforter up over your head, only to be bludgeoned by the onslaught of birds tweeting outside your window.  

A motorcycle grumbled by on the street below and you were officially awake.  

There was a kitchenette in your apartment, but you didn’t have a coffee maker or grounds yet.  The diner opened at 6am on weekends, and that is where you planned to go. You considered throwing a coat on and shuffling over in your pajamas, but ended up pulling on a change of wardrobe that did not match and a shirt that was inside out.  

7:30 was far too early for clever dressing.  

The sky matched the color of the pavement by the time you stepped out onto the sidewalk, now that the sun had been obscured by hulking clouds.  You pulled the hood of your sweatshirt up as a soft drizzle misted your skin, waiting for a big truck to pass before making your way across the street.

One block over and two blocks down was the red and white sign for Patsy’s Diner.  You spotted it just as the rain fell unyielding, your feet picking up the pace.

There were three cars in the slant street parking out front, including a big black Chevy truck with a square body style from the early 70’s.  

You didn’t see Steve until it was too late.  Not until you locked eyes through the diner window.

—-----

Steve picked Robin up every Saturday morning to have breakfast at Patsy’s, which had been their ritual for almost a decade.  There’d been a couple exceptions, including the months Robin was locked up for voluntarily taking the weed possession charge for one of her girlfriends, and a few when Steve had been out of town on a run with the Coffin Kings.  Other than that, even with the worst head-splitting hangover, they never missed it. 

Robin chucked her leather jacket into the booth first before she slid in wearing paint-splattered overalls over a baggy tee with the band Heart on the front.  Her warm golden hair fell to her shoulders, worn in a low ponytail, exposing the “lover” tattoo inked in cursive just under her ear.

Their booth was right at the front corner of the L-shaped diner, next to the window.  Steve had even carved their initials under the table at one point with his old utility knife.  The booths were burnt sienna vinyl that were so worn at the seat that they were ripped in places, exposing the gauzy innards.  The waitress Jeanette collected steaming plates from the kitchen hatch to carry to another table while Sharon, her co-worker, brought over a pot of coffee and two stout, brown mugs.

Steve rolled a toothpick around in his mouth from side to side as he held open the laminated menu to look it over, even though he could read the whole thing with his eyes closed.  

“Rough night?” Robin asked while she concentrated on stirring three spoons of sugar and a hearty dollop of cream into her coffee.

Steve didn’t look up from the menu.  “How could you tell?”

Between the raw strawberry on his knuckles and the dark purple half-moons under his eyes, he knew the answer.

“Your hair looks like it’s trying to evacuate your scalp.” 

She waited for him to start combing the mess back with his fingers to give a soft chuckle.  

Steve let the menu go flat on the table and palmed the rim of his black coffee to pull it closer. “I had another one of those dreams last night.”

His best friend’s eyes snapped up, but then Jeanette was there to take their order and the conversation had to pause while Steve got his standard hotcakes with bacon, and Robin her omelet with hash browns and sourdough toast.  They exchanged a few pleasantries, since Jeanette had worked there as long as the two of them had been alive, and then Robin settled back in her seat with a weary huff.

Steve felt like he had to remind himself to blink, his eyes were so dry.  He looked at his hands as he spoke. “I had a kid, a little boy.”  

Robin leaned forward to rest her forearms on the table.  “Was I his mother in this one? These dreams of  yours freak me out.  I can’t imagine being someone’s mother, like, not ever.”

“You were a really good one though,” a hesitant smile quivered on his lips.  “You helped me raise him even though he wasn’t biologically yours.  But in the dream last night I—”

Every time he woke up from those particular dreams, he mourned the loss of a child he never had. 

He cut off what he was about to say, the memory of the love he felt in his dream hitting him like a wave.  “Last night I was about to get married to some woman, and we had a baby on the way.  My baby.”

Robin was about to crack a joke, but then thought better of it.  “I know what it feels like.  To have the kind of dreams you don’t want to wake up from.  Who in the hell would want to wake up to our lives.”

“Wayne is healthy though,” Steve nodded to himself, trying to find the positives.  “In these dreams he’s…sick or something, and I’m always worried he's not going to live much longer.”

“The apocalypse couldn’t kill Wayne,” she smiled.  “Old man will outlive all of us.”

The food came, and the topic of conversation changed, until Robin shoved a bite into her cheek.  “What was his name, do you remember? Your son?”

“His name was Oliver,” Steve held a strip of bacon out, not ready to take a bite yet.

Robin bobbed her head a few times. “That’s a good name,” and then, “you want to talk about what happened last night?”

“Same old shit,” he huffed, slapping a few crumbs off his black tee while he chewed.  “Hop and I were called out to the junkyard and—”

There you were again, like another dream he was bound to wake up from.

Robin was concentrating on shoveling a particularly big bite into her mouth, so she didn’t know why he’d gone so quiet, until she followed his line of sight.  

You stepped inside, wiping the rain off your face, but you kept your hood on while you waited for a waitress to greet you.  Inside the diner was cozy, wall to wall carpeted a teddy bear brown, and smelled of cooked meats, coffee, and syrup.  It made your mouth water, and you wondered if you should splurge on something.

Jeanette tried offering to seat you at the bar, but you were adamant that you’d take a brew and some sugars to go.  Also a toasted bagel, you added that in at the last second.

“You want egg on that, honey?” Jeanette asked, nestling her pen in the curly silver hair above her ear.

Peeking out from the side of your hood, you noticed Steve lifting up to get a better look at you from his window booth.  “No, plain is fine, thank you.”

“Who is that?” Robin asked, wiping her mouth as she turned around in her seat to get a look at you.  

“No one.  Someone I knew in middle school,” Steve mumbled, hacking into his stack of pancakes with the side of his fork. “She’s the new renter above Donna’s place.”

“Huh,” Robin turned her attention back to her plate.  “Why do you look so flustered?” 

You were standing at the door, watching the rain come down in sheets, when you felt a warm body sink in behind you.

“You need a ride back?” It was Steve with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  “It looks pretty…wet out there.”

When you turned to face him, you brushed some forgotten crumbs off of his chest with your hand.  It was a very familiar gesture, one that neither of you thought too much about.  

It was on your tongue to decline, but it was the integrity of your bagel that concerned you. Jeanette brought you the big to-go cup and warm bread in a paper bag.

“Just as long as you aren’t here on your bike.”

—------

Steve ran over to tell his companion to sit tight while he drove you the 3 blocks home.  His friend waved at you from her seat, and you gave a tentative wave back.  More like just holding your hand up in the air actually, something of a Spok greeting. 

“I don’t want to interrupt you—”

“She’s fine,” Steve assured, lifting his jacket up to hold over your head as the two of you pushed through the door and into the frey. “This will only take a minute.”

Hunkering down, you jerked the heavy metal door of his ‘78 Chevy pickup open, and then spread yourself long across the bench seat to reach over and pop the lock on his door.

Rain dripping down his face, Steve watched your two fingers pluck the lock up, and it was a small gesture to most, but a tender one for him. Not even his ex-girlfriend had afforded him such consideration, not once.

You weren’t his girlfriend though, you were barely a friend.  An acquaintance he’d fantasized about in his formative years.

Once you were both under shelter in the dry cab, you glanced up through the windshield and saw Robin keeping an eye on the two of  you from her place at the window.  Even through the visual distortion from the rain, you could make out a soft smile lingering, perking up her cheeks.  

The interior smelled like him: old leather, cigarettes, and the yellow, vanilla, tree-shaped freshener hanging from the volume knob on his radio.  

“Sorry if it stinks in here,” he reached down to swat the ashtray closed that was full of smoked filters. “I need to clean that out.”

“Are you familiar with the dumpsters in the alley behind Donna’s place?”

He nodded yes as he put the key in the ignition.  

“Well, they are right under my bedroom window, and I have no air conditioning.  I’m looking forward to how my place will smell in the dead of summer.”

The truck grumbled to life and he anchored his arm around the seat to turn and see where he was going as he backed up.  “You just need one of those air conditioning units that fits in the window.  I know a guy, I’ll get you one.”

You hadn’t been fishing for help but, “that’s really nice of you, thanks.” His offer made you feel small for a second.

Less than a minute later, you were at your place. He pulled in as close as he could to the awning without crashing into the cement structure.  

Not many words were exchanged as you got out, just a few mumbles of “thank you” and “good to see you”, but then you were out and slamming his heavy door shut to hurry inside.  He waited out there for a few beats, wishing he would’ve said more before coasting back to the diner. 

—---

Later that day, as the sun faded to a collage of pink orange behind the low hills, Hopper sat on his Harley in the parking lot of the Rosebud Motel.  

The amount of time spent waiting there, watching the door to room 11 might have sounded absurd to some, but he knew that no one could look after her like he could.

He’d read about a trucker in the news who was paying women for sex and then hurting them.  A few of the girls were missing, and foul play was suspected, but no one cared about the victims enough to investigate much.  Most of Lorelei’s clientele were locals; lonely hired hands and married men, but there were always transient travelers looking for some company when they passed through town.  Those were the ones he was concerned about.

The door to her room opened just as he lit a fresh cigarette.  The guy that stepped out was pushing 70, adjusting his suspenders over his shoulders.  She stayed in the doorway, covered in one of her satin robes, and kissed him on the cheek.  Her appointments weren’t always about sex.  Some were, for sure, and those he preferred not to think about, but a lot were touched starved hermits who craved conversation and a shoulder rub from a beautiful woman.  A few liked to worship her feet.  One guy preferred to feed her ice cream while they watched Cheers reruns on the bed together.  Bottom line, nothing she shared surprised him any more.  

The local customers knew that Hopper was her watchdog, and they’d be too afraid to cross a line with her, even if they wanted to.  

Hopper had not yet been intimate with Lorelei though; not even a kiss.  

For years, he’d managed to keep it platonic, ever since she hired him to be her driver and bodyguard for a date with a new customer she wasn’t yet comfortable with. He’d known that same night that he wanted to be with her, but he also knew he wasn’t special, that she saw him as a bit of a necessary evil to keep the bad man away.  

But, Hopper was a bad man who had done many bad things.  She deserved better.

He would protect her with his life at the drop of a hat.  

Ned, the guy in the suspenders, shuffled to his Chrysler LeBaron, and then Lorelei turned to smile at Hopper.  

He fixed his hair, slicking it back on each side, squinting as he plucked the last of his smoke from between his lips, tossing it to the pavement before adjusting his Coffin Kings cut to wave back.  

—----

The rain was off and on all day, until the night shadows snuffed it out, allowing only a damp mist to remain. Earlier, you’d found a coffee maker at the thrift store, and when you still couldn’t sleep at midnight, you decided to caffeinate yourself to see if it counteracted your awakeness and made you sleepy.  Not much logic to it, but still, there it was. 

Deciding to go out for a walk, you zipped your jacket up and headed out, down along the dumpster alley, and out into the street that led to the park.  The playground equipment sat so ominously motionless, the empty expanse felt eerie for a moment as you made your way over to the swings, hands shoved deep into your pockets.  

You grabbed onto the chain, sitting in the teal plastic seat.  Beneath you, the ground was worn into a large divot where years of dragging feet had been.  You remember sitting on the same swig when you were a little kid and your feet couldn’t reach the dirt.

“Do you want to be alone?” His voice came out of nowhere, making your head turn so fast you almost kinked your neck.

You saw the plume of cigarette smoke before you saw him.  He was cloaked in darkness, but there was something about his shape, the way he sauntered forward.

“Steve?”

“Miss me?”

You took a deep breath, attempting to slow your heart rate. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was just wondering the same thing about you,” he came fully into view then, illuminated by the full moon through the tree boughs.  “This is my park.”

“Oh,” you looked around with mock surprise.  “You own this whole park? You did well for yourself.”

With a flick of ash from his cig, he sank down into the swing next to you, chains clinking against the aluminum bracing as he did so.  His hair curled at the base of his neck, the thick top part flopping to one side as he raked a hand through it.  He was wearing that same type of v-neck shirt under his leather jacket to give a peak of his chest hair and tattoos, as if he knew you’d be looking.  As if he’d known he’d run into you.

He smirked. “When Eddie and I were kids, we lived in that trailer park a few blocks that way,” he nodded over his shoulder. “We spent a lot of time here.  Any excuse to get out of the house.”

He extended the pack of cigarettes out to offer you one, but you declined that time.  “What were you out here doing tonight though?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he grumbled a laugh. “Decided to go for a ride. You?”

“Same, with the not being able to sleep thing.  In the city there is more to do but not many options here.”

“Tell me about it,” he scoffed.  

You shared a silence then, one that did not feel empty or awkward, but then he looked up at the sky that was clear and bright with stars.

“Do you wanna get out of here? Go for a ride?”

It took you a full minute to answer, but it was not a hesitance based on uncertainty.  It was hesitance based on wondering if Steve knew what he was getting himself into with someone like you.

“Where are we going? New Mexico?”

He shrugged, making eye contact again.  “We could. If that’s what you want.”

You ran your tongue along the ridge of your teeth, waiting for him to come over and take your hand to help you out of the seat.  He pulled  you up so fast, your chests crashed together, your mouths inches apart.  

“I want to show you something,” he said, brushing his lips against yours.  

—-

When you blinked awake the next morning, you realized that meeting Steve on the playground had been a dream.  You let the weight of its loss sink in as you rubbed sleep from your eyes, fumbling for the key around your neck as if you might’ve misplaced it in another dimension.  

On the other side of town, Steve revved his bike to life in the garage of the picket fence house he’d been renting from Eddie Munson. Eddie’s ex Melanie left him high and dry with a mortgage on his hands, and he was quick to offer it to his friend when he had nowhere to go.  Steve took care of the small lawn, and did any repairs with money from his own pocket.  He didn’t really care about the quaint seaside bungalow look of it—the garage was all that mattered to him.  He could keep his bike in there and fix up project cars when he had the means.  

He was running late, so he took the shortcut through the back alleyways of town.  

Or maybe he knew he’d be on time, he just wanted to cruise by your apartment and see if he could get a glimpse of you. 

Coffee was brewing in the office at Munson’s Garage when he got there and from behind the desk, Robin looked surprised.  

“You’re almost a half hour early,” she dropped her attention to the papers she was organizing.  “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“I slept great actually,” he lied, pulling a styrofoam cup off the stack to fill it with steaming brew.  “At least five hours.”

“No shit,” she returned under her breath.  “If you’re ready to clock in, Eddie has that Plymouth up on the lift for you to take a look at.  The owner wants to pick it up this afternoon.”

She stood to hand Steve a sheet of paper as she spoke.  “A few vehicles are coming in to get serviced at 9.  Eddie has to pick up a tow in Everett, so it’s just you and Hopper today.”

Through the window over Robin’s head, Steve could see the inside of the garage and Hopper leaning against a tall red tool caddy to have a smoke.  He bucked his chin at Steve when he caught his eye. 

A few hours into the daily grind, Steve was murmuring the lyrics to the song More Than Words by Extreme while he was on the creeper under a car, thankful for Hopper’s presence since he really didn’t give a shit about the music.  Eddie though? His tastes were very particular, and they usually had to flip a coin.  When Steve won the toss, Eddie grumbled around the bay all day, rolling his eyes at Steve’s enthusiasm for Prince’s entire discography.  

Hopper kicked Steve’s foot to get his attention.

“What’s up man?” Steve grunted, continuing to work.  

“Protection run tonight with Bones and a few of the others. Are  you coming?” Hopper had on cement gray coveralls and pulled a red rag from his back pocket to wipe carburetor fluid off his hands.  

Steve stopped what he was doing and used his legs to inch out from under the Pontiac Firebird.  He’d scratched his neck several times and wiped his eye, so there were dark smudges in those spots.  A protection run was when members of the Coffin Kings went along to escort precious, most likely illegal, cargo across state lines.  

Steve didn’t answer, so Hopper continued.  “Sounds like we’ll each be getting a couple grand a head.”

A couple grand? For a few hours of work when he wouldn’t be sleeping anyway? Oh yeah, Steve was going on the protection run, no matter the risks.  

“Steve?” The voice belonged to someone else that time. 

Someone who sounded a lot like you. 

Steve sat up on the creeper and fiddled with the wrench in his hand, sure that it was only Robin and he was just hearing things.  

But, there you were, stepping into the garage from the parking lot with what appeared to be a Pyrex casserole dish in your hands.

“Um, hi, you—um,” Steve got to his feet after a clumsy shuffle with the creeper, wiping his hands off as well as he could on his jeans.  

“I brought you some lunch,” flustered, you realized it was past noon and surely he’d had lunch already.  “Or dinner, whichever. As a thank you for driving me home yesterday.”

Hopper looked from Steve to you and then back to you again before excusing himself to the other side of the garage.  

Robin hurried to spy on the conversation from the air conditioned privacy in the office.

“For me?” He wasn’t trying to be obtuse, he was genuinely confused. 

“Well,” you steadied the dish in your grasp, glancing around. “Or whoever else might want some.  It’s lasagna.  My mom’s recipe.  Donna let me use her oven, I made some for myself earlier and just thought you might…um…do you like lasagna?”

“Sure,” he reached out to take it from you. “Who doesn’t like lasagna?”

The words were there, but you couldn’t read the expression on his face.  The scowl lines in his forehead and the down-turned side of his mouth told you that he was repulsed by all of it: the lasagna, you, everything.  

Steve was speechless.  Not for lack of words, but more an abundance of them. The last time anyone had cared to make something for him was his grandmother before she passed.  Robin had made him dinner a handful of times, but that was different.  Still, all he could do was stare at the tin foil cover and wet his lips.

Your brain raced. “If it’s too much, I can take it back?”

“No,” Steve moved the dish away as if to protect it from your reaching hands. “I’ll make sure to clean the dish when I’m done and get it back to you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you shuffled back, turning on your heel to beeline for your car as fast as you could.  

We were going to run away to New Mexico together, remember?

A few other Coffin Kings had just pulled into the parking lot, and with narrowed eyes, Steve noticed that they were all watching you walk away.

Fuckers.

He struggled to find a place to put the blue dish down, and finally settled on the concrete, so he could head off after you at a jog. 

“Hey,” he caught your arm, moving with purpose to block their leering view of you. “Is that your car? Let me walk you over there,” pointing to the yellow Dodge Omni parked under the awning.

You moved a few steps, so did he, and then you eyed him suspiciously.  “What’s going on?”

One of the Kings whistled their approval of you, and Steve gnashed his teeth.  

“Nothings going on, I just wanted to make sure you know how grateful I am.  For coming over here.  With the food. For bringing me food.”

You tried to see where the whistle had come from, but Steve darted to the side to block your view.

God, he was blowing it.  What a tool.

You wanted to tell him about the dream you had, but right then didn’t feel like a good time. 

“I have to get back to work,” you looked at your hands, and then lifted them to the heartbeat in his tan throat, and eventually up to his full lips. “See you later?”

He reached out as if he might hug you, but then put his arms down again, slapping them to his sides.  “Hey, are you busy tomorrow night?”

“I work during the day, but otherwise I’m never busy,” you swallowed, avoiding his gaze.

“Do you want to get out of here? Go for a ride?”

But then, your eyes snapped up at the familiarity of the questioning.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he added.

----

Thank you so much to my readers, I love you and love to hear what you think.

[swamp-adder]

Me reading my first Nero Wolfe book (The Silent Speaker): Well Rex Stout was the guy who said Watson must be a woman because two men would never act that way toward each other, so presumably this series will be less shippy than the Holmes stories -- 

Archie Goodwin: Frankly, I wish I could make my heart quit doing an extra thump when Wolfe says satisfactory, Archie. It’s childish.

Me: Um. OK.

[novasintheroom]

036. Heart Break

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 0.8k

♡ Warnings - mild angst

♡ Description: Vash's actions catch up to him in the form of a letter.

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3.

Part 1 ---- Part 2 (you are here!)---- Part 3 ---- Part 4 ---- Part 5

The first letter comes three weeks and a day later.

“Got a letter for ya.”

Vash doesn’t look up from the shop’s window display of guns and bullets.

“Hey…hey!”

The man taps Vash’s shoulder. He finally flinches. “Who, me?” Vash turns, surprised to see someone just standing behind him. How far away was his mind?

The man looks him up and down. “You’re Vash, right?” He’s a thick man; stout. A broom mustache sweeps his upper lip. Small holster for a pistol at his hip. He isn’t reaching for it, but Vash keeps it in sight.

Vash lets out a nervous laugh. “Do I know you? I’m sorry, it’s been a minute since I last came to town!” A truth – it’s been almost twenty years.

A tomas-pulled wagon drives past and kicks up dust. The man – courier, Vash realizes, seeing the official symbol of an arrow with a letter on his hat – spits to the side, a hunk of tobacco splatting the dirt. “Friend o’ yers passed through a few days ago. Said to look out for someone like you if you came by.”

Again, the pistol is in sight. The man reaches for it. Vash tenses, ready to run and – the courier reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small, folded envelope. Without preamble, the man hands it to Vash. “Tall, red coat, looks like a kicked puppy…yeah, gotta be you.”

Vash takes it like it will bite his fingers. It’s a dirty little thing, crinkled horribly on one corner and bent at the other three, but intact. In neat handwriting, his name scrawled across the front: “For – Vash S.”

The courier clears his throat and holds out a hand. Vash blinks at it, uncomprehending. “Twenty-six C-cents. For the parcel delivery.”

Oh. He’d forgotten that – he hadn’t gotten a letter in – “Ah, right, um, lemme just – “ He pats his pockets, inner, outer, and finally finds a few loose coins. They clink into outstretched palm, and he hopes it’s enough.

The courier counts, then recounts. He nods and hands back two C-cents. “Much obliged. See us at the post office if you want to send something back. Just down the road, by the toma range.” He ambles off, already setting sights on someone else in town. It’s just Vash and the letter now.

Carefully, he peels back the top of the envelope. His mind is awash with dread when the first pieces of curling letters meet his gaze: your handwriting. A piece of yellow paper is tucked into the folds, and he pulls it out.

It’s upside down, and he sees the slanted, scrawling handwriting first before he knows what it says. Flipping it around and right-side up, he reads over what you’ve written him.

Vash,

I get why you left. I wish you’d talked with me beforehand, but I get it. I tried following, but you know how to disappear.

You know you can trust me. I’ll keep all your secrets, don’t worry.

You’re my best friend. I think you’ll always be. Please be careful wherever you go. I’ve drawn a map on the back of my route for the next few months. Find me when you screw your head on right. I’ll gladly be waiting.

Forever yours,

______

There’re little circular wrinkles on the paper. Tear marks. You’d been crying when you’d written this. Vash sighs and holds the papers to his head. It has the faintest smell of apples to it from the lotion of your hands.

It’s tempting to feel his heart break. He takes a quick whiff, then turns the page over.

It’s a neat but crude drawing of the southernmost area of the region. You’ve got about fourteen towns marked down, with their names underneath and a trail of arrows winding between them with approximate dates. According to this, you’re at Trenton’s Hill, three towns over. You’ll be distributing library books and trying to set up new routes along the way. All to help the education of the people.

Good. That’s exactly what he wanted. You’re using your time and your degree as you should be, instead of following him around. He almost puts the paper in his pocket when he sees you wrote something at the bottom:

                P.S. – Did you hear about the guy who had his left side cut off? He’s all right now.

It startles a laugh out of him. Leave it to you to make a joke out of…well, whatever this situation is now. Again, he sighs. He won’t deny he’s missed you. But this is for the best. He looks again at Trenton’s Hill, and makes a mental note to go the opposite direction.

The letter goes in a pocket, and he goes on his way – sure to pull it out and look over the words again for nights to come.

dividers

[lightgaswaterelectricityrent]

Reporters tantalized their readers with stories about the “plutocratic Osage” and the “red millionaires,” with their brick-and-terra-cotta mansions and chandeliers, with their diamond rings and fur coats and chauffeured cars. One writer marveled at Osage girls who attended the best boarding schools and wore sumptuous French clothing, as if “une très jolie demoiselle of the Paris boulevards had inadvertently strayed into this little reservation town.”

Many of the Osage would rush to see a gusher when it erupted, scrambling for the best view, making sure not to cause a spark, their eyes following the oil as it shot fifty, sixty, sometimes a hundred feet in the air. With its great black wings of spray, arcing above the rigging, it rose before them like an angel of death. The spray coated the fields and the flowers and smeared the faces of the workers and the spectators. Still, people hugged and tossed their hats in celebration. Bigheart, who had died not long after the imposition of allotment, was hailed as the “Osage Moses.” And the dark, slimy, smelly mineral substance seemed like the most beautiful thing in the world.

A short, stout man, with a luxuriant mustache and a shock of red hair, Burns had once aspired to be an actor, and he cultivated a mystique, in part by writing pulp detective stories about his cases. In one such book, he declared, “My name is William J. Burns, and my address is New York, London, Paris, Montreal, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, New Orleans, Boston, Philadelphia, Cleveland, and wherever else a law-abiding citizen may find need of men who know how to go quietly about throwing out of ambush a hidden assassin or drawing from cover criminals who prey upon those who walk straight.”

Meanwhile, Ernest’s aunt was muttering, loud enough for all to hear, about how mortified she was that her nephew had married a redskin. It was easy for Mollie to subtly strike back because one of the servants attending to the aunt was white—a blunt reminder of the town’s social order.

Hoover demanded that his staff wear dark suits and sober neckties and black shoes polished to a gloss. He wanted his agents to be a specific American type: Caucasian, lawyerly, professional. Every day, he seemed to issue a new directive—a new Thou Shall Not—and White put on his big cowboy hat with an air of defiance.

Blackie, evidently enjoying himself, looked squarely at Burkhart and said, “Ernest, I have told them everything.”

The judge advised the jury members that they must set aside sympathies or prejudices for either side. He warned, “There never has been a country on this earth that has fallen except when that point was reached…where the citizens would say, ‘We cannot get justice in our courts.’ ”

In 1932, the bureau began working with the radio program The Lucky Strike Hour to dramatize its cases. One of the first episodes was based on the murders of the Osage...The broadcasted radio program concluded, “So another story ends and the moral is identical with that set forth in all the others of this series….[The criminal] was no match for the Federal Agent of Washington in a battle of wits.”

The historian Burns once wrote, “To believe that the Osages survived intact from their ordeal is a delusion of the mind. What has been possible to salvage has been saved and is dearer to our hearts because it survived. What is gone is treasured because it was what we once were. We gather our past and present into the depths of our being and face tomorrow. We are still Osage. We live and we reach old age for our forefathers.”

Killers of the Flower Moon, dir. Martin Scorsese // Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann (3/3)

[elements-project-24]

Hello! We are Juniper and Keeton, a small indie animation team working out of UW Stout to bring you a 2D animated short called "Elements" 🎬 This short will follow a trio of magical critters as they travel to the heart of their world in an attempt to stop reality itself from collapsing, and it will also act as a trailer for a hypothetical series featuring said characters and world. Follow us to see production updates and behind the scenes work. The trailer drops May, 2025, stay tuned!

[jerzwriter]

Book: Open Heart (Book 2 Timeline) Characters: Tobias Carrick x Casey - eventually 😊, Ethan Ramsey Rating: Teen Words: 1,900 Series Summary: Can be found here. Chapter Summary: A confused Tobias heads to his old watering hole to relax, but uninvited self-reflection gets in his way. He finally gets it under control when Ethan shows up, and the visit isn't necessarily friendly. How does the night end... and who isn't being truthful. A/N: I had so much fun with this one. I'm really enjoying exploring this point of Tobias & Casey's relationship. Participating in @choicesfebruary2024 - Philia (Friendship), a little Eros (Romantic/Passionate) too. :)

Without Warning Masterlist | Tobias x Casey Masterlist My Full Masterlist

Eight Weeks After Chemical Attack

“Uh-oh, look what the wind blew in!” The stout, grey-haired man behind beamed as if he saw a long-lost friend. “Get over here, you bum! Where the hell have you been?”

The Puddingstone Tavern was to Kenmore what Donahue’s was to Edenbrook, and for nearly a decade, Tobias all but lived there. His signature smirk was firmly in place as he sauntered to the bar like a king returning to his domain.

“Has it been that long, Charlie?” Tobias said, vigorously shaking the man’s hand. “I was here last Tuesday, for Christ’s sake.”

Charlie made a show of pulling the calendar down from the wall and turned to Tobias with a grin.

“Last Tuesday, and if this thing is correct, today is Thursday. So, nine days! You’ve been MIA for nine days, and we didn’t see you for a week before that. We’re used to you being here after every shift. What happened? Was it something I said?”

 “You know I don’t scare easily. It would take much more than you to scare me away.”  

“So then, what’s the story?” Charlie pressed, placing Tobias’s favorite beer in front of him just as a dark-haired waitress with crystal blue eyes passed, eager to insert herself into the conversation.

“Word on the street is Carrick has a girlfriend,” she teased. 

“A girlfriend? A girlfriend!” Charlie’s belly shook when he broke into a hearty laugh. “Oh, God! That’s a good one. A decade he’s been comin’ here, and I’ve never seen the same woman on his arm more than once.”

“Now that’s a damn lie,” Tobias defended. “I brought a few of them here twice. I think one even made it three.”  

“Sure,” Charlie shrugged. “But normally, we'd see you with a different one between their visits. I’d believe you were abducted by aliens before I’d believe you had a girlfriend. A girlfriend,” Charlie was so busy snickering he hadn’t noticed that Tobias was no longer laughing along.

“Yeah...” Tobias smiled sadly, “Could you just imagine?”

Charlie left to tend to another patron, leaving Tobias alone with his thoughts. He couldn't even say why he hadn’t been there? It wasn't Casey. He only saw her once, all right, maybe twice a week. Sure, they texted most nights, but that was no reason to stay away. No matter, he reminded himself, she was not his girlfriend. That much he knew was true. So, it was absurd to think she had anything to do with this.

He tried to shift his focus, but Charlie’s barrelling laughter kept replaying in Tobias’s mind. “A girlfriend? A girlfriend!... I’d believe you were abducted by aliens before I’d believe you had a girlfriend!”  Was it that preposterous an idea? Sure, he would have thought it was himself not too long ago. In fact, he would have worn it as a badge of honor, but he felt differently now. Now... it stung. Did anyone think that he had the emotional capacity to be anything other than a fuckboy?

He closed his eyes and took in a whiff of the stale, familiar air. It felt like home, and he should be comfortable here; but he found himself terribly out of place. Eager for a distraction, he reached over the bar to grab the remote control and put on the Celtics game. That would do it! Leaning back in his chair, he was beginning to feel at ease, but not for very long.

Two basketball quarters and two drinks in, Tobias heard heavy footsteps approaching on the worn wooden floor. He didn’t notice when they stopped behind him, but the baritone voice that followed couldn’t be ignored.

Ethan glanced over Tobias’s shoulder and rolled his eyes. “You always did have shit taste in booze.”

Tobias turned, successfully hiding his astonishment.

“This is a New Belgium Trippel,” Tobias said. "It's one of the best craft beers out there.”

“Exactly. A craft beer.” Ethan motioned for the bartender. “What’s the best Scotch in the house.”

“That would be Johnny Walker Blue.”

“I’ll take that,” Ethan nodded. “Neat.”

Tobias waited until Ethan had his drink in hand before he began a conversation. They’d spoken exactly once since the night of the attack, and while the hatchet was buried, the men were miles away from being friends.

“So, what brings you here,” Tobias asked. “You have something going on at Kenmore?”

“No, I just had it on good counsel that you’d be here tonight.”

Tobias raised a brow. “Spying on me? I don’t know... should I be flattered or frightened, Ramsey."

“You shouldn’t be either.”

“Ah! So, you’ve come to offer me a job?” Tobias snickered. “I knew you’d come begging one day.”

“No,” Ethan chortled. “We’re still awake, Carrick. This isn’t a dream.”

“So, then, why did you come to see me?”

Ethan inhaled deeply, taking a long sip of his drink as he pondered if this had been a good idea. Assuring himself he came for a reason, he continued.

“There’s no use beating around the bush. I’ve heard you and Casey have been spending a lot of time together since the attack."

He may have been able to hide his surprise before, but Tobias made no attempt to hide his expression this time, and he was not pleased.

“Whoa... whoa...whoa... Look, I don’t know if you’re keeping tabs on me or on Casey, but either way it’s fucked up. What either of us does with our time is none of your concern.”

“Actually, it is,” Ethan shot back. “Casey... Casey’s on my team, and her well-being matters to me.”

Tobias raised his beer to his smirking lips. “That’s a little above and beyond for a boss-employee relationship. Wouldn't you say? If we're being honest tonight, you may as well admit that she was much more than a resident to you.”

Ethan’s eyes went wide, the his discomfort was palpable. Somehow, both things left Tobias pleased.

“You... you know...about us," Ethan stammered.

“Look, even if Casey hadn’t told me... it wasn’t exactly a well-guarded secret. You underestimate the Boston hospital grapevine.”

Ethan focused on the back of the bar, his face turning red, though he was unsure if anger or embarrassment was the cause.

“Was." Ethan said sternly. "Whatever Casey and I shared is in the past. But she still matters to me. She’ll never be ‘just’ a teammate.”

“OK,” Tobias shrugged. “And what does any of this have to do with me.”

“I’m aware of your... history... Carrick. I know how much you hurt Casey after you stole Stefanie out from under her. But, for some reason, she still had a soft spot for you. And now... with her being so... fragile... I'm just here to tell you - don't take advantage of that, Tobias. Because if you do, you'll have to deal with me."

Tobias stared at his beer, shaking his head with a wicked chuckle.

“That's rich! That is rich coming from you, given your history. What’s the matter, Ethan? Were you planning on making a move yourself? Trying to get any potential competition out of the way?”

Ethan felt his pulse quickening as his lips formed into a line.  

“She’s coping with PTSD, Carrick. I’d never do such a thing.”

“Yeah, so once again, you’re the Boy Scout, and I’m some degenerate. You’re not the only one with decency, Ethan, and I’m through letting you believe that you are. I don’t owe you any explanation, but nothing is going on between Casey and me. I care about her; I care about her a lot. She’s a friend who is going through hell right now, and I’m doing all I can to help her... not take advantage of her.”

It had been years since he and Tobias had been friends, but Ethan could still tell when there was sincerity in his eyes; he could see and hear its presence now, and that put him at ease. The hurt in Tobias’s eyes and the sincerity in his voice put Ethan at ease.

“Good. That's all I wanted to know."

Both men pretended to focus on the game as an awkward silence fell between them. It was Tobias who eventually broke the standoff; rubbing his chin, he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Ethan, I’m glad things are civil between us again, I really am. But the dirt has barely covered the big hatchet we just buried... and you have to go and do this? Don't you see you're overstepping, man...”

"You're right..." Ethan agreed, looking slightly abashed. "I did overstep... and deep down, I knew that coming in. But honestly, protecting Casey mattered more to me than upsetting you or making a fool of myself. So I did what I felt was best.”

“Protecting her... from me?”

“All right, Carrick... give up the alter boy routine. Can you blame me? If you care about her as much as you say, you would have done the same thing if you were in my shoes.”

Tobias shook his head with a sad smile. “You know, I’m far from perfect. No one is. And I’m not saying I haven’t done some messed up shit in the past, but preying on vulnerable women has never been my style, and you know that."

Ethan diverted his eyes, with a question lingering in his mind that needed to be spoken.

“Why her? You’ve been with god knows how many women. Why is Casey the one you can't let go of?”

“Do you think this is because of you?” Tobias blurted. “Because it’s not... it has nothing to do with you. Casey... she's just incredible. She’s absolutely beautiful, and I’m talking about the inside, not the out. She’s brilliant, funny, and kind, and when you’re with her, she makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world... and I’m not talking about me... she makes everyone feel that way. She sees the best in people when most want to focus on their flaws. She’s kind enough to give a jackass like me a second chance to be her friend...and there’s no way I’m going to blow that.”

Ethan gazed at Tobias with a knowing half-smile.

“Sure, but you’re not in love with her.”

Tobias swallowed hard, quietly shaking his head. “We’re friends, Ethan... we’re just friends,” he repeated, but at the moment, he wasn’t sure if he was convincing Ethan or himself. “ And what about you?”

“What do you mean...what about me?”

“Do you still love her?”

“Yes,” Ethan replied. “But not in that way. She matters to me, and she always will. I know I hurt her in the past, and I don’t want to see her hurt again. After everything that happened recently? I suppose I'm a bit overprotective.”

“Yeah... I get that. I get all of that.”

Ethan picked up his glass with a smile. “We always did have more in common than we liked to believe.”

“Yeah, well, don’t let word get out on the street. I have a reputation to uphold, and I don’t need you tarnishing it.”

“Oh, is that so?” Ethan laughed. “Imagine me tarnishing you?”

Tobias met his eyes, and both men chuckled.

“So,” Ethan said. “Are we... still good?”

Tobias shrugged. “You care about her and want to protect her. I want to do the same, so how can I fault you?”

Ethan nodded uncomfortably.  “Well, I should settle my tab...”

“Why? The night is young, and the Celtics are about to go into the last quarter. Why don’t you stay and watch with me.”

“Really?”

“No,” Tobias rolled his eyes. “Yes, really.”

“All right,” Ethan said, sliding back onto his stool. He motioned for another drink, and when it arrived, he raised it to Tobias.

“Cheers,” Ethan smiled.

“Cheers.”

Both took a long drink, then Tobias turned to his... friend?

“Ethan?”

“Yes?”

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Ethan snorted in reply. “Not if you keep saying shit like that. You're not exactly Bogart, Carrick."

The men remained at the bar for at least another hour without an ounce of tension between them, and though they’d never admit it, that made them both happy. When Tobias returned home, he checked his messages one last time after slipping into bed. A smile he hadn’t felt coming spread across his face the moment he saw her name.

He turned off the light on his nightstand but continued staring at Casey's message for some time. Finally putting the phone down, he made himself comfortable. We're just friends, he repeated to himself. He had promised her, just friends, and that's what they would stay... but he was beginning to realize just how how hard that would be.

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

[isaacforalpha14]

Imagine # 115 Sam and Dean Winchester

A/N: This has been in the works for a while. I absolutely have loved Supernatural since the show started. I love both Sam and Dean and it’s so hard to choose which is my favorite. So, this is a selfish write just to get me back into the swing of things. It’s going to be a mini-series. I am not sure how long it’ll be but there will be different things to choose from on how you get an ending for Sam or Dean. 

Pain; the emotion rippled throughout his system like a poison. Released from his heart in a bittersweet continuous trickle, infecting each nerve in his system as warm tears blurred his vision. Bobby Singer is dead; for real this time, no resurrections or ghostly visitations, just dead. To say it was difficult to let him go is an understatement; he thought he'd done it the first time yet as the vibrant flames enveloped the flask, contorting the metal into a liquid mound, it hurt just as much as when he watched the life leave his body in that hospital bed. Richard ‘Dick’ Roman, the leviathan leader extraordinaire, seared a target on his forehead the minute Bobby took his final breath. The Winchester brothers would never stop until the leviathan paid for his death. They’re distraught; torn into pieces by the death of a man that was closer to them than their own father. However, if there was anyone that felt this loss harder than Dean, it was definitely you; Bobby Singer’s only blood relative, his child. How could he ever fix this for you?

“I am so sorry.” Dean’s soothing baritone reaches your ears in a whisper, warm breath tickling the flesh of your tear stained cheek as his calloused fingertips brush a strand of hair behind your ear. He wraps your trembling frame in a sympathetic embrace, nuzzling his stubbled face into the softness of disheveled hair as your fingers clutch at his cotton shirt in tight fists. “I am here for you.” He places his forehead against yours, nudging you like a loving kitten before he continues. “I’ll always be here for you when you need me.” Dean’s body releases an involuntary shutter, goosebumps spreading across his limbs, thankfully hidden underneath his smoke gray button up, as your warm breath mingles with his due to the close proximity. He knows it’s terrible timing, he shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea, but he wants to tell you how he feels. He wants to be honest, to pour out his heart, in case the plan doesn’t work and this kills him. You had to feel something for him, right? 

“Y/N.” The somber tone of Sam Winchester’s voice interrupts the moment, pulling away from Dean, your lower lip quivers as you meet the younger man’s gaze. He’s heartbroken by the sight; the impish glisten to your beautiful eyes is replaced with sorrow, tear stains reflecting off of your soft cheekbones, supple lips quivering as you fight the sob from creeping up your throat. He furrows his brow in concern, opening his arms in a silent invitation to seek comfort from him. Dean coughs, ignoring the pang of sadness that causes his chest to ache the moment you crash into his younger brother’s arms and sob against his brown plaid shirt. He’s cradling your head in the palm of his hand, threading his fingers through the soft tendrils of hair as he gently shushes you, mumbling words of comfort into your ear that his brother can’t quite hear. 

Sam glanced over his shoulder, Dean’s tattered boots retreating up the cellar stairs without a word, his stout footsteps the sole interruption of your sniffles and sobs against Sam’s clothing. He knew something was bothering his older brother, obviously not just the loss of Bobby again, but something he wasn’t sharing. Maybe it was a mixture of grief and anger, he knew that Dean wanted revenge against Dick Roman but there was just a hint of something else that lingered in the air when he was around. He blinks away the thought, forcing himself to focus on the moment so he could be present for you. You needed him. “You want to go for a drive?” He offers in the faintest whisper, almost as if he raised his voice you’d shatter like delicate glass. 

“Y-Yeah.” You stammer, sniffling as your fingers clutch at the sleeve of the plaid rolled up to his elbow. “Can we get a coffee from town?” Your pitiful tone made his heart skip, a smitten smile quirking his mouth as he nodded and placed an affectionate kiss on your forehead. 

“Of course, we can, princess.” The nickname brought a sad smile to your face, butterflies tickling your abdomen as you grasp his much larger hand in yours, intertwining your fingers. There’s always been a place in your heart for the Winchester brothers, a magnetic connection you’ve shared with both of them, and yet, despite moments like these you could never be certain if either of them possess feelings for you on more than a platonic level. Neither had ever gone further than smitten glances and flirtatious banter. To say it’s difficult to love someone when you don’t know if they feel the same is an understatement, but it’s even worse when you’re in love with two people and you have no idea how either feels about you. 

Everything went wrong in the worst way, the ‘plan’ appeared to work but before there was even a chance at feeling satisfaction in the win, the happiness that might’ve been just disappeared. Kevin Tran had told you and Sam about Dick Roman’s ‘creamer’ that would wipe out thinner people. He made you guys promise to blow up the laboratory before leaving the building, you three had just burst through the lab doors when you spot Dick Roman with the specialized bone weapon in his neck; Dean standing before him watching as he gurgles and struggles to maintain his meat suit facade, Castiel standing behind him watching the scene as he prayed they’d succeeded and it’s when the sounds stop and a weird ripple pulses from Dick Roman that you knew something was about to go wrong. Sam’s breathing is labored as he begins to back away, broad frame pushing you back into Kevin as he tries to gesture for you to retreat.  The atmosphere around the monster’s silhouette begins to ripple in stronger waves, you were about to scream for Dean to back away when his concerned willow irises met yours, he mouths something you don't quite understand before Sam’s arms wrap around your body and he shields you from the sudden explosion. 

There’s Leviathan goo covering the entire lab, the tar blood dripping off the walls onto the pristine floors. Peeking around Sam’s broad shoulders, you can feel your stomach drop as you’re met with nothing. Dean and Castiel are just gone. You’re frozen in shock, ignoring the exchange between Sam and Kevin as the hunter tries to figure out what’s happened and Kevin just tries to urge you to leave. Crowley appears and you can feel yourself losing it, you’re trembling, mind racing, throat unable to form words as you purse your lips feeling the bile rise from the pit of your stomach. Just like that, Crowley exchanges a few select words with Sam before he snaps his fingers, Kevin disappears with a couple of demons and then he himself just vanishes. 

“Breathe, just breathe.” Sam’s soothing voice murmurs, warm palms cradling your cheeks as his charming hazel eyes meet yours in a concerned gaze. He knew about the panic attacks, Bobby had confided in him years ago about how you’d been on medication for anxiety ever since your mother’s death. Sam is no stranger to comforting others in times of distress but he’s never been present for an episode like this. He vaguely remembers reading about panic attacks, he’s desperately trying to wrack his brain for anything that could help you in this situation. He lands on distracting you; or maybe it was his subconscious urging him to finally be honest with you about how he’s always felt now that he had you and you alone. 

The sound of frazzled breathing dissipates, instead being replaced by a gasp as Sam’s delightful mouth meets yours in a tender and cautious kiss. With a subtle groan, your body instinctively relaxes, pressing yourself painfully close to his broad muscular frame as your fingers grasp at his chestnut hair and you find yourself kissing him in return with the feelings you’ve tried to hide over the years. Sam sighs through his nose, the kiss becoming more heated as he gets caught up in the moment. He’d definitely succeeded, you were distracted, but now so was he. The distant splat of leviathan dripping from the lab walls onto a surface somewhere in the room is what had brought you both back to reality. 

“We should... w-we should go.” Sam offers in a murmur, clearing his throat with a deep cough, warm pink hue brightening his cheekbones in the most adorable manner. “We can figure out what happened to them. Someone has to know something, right?”

Wrong; it’s been four strenuous months since that fateful night at Richard Roman Enterprises. There hasn’t been a sole indication that whatever happened to Castiel and Dean wasn’t- fatal or reversible. Sam found himself toeing the line between losing himself to the pain of his brother’s absence and the paralyzing need to keep a suffocatingly tight grip on you in fear of losing the only person he has left. Sam’s need to be protective seems to have worsened as his feelings for you became like a tsunami tide; his heart was lulled into the calm waters of the affection he’s held for you since he can remember, only to be devoured and swept into a chaos of domestic dreams and a relentless wave of love that crashed into his heart with no warning. He’s always been smitten with you, but now, he was hopelessly in love. He remembered the promise he made to Dean vividly, if anything happened to either of them then the other was to live a normal life. An apple pie life. He’s never considered the promise before but now, with you, everything is different. 

“C-Can I ask you something?” Sam clears his throat, rubbing the palms of his hands against his jean clad knees as you place a cold beer bottle on the battered motel coffee table, a dulled thud interrupting the tension filled silence. There’s something strange about his demeanor, something that spreads a hollow nerve in the pit of your stomach as you offer him an unsure nod. “Will you sit here with me, please?” His warm voice trembles, gesturing to the empty space on the sofa with his signature puppy eyes. 

“Sammy.” There’s a beat of silence as you gnaw on your lower lip and contemplate how to broach the remainder of your thought. “Is this about Dean? I-Is he..” 

“No.” He rushes, placing a comforting hand on your thigh as he meets your gaze. “I m-mean, I don’t know if he’s-” He pauses with a pained expression, before scooting closer to you and brushing his calloused fingers across the delicate flesh of your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Dean and I made a promise to each other. If anything were to happen to either of us, the other is to find a way to be happy. Move on and try to live a normal life.” There’s a coy smile that quirks his mouth, warmth creeping up his neck as he intertwines your fingers before continuing. “I want to do that with you.” 

“Give up hunting?” There’s confusion in your tone as your heart hammers against your chest. Were you hearing him right? Give up on helping people? Give up on Dean?

“No more hunting.” He swallows the nerves, heartbeat drumming in his ears as he hopes to God that you’ll agree. “Just me and you, we can settle down somewhere. We can find a house, a normal nine to five and maybe-maybe, i-in the future, we could get married?” It’s impossible to ignore the startled expression on your face, he’s uncertain whether it’s leaning toward a yes or a no, so he hopes pleading his case can sway you. “I am in love with you.” His confession is tender, voice so gentle that you feel a warmth spread through your chest as you meet his beautiful hazel eyes. “And I think that you know that. I’ve been in love with you since we were kids but I never thought you’d feel the same. So I kept it to myself, continued being the best friend that I could be to you and just enjoyed the time we spent together.” His massive hand squeezes your thigh, the other playing with your fingers as he continues. “Things have been teetering on the line between friendship and more with us since our kiss,” He hesitates, cradling your face as his thumb brushes your bottom lip. “I finally felt like you might’ve had feelings for me too. If I am wrong, and you don’t, if I am just reading too much into this, tell me now.” The sofa releases a squeak as he shifts his weight, leaning dangerously close as his forehead meets yours. 

"Sammy." The lighthearted giggle and dazzling smile caused Sam's heart to skip a beat, the contagious laughter coaxing an amused chuckle as he wrapped his lean muscular arms around your waist, pressing your back against his toned stomach. "We're never gonna make it to the lease signing if we don't choose a color." 

"I am content with whatever you choose." He mumbles in your ear. "I just want you to be happy, baby." 

"Samuel William Winchester, you promised." The adorable pout directed over your shoulder softened his expression, heart skipping as he met your gaze with a smitten smile. He released a sigh, reaching toward the paint chips in your hand and plucking the card with a gray hued blue. 

"This." He murmurs into your hair as he wraps his arms around you once more. "There, the promise fulfilled." 

"Thank you." It's almost impossible to keep from smiling, the terms of endearment still felt fresh and made your heart flutter. He's always called you princess but since that day in that stale half dilapidated motel when he expressed his love for you, he's really taken to calling you sweet names like babe, baby, love and honey. There was a sole instance that he'd called you sweetheart and something in you broke. He instantly noticed you tense and a sadness glistening in your watering eyes that broke his heart. He didn’t want to admit it then but he knew the reason; Dean. So he’d silently promised himself he would never call you that again. Sam never wanted to be the reason for your pain, even if it was unintentional.   

“Have you put any more thought into the lease time frames?” Sam questions, releasing you from his tight hold to push the shopping cart toward the next aisle. There’s hesitation in your response, he can sense the tension that looms in the air as the squeaking from the shopping cart wheels goes silent and he’s watching you with a curious tilt to his head. “Baby?” 

“Sorry.” You whisper, gnawing on your lower lip. There’s still no answer to his question and it’s starting to worry him that maybe you’d changed your mind altogether; you didn’t actually want this, want him. He leaves the shopping cart, fingers tugging the soft cotton sleeve of your peach cardigan as he urges you to come closer to him. The emotion reflecting in his hazel eyes causes you to frown and place the palms of your hands against his stubble covered cheeks. “I know that look, Winchester. Don’t do that. It’s nothing you did, I promise.” Pressing an affectionate kiss to your delicate fingers, he nods with a sigh of relief, ushering you to the shopping cart to continue the journey to the registers. “I was thinking about my dad and I just didn’t want to ruin our trip.” 

“It’s perfectly okay to miss him.” He responds with an empathetic smile in your direction before greeting the cashier and placing the items on the conveyor belt, fishing his wallet out of his jean pocket. “I miss him too.” The remainder of the shopping trip was silent, it wasn’t that you thought Sam would judge you for thinking of your father but you didn’t want to have to admit that you were afraid of returning home. That’s why you’d agreed to rent a house with Sam about two hours driving distance of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. There’s a piece of your heart that yearned to return home, like being on the junkyard property line would help you feel like a part of your father was still here with you. Yet, the wounds were still fresh and it was hard to grasp that he really is truly gone. 

“Are you okay, baby?” Sam’s concerned voice is barely heard over the rumbling of the Impala engine, his fingers interlacing with yours as he lifts your clasped hands to his mouth, pressing an affectionate kiss upon your knuckles. 

“Mhmm.” There’s a subtle squeak from the leather seats as you scoot closer to his massive frame, nuzzling into his side as you enjoy the ride to the place you’d be calling home for a while. The cassette tape peeking out of the radio catches your attention, there’s an uncomfortable knotting in the pit of your stomach, a pain you’d often get when you focused on reminders of Dean. Sam is humming, you’re uncertain of the song but it takes everything within yourself to keep from pushing the cassette tape in and turning the radio on. Neither of you have been able to bring yourself to turn it on since Dean’s been gone. Swallowing the sadness, you try again, as you have each day since their disappearance, to pray to Castiel. It still hurts each time that the prayer is answered with radio silence. Sam makes you that happiest you’ve been in a lifetime but with Castiel and Dean still missing it feels like pieces of your heart have just vanished. The most painful part of the ordeal is the unknown; are they in pain? Are they in danger? Are they dead?

Sam Winchester could never have envisioned this; feeling comfortable enough to let someone in wholeheartedly, to allow himself the pleasure of falling hopelessly in love and nourishing the dream of a happily ever after. This is everything he’s ever wanted; this is perfection. The morning sunlight radiates from the bedroom window, revitalizing warmth descending upon the bare and exposed flesh sprawled across the mattress. The muscles in the hunter’s tanned arm were roused as he twirled a strand of hair around his finger, the movement provoking a content sigh as your foot grazed his leg in a gesture of instinctual fondness. There’s sleep evident in his movement as he savored the astounding happiness that devours his heart, his enamored hazel eyes hypnotized by the serene expression on your face. You’re beautiful; he’s always thought so however in this intimate sense of domestic bliss, bare skin wrapped in the floral print sheets, conquered by peaceful slumber due to  the previous night's love making, he couldn't help himself from equating you to a goddess of celestial perfection. Aphrodite; in flesh and bone gracing him with the blessing of her presence. Then a realization hits him in the depths of his stomach as his heart skips; he’s ready. He wants this to be the rest of his life. This has been the best year of his life and everything in him is aching to spend the rest of it with you by his side. He’s going to propose. 

[mayzi33]

Hey guys so I finally watched The Wingfeather Saga series and....

*my baby audio starts playing*

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I CANT BRO MY HEART

Janner crying over Sara being taken and thinking it's his fault

Peet having a panic attack everytime something clearly reminds him of Esben

Peet accidently scaring the kids away

Podo's pale and bloody body

Nia singing My Love Has Gone Across The Sea

Janner pulling Leeli and Tink close so they cry on him

*pats head* "Stout heart, son."

just..AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[inevitably-johnlocked]

hi, honey! do you have any boat/ship fics?

Hi Lovely!!

Here are the fics I have that take place on a Boat or a Ship of some kind! Literally just what I can remember in the moment, PLEASE add more if you guys have them! I've also added fics on my MFL list that have the tags :)

BOATS / SHIPS

Baetica Series by Jberry (E, 17,943 w. across 2 works || Post-S3, Fake Marriage For a Case, Cruise Ship, Homophobic Language, Developing Relationship) – John Watson and Sherlock Holmes must solve a case on a cruise ship. To get close to the crew and passengers, they must get married for the case on the Baetica. However, their relationship hits rocky seas both due to the case and internal conflicts.

The Kepler Problem by kinklock (E, 24,270 w., 1 Ch. || Sci-Fi AU || Alien Sherlock, Space Repairman John, Alien Biology, Horny John) – Working in uncharted space exploration was not as exciting as John had hoped, especially when it turned out to be mostly bot maintenance on uninhabited planets. However, the mystery of the repeated, unexplained malfunctions on planet BAK 2212 might turn out to be exactly the kind of adventure he'd been craving.

SpaceBois go to Space Series by elldotsee (E, 62,028+ w. across 3 works || Series WiP || Astronaut / Space AU || Scientist Sherlock, Biomedical Engineer John, Sherlock is William, Astronauts, Close Quarters, Shy Sherlock, Space Travel, Mutual Pining, Chemistry, Developing Relationship, Minor Injuries, Suicidal Ideation, Whump, Flirting, Angst with Happy Ending, Mars Colonization, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Zero-Gravity Sex, Alternating POV, UST/URT) – Will Holmes is a chemical researcher recognized widely for his contributions to the new Mars exploration program. Thanks to his ground-breaking developments, the IMMC (International Mars Mission Corporation) is one step closer to Martian colonization. Will and his team of scientists are headed out on the first of three manned missions before the first group of settlers arrive. Three days before launch, one of the crew has to be replaced. Will panics because...new people. The replacement is of course one John Watson, biomedical engineer and space hottie who was pretty sure he had retired from actual space exploration and was now content to work in the nice, quiet research lab. Can the crew survive this TOTALLY ROUTINE trip? Will they be able to endure each other for the looooooong trip in close quarters?

A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada & ShinySherlock (E, 125,492 w., 23 Ch. || Historical Pirates AU || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Doctor John / Pirate Captain Sherlock, Sailing, UST / RST, Masturbation, Action / Adventure, Mild Angst & Peril, Romance, Shaving, Molly/Janine, Bottomlock, Hand / Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Slow Burn, Mild Violence, Facial Shaving, Happy Ending) – Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship's surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there's more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin' the eye, he has to choose... is it a pirate's life for him?

MARKED FOR LATER

My, She Was Yar by blueink3 (M, 5,313 w. || Teenlock Cinema AU || Mention of Sex for Drugs, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending) – YAR: adjective; (nautical term, of a sailboat) agile, quick, easily manoeuvred. Or, the exact opposite of what Sherlock Holmes is when he stumbles into John Watson's cinema and turns his life upside down. Part 7 of the Tumblr Prompts series

Below Zero by Calais_Reno (M, 10,912 w., 2 Ch. || End of the World AU || Falling in Love, Antartica, Space Station, Pandemic, Heavy Angst, Loneliness, Love, Hopeful Ending) – 10,000 miles south of London, John Watson sits in a research station in Antarctica. 210 miles above London, Sherlock Holmes is floating in a space station. They are Earth’s only survivors.

Rigging screws, size 1 3/8 inch, galvanised by AJHall (T, 15,250 w., 6 Ch. || Case Fic, Boat Safety) – On the eve of a planned voyage to Brittany, Marjorie Jameson starts her day with no problems more pressing than forcing a boatyard to do an emergency repair to the family yacht. A chance encounter at the Cowes hi-speed ferry terminal begins to unravel a web of conspiracy and murder, with her charming, untrustworthy husband Julian right at the centre and Marjorie as the next intended victim. But no-one's going to trust the word of an aging housewife whose complaints of abuse the police have previously dismissed as delusions.

The One Where Sherlock Doesn’t Ruin John’s Holiday by nutmeag83 (T, 18,898 w., 11 Ch. || Pre-TRF / S2 Timeline, Friends to Lovers, Cruise Ships, Vacation / Holidays, Fake Relationship, For Science, Bed Sharing, Cuddling/Snuggling, Mutual Pining, John POV, Minor Case Fic, Cooking, Dancing, Drunk Shenanigans) – John wins a cruise vacation for two and brings Sherlock along. But when it turns out to be a couples cruise, they have to pretend to be a couple themselves (for science). How many pretend kisses will it take before they can’t deny their feelings any longer?

To Belong Series by DrFish (T, 19,400+ w. across 4 works || Series WiP || Victorian / Mythical AU || OctoJohn, Scientist Sherlock, Attempted Kidnapping, BAMF John, Protective / Possessive John, Developing Relationship, Being Lost, Size Difference, Capital Punishment, Happy Ending) – William Sherlock Scott Holmes failed to graduate the University of Cambridge class of 1877. Adrift in London, he accepts a post as assistant naturalist on a scientific expedition to the Western Pacific Ocean aboard Her Majesty's Sailing Ship Frontier. Events do not proceed quite as planned and Sherlock finds himself cruelly cast away by his shipmates. Perhaps he will find salvation in the company of a most unlikely sea creature.

If I had a boat I would sail to you by Sunnyrea (E, 20,576 w., 1 Ch. || Titanic Fusion) – John is completely different and special from anyone Sherlock would normally come in contact with - no talk of money and hidden family secrets, no surface, superfluous conversations and blatant lies. John was the most honest person in less than five minutes Sherlock has ever met. He wants to know everything else there is to know about John Watson.

A Piece of Eight Series by by KtwoNtwo (T, 30,562+ w. across 5 works || Series WiP || One Piece Space AU || Character Study, Space Pirates) – Mankind has spread out through the galaxy on ships with solar sails and jump drives. Here be tales about a particular sector of the galaxy where the Commonwealth of New Britannia is adjacent to a gravitational anomaly commonly referred to as the Red Line. Avast all ye spacers, batten down the hatches and prepare for interesting weather; its a space AU crossover between One Piece and Sherlock.

Riptide Lover by jinglebell (E, 114,090 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE|| Merfolk & Victorian AU || Mermaid Sherlock, Human John, BAMF John/Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Mild Gore, Dubious Interspecies Consent, Stockholm Syndrome, Dark Romance, Dubcon and Morality, Rough Sex, Abstract Mentions of Rape, Size Queen, Switchlock, Foot Fetish) – The year is 1866. When John becomes swept overboard, he never expects to encounter a living creature of myth. When the merman absconds with John, the lost sailor must use every tool at his disposal to convince Sherlock not to kill him. But it seems that killing John Watson is not what the deadly, beautiful creature has in mind at all...

Over Fathoms Deep by bittergreens (E, 486,840+ w., 61/? Ch. || WiP || Historical / Regency / Sailing AU || Sailor!John / Aristocrat!Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Virgin Sherlock, Sailing, Bottomlock, UST / RST, Hand/Blow Jobs, Frottage, Masturbation, Happy Ending, Anal) – When the youngest son of the aristocratic Holmes family is shipped off to sea in an attempt to cure him of his poor temper and bad manners, he fully expects to spend a long tedious voyage as miserable as ever. What he does not count on is having his heart stolen by the strapping young crewman, John Watson.

[kthynes]

Hii!!! In Husband for Hire in the hearts dilemma, I kinda wondered what happened when Lloyd went to talk to mi Luna? How was she feeling after the whole ordeal with her fathers men and what did he say to her?

to your hearts content

18+

authors note: a follow up to the hearts dilemma. Lloyd struggles with showing true emotional intelligence. He’s a caveman with secrets. In this series, the reader and LH will always be under fire for something and so he has to constantly assure and safeguard mi Luna, even beyond their T&C. But sometimes shit gets past him and even though he’s the most dangerous mobster he still finds it voraciously hard to protect the girl he loves.

This has not been beta’d

Breathing stout and unsteady, it took everything in you to calm down, disbarring the pitiful looks from Maria and the house help who would precariously walk in and out of the suite. Life was coming at you fast, paralyzing you in your tracks.

“She’s not saying much, Mr. Hansen.” Maria finally states from behind the bedroom door. She idles by with Lloyd for a good minute, contemplating their stark indifferences with sullen expectitude.

“Did she eat?” He asks and you hear his genuine concern. Maria shakes her head no. There’s silence that grafts the unknown, proving that little could be said or done.

In Lloyd’s room you were sitting upright in an abandoned lazy boy, knees drawn close to your chest, hair sopping wet while recollecting a near death experience. Your father knew. He knew you were playing games. Figuratively sleeping with the enemy. Fear was insolvent so were the many wire transfers that kept you in the clear.

“I’ll take care of her tonight.” Lloyd wagers and after a few short words in exchange, Maria’s pointed feet scurried down the hallway. Lloyd sucks in a deep breath and raps at the door, honoring his presence while coming into yours.

“Mi Luna?”

Radio silence. Nothing. Cujo, who protectively lays by your feet, perks his head up when Lloyd decides to enter the room, uninvited. “Sweetheart…” He tenderly coaxes from the crux of his own despair. Your glassy eyes meet his, following a painful proclamation that leaves your lips.

“This is getting way out of hand, Lloyd.” The madness was maddening. You were lucky to be unscathed this time around but the chances were a gamble. There wouldn’t be a next time. Lloyd made sure of it with rigor.

“I know and it won’t get any easier but I promise you that I—“

“See the thing is I want to trust you but I don’t.” You disassociate and the man you felt guarded from was crumbling, yearning to be your everything when all you did tactfully was shut him out. “Promises mean nothing to me.”

“I have you in my home, under my guise. You are my fight, my first, my last and my everything.” He confesses, Sebastian’s words are rearing him to be impassioned and truthful. “I saw what I needed to see today and with utmost conviction, I will not let your father take you away from me.”

Your brows beetle together, discernible digression takes form. He says what he means and means what he says.

“Are you in love with me Lloyd Hansen?”

He’s bludgeoned with disbelief, standing right before you and away from Cujo who wonders the same. Like mother like pup.

“Love is a choice and a feeling that I don’t feel.” He glumly adds, concealing his true feelings that gnaw at him to be amorous. “I’m only owing favours here.”

“Of course.” You scoff, remembering the initial plan.

“Now come down. Let’s eat.”

A part of you is hurt by his dismissive tendency. But time would reveal his whole hand to you and you’ll just have to wait till then. Because if there’s one thing most certain, it’s the fact that Lloyd was a no good liar, a harping lover and someone who’d look to you as his forever. You don’t miss his aim nor his intention. That look in his eye told you everything you needed to confirm.