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charnelhouse · 2 years ago

Note

I feel like Joel would be best at ‘you almost got yourself killed and I’m so angry at you but I love you also’ fucking

A/N: Joel Miller x F!Reader. Lack of CPR knowledge. Smut. Hypothermia. I used this gif bc he looks really fucking hot ok

Joel dreams of you often. He doesn’t tell you this, refuses to admit it as if the confession of dreams would somehow weaken his defenses. In the foggy, wooly vortex of sleep, he sees you:

Dead.

Broken.

Covered in spores.

It irritates him. He has learned the brutal, ragged details of loss and having nightmares about the girl he’s fucking is not good. It means that some tiny unconscious piece of him fears for you-to lose you would sting. It is a chip in his armor. A weakness.

He lies in his makeshift bed as he stares up at a ceiling speckled with moss and water damage. You’re curled against him, bare ass snug against his thigh. He takes deep pulls from a bottle of dust and whiskey. Between his legs, his cock is soft and damp from fucking you into the mattress. His back smarts from your nails and he doesn’t understand how their sex is so aggressive and yet he finds you in his head afterward. He’s fucked countless people. Never cared. It’s his psyche that worries about you when it should be flat, pulse-less and numb in the dark.

His gaze slides to you sleeping beside him. Your face is buried in the sweatshirt serving as a pillow, your mouth parted around steady, even breathing. Swamped in moonlight, you’re beautiful—the kind of beauty that would get you killed or worse out there. That’s why I keep, right? Some leftover smugness at having someone like you with someone like me?

He leans over your body, the bottle swishing its dregs of old whisky. With gentle fingers, he maneuvers your hair away from your face, he touches your lower lip before abruptly pulling away.

Not good.

***

Being who he is, Joel keeps fucking you. He tries to be a little meaner—colder—but he’s not man enough to release you in order to find someone less complicated to warm his bed.

You stick by him like a barnacle. A very pearly one. Smooth and shiny.

“We have things to do,” he declares one morning, the slip of red dawn drifting over your skin from the narrow window.

“Alright,” you murmur as you roll out of bed and shove on your jeans.

You don’t complain or whine, which he hates. He’d love for you to backtalk him. He’d die for an ounce of sass or bitchiness, but you’re too fucking smart for that. You know what it costs. You know that he’ll use it against you and then chastise you for wastin’ time because this is what they do now. This is how the world works.

Someone took something from us and I intend to get it back.

Us.

When did it become us?

Fuck.

***

They follow the road at the edge of the forest. The woods stink of loam–sweet and dark. The first snow has powdered the ground.

The cold is wicked, binding his limbs together and reminding him of his age. He’s not really that old. It’s only been eight years since the outbreak (his birthday).

“I hate winter,” you grumble, the subtle evidence of your frustration that you’ve been forced out here to begin with. Most of the time, he thinks he should keep you at his place when he runs these missions, but he’s decided that you’re safer with him. He doesn’t miss the way the creepy old fucks look at you and there’s no such thing as locks. Not now. Not here.

“Fuck!” you yelp and Joel hears your boots skid, knee cracking on asphalt. “Shit. Shitt.”

“C’mon,” he grunts, not even looking. He doesn’t want to. He thinks that if he sees you in pain, he’ll go to you.

You curse a few more times before your footsteps sound again.

You catch up to him with alarming speed, casting him a violent glare. “What if I’d broken something?”

“I’d come back for you after I handle the Waltons.”

“Sure,” you reply flatly. “Probably drag me back home by my ankle.”

His lips twitch. They’re making good time, maneuvering rapidly through the dense woods toward the lake. His adrenaline is spiking, his fingers curling as he prepares himself for the inevitable fight. “Hardly, sweetheart,” he replies. “I’d wrap a rope around your waist—pull you that way.”

“Cruel.”

“You’ve always known that, darlin’.”

“You’re–”

He freezes and then abruptly grabs you before pulling you against a tree. One of the Waltons is outside their cabin, chopping wood. Behind him, the smoke puffs from the chimney. Black-gray against the too-blue sky.

“We wait until he goes inside,” he whispers against your ear. You’re bleeding-hot and his hand is secured right under your breast. Surprisingly, your heart pulses at an easy rhythm. You aren’t scared or nervous. You’re calm as can be and really that’s probably why he keeps you around.

And maybe the sex.

***

It’s fucked. The whole damn thing.

Joel is covered in blood, two fingers definitely broken. The man on top of him has him in a chokehold and he’s shoving back against him, trying to find some leverage to flip him over.

He hasn’t heard you for a minute and when he lifts his head, he sees one of the Walton boys—the greasy, blonde one—pinning you against the dock. You’re too far away from Joel as he watches you kick and spit like a feral cat.

You don’t call for him. You don’t scream his name or beg him for help and it’s because you’re too fucking proud and you probably think he’d get fucking mad at you or something, which isn’t the case.

So, he shouts your name. Why? He doesn’t know. It bursts out of him as the head Walton punches him in the ribs.

“Ss’fine,” you yell back and then the sun catches the silver blade of your pocket knife. It flashes once before disappearing and the blonde Walton squeals.

Thatta girl, he thinks. The expression feels tender—sweet with pride and he’s so caught up in watching you stab the kid that he doesn’t realize what’s going on until it’s too late.

The blonde snags your jacket and rolls you both into the frigid lake.

Joel doesn’t think. He may have roared or bellowed, but he wouldn’t know. He can’t recall. Instead, he plants his hands and snaps his head back into his attacker’s nose. It cracks. Splatters. He feels heat on his scalp and in his hair. The weight on him is gone and he twists, finding his knife a few feet away in the snow. He snatches the handle, flips it and plunges the blade forward. It goes through the guy’s chest—finds bone. He rips it back and does it again. A third time in a more vulnerable spot beneath the bastard’s jaw. There’s blood on his face, but he can’t worry about that now.

He runs to the lake.

***

“C’mon, girl,” he whispers frantically as he performs CPR. Your lips are cold as a fish belly. Your lashes wet and stuck together in clumps. He presses against your chest so hard that he worries he’ll break a rib.

You weren’t even under that long.

He pumps and then pinches your nose and breathes into your mouth. C’mon. C’mon. C’mon.

You twitch. Yes. You choke. Better.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he urges.

Your eyes fly open as you sputter, coughing up icy lake water that dampens Joel’s jeans. Relieved, he sighs, placing his hands on your shoulders to keep you from moving too quickly. His fingers have begun to smart, the knuckles swelling to purple.

He’s not sure what to say as you blink up at him—incredulous and a little frightened. WIthout thinking, he darts down and kisses you hard. It might not even be considered a kiss. Just an angry collision of teeth and a hint of tongue. He tries to warm your mouth with his own before pulling away. He didn’t intend to do that.

“Joel?” you rasp, lids drooping heavily.

“You almost died,” he states in a flat voice. Should he comfort you? Reassure you that you’re fine? He’s not sure how to do that. He’d done it before with Sarah, but–

He shudders, stuffing that thought somewhere he’ll not touch.

“J-Joel.” Your teeth are chattering in your mouth. Your eyes slightly unfocused. “Mm cold.”

“Well,” he replies matter-of-factly. “We can go in the cabin and figure that out.”

He says this like you couldn’t potentially die of hypothermia.

***

Inside the house, a fire still burns. It’s orange-yellow as a Texas peach and his mouth instinctively waters. He hasn’t had fresh fruit in a long ass time.

Your fingers are curled into his shirt, your cheek pressed flat to his chest. You’re freezing—stiff and unyielding as a corpse. He places you on the rug in front of the fire before scouring the house for blankets and sheets. When he finds them, he makes a nest on the floor and then crouches down behind you to rub your shoulders.

It doesn’t seem to do much because you’re still trembling. Your hair is soaked and your clothes–

Jesus. He’s a fucking idiot.

“Lift your arms,” he murmurs, but you keep on shaking, seemingly unable to move them. He does it for you. He gets your jeans off, mindful of the areas where bruises will begin to form. “Did he hurt you?”

“S’nothing-g bad.” Your words are staggering into each other like you’re drunk. Not an ideal sign.

He scrubs a hand over his face, his beard. He exhales sharply as he watches you stammer and ripple like a ribbon in the wind.

He’s on his knees in front of you—staring like a damn fool. “What do you need?”

Your hands fumble in the blankets, your expression puzzled. Shit. What are the symptoms of hypothermia? Confusion? Exhaustion?

He says your name softly and you make a broken noise that startles him.

He doesn’t know how to provide you reassurance. He understands actions. He understands pleasure. Isn’t the best way to heat someone up through skin contact?

He wrenches his jacket off before finding the hem of his shirt and tugging it over his head . He unbuckles his belt, shimmies out of his pants. You stare up at him, your eyes glassy and red.

“Skin to skin,” he explains and when he opens his arms, you fall into them. You press yourself against him, curling your cold body inward as he attempts to cover you with his own. He strokes your arms, legs and waist. He maneuvers you around so that he can press his front to your torso. He grips your thigh and hauls it over his hip before pulling the musty blankets over them. He doesn’t want to think about how unwashed they probably are, but they don’t have a choice.

He settles as you relax against him. Your heart pounds a brush faster than before. Good.

“Rest,” he instructs. “You’re okay.”

It’s the best he can do.

***

It takes a few hours for you to return to yourself. You pull away so you can stare up at him. He tips his chin to hold your gaze, his hand finds your cheek. “You almost died,” he says and, suddenly, he thinks of the dreams he’s had. He thinks of you gone from him, vanishing into the dark where he can’t find you.

He’d saved you today, but the next time? Surely, there would be a next time and—

“Thank you.” You lean into his touch, nuzzling your nose into the creases of his palm. Not as distressed as he would like.

“You almost died,” he repeats. “I could fucking kill you.”

Your eyes widen. “Why?”

“It was a stupid move.”

You frown. “Was there another option I had?”

“You could’ve not come with me.”

Your tongue darts across your lower lip as you lift an eyebrow. “Ah–so really this is about you.”

Of course it damn well is. It’s always him. He can’t afford you getting yourself stabbed or beaten or drowned.

“I could kill you,” he growls as he grips your hips and flips you on your back, eliciting a yelp from your lungs. He wedges himself between your thighs, sliding his mouth over your puckered nipple and then your belly.

You wiggle, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist.

He kisses the scar beneath your ribs and then the top of your cunt. He licks the warm crease between your folds just to tease you before he climbs back up.

He plants his arms on either side of your head as he bears his weight above your body. He’s hard, his cock full and bobbing against his belly. He feels your small hand drift over his hip, the wiry hairs at his groin before it wraps firmly around his shaft. It jumps in your hand, desperate for you in a way he doesn’t mean to show.

“You can kill me,” you whisper and he drops his head to capture your lips. He thrusts his tongue into your mouth, slipping it behind your teeth. It’s a wet kiss–dirty and panicked and i fucking hate you so much because it’s so damn obvious that i don’t. You give him an experimental stroke, thumb pressing into the head. He grunts, jerking forward.

“I want to feel you,” he confesses and it’s the most honest thing he can say here. Not i don’t want to see you dead ever. Not i really care about you.

Just feel.

You smile sweetly before guiding him into the molten suction of your pussy. It takes nothing for him to claim you. He sinks inside, straight to the hilt. He shoves his hips forward so that you’re forced to take all of him. Even when he’s buried balls deep, he leans on his arms, one hand clasping the top of your skull so he can push further. Your nails bite into his ass. You arch.

“Fuck,” you rasp, breath hitching. “Fuck–oh my god.”

They’re sealed together. Breasts crushed to his chest. Stomachs flattened. He uses his thighs to spread legs wider. He pins you there, enjoying the way your heart snaps against your ribs as if it could buffer his own.

“Thatta girl,” he coaxes, managing to plunge deeper. Something low vibrates in his throat. Something half-human. He can’t breathe, overwhelmed by the scent and feel of you, and so he sits aback on his heels, grips your knees and forces them against your tits. “You gonna take it for me?”

Your eyes roll back, cunt contracting around him. “Yes.”

Not loud enough. He spanks you between your legs, right against the tender flesh wrapped around his cock. It hurts both of them. You whine and reach for him. Yes. Yes. Yes. Joel. Please.

He eases himself out to the tip before driving forward. The force knocks you up the floor, causing your back to scrape against the wooly blankets. Another sharp thrust that punches a gasp from your throat. You shut your eyes, holding your legs open for him as he continues. It’s rough in its own way. Not the worst he’s done, but his strokes are deliberate and powerful. He fucks you hard enough that he can hear it. The slick noises that accompany every stab of his cock.

He has half a mind to say what he’s trying to through sex. When he’s nearing the end, he lowers himself over you, broken fingers pinching your chin. The pain in his hand welcome, adding a bite to the act itself. “Look at me,” he murmurs and you open your eyes. He fucks you and fucks you and every slam of his hips makes your lashes flutter. “Look, darlin’.”

“What?” you hiss because he’s taunting you –holding you firmly over the edge and shit–he loves that about you. When push comes to shove, you’ll make it known when you’re pissed. He loves the fact that you never screamed for him as you tried to save yourself. He hates it and loves it and he’s really fucked up.

He swallows hard before pressing their foreheads together. “You won’t do that again,” he warns.

“Do what?”

Another perfunctory snap of his cock.

“Fuck–Joel.”

You’re shuddering in his arms, walls spasming around him. You’re one screaming nerve of sensation. You almost died.

“You won’t do it.”

You say nothing. Instead, you nod as you tighten around him, heels digging into his lower back. He’s certain you know what he means. He just didn’t want to say it out loud.

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utterlyazriel · 9 months ago

Text

whom the shadows sing for— (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: it's time for some more ✨trauma�� time to learn ur own backstory tehe <3 feel free to let me know what you think or any future... predictions... you think might be coming...

word count: 3.3k

synopsis: Azriel leaves for Velaris. You reflect on old choices and everything that you lead you to where you are now— and realise it's been awhile since you had anyone to miss. fem!reader, mulan-esque au

—CHAPTER THREE :: COMPANIONS

There's a girl screaming in the middle of camp.

Anguish, a pure guttural agony, litters her voice. She's shrieking, screaming herself hoarse, tortured cries piercing the air as a piece of her identity is ripped from her forcibly. The scream that you know only follows a wing clipping.

Fear rolls through your body, seizing every nerve til your limbs lock up. Your stomach lurches, nausea swimming and threatening to choke up your throat. The screams dive beneath your very skin and make a home there, unbidden.

The screaming isn't stopping and you acutely notice that you're crying because of it, big fat tears rolling down your face as though you're the one in pain, unable to quieten her suffering, because... because...

Because the girl is you.

The girl is you and they had found out somehow and they had come, they had held you down and taken the knife between your wings and starting slicing through muscle and sinew and it fucking hurts, it hurts so much—

A ragged gasp rips from your throat at the slice down your back.

You wake you with a violent twitch.

Your dagger is in your hand in an instant, stored beneath your pillow, always within reach. The cool leather beneath it is a comfort as your senses search blindly for any threat. The rabbiting sound of your heart looms in your ears and you keenly strain your ears to try listen over it.

A threat? An intruder? You're looking for anything hidden in the darkness, while your senses are still swamped by your nightmare. The effects of it are melting away too slowly. Your breath comes too fast.

Shadows loom. You're not sure what is fear is still lingering from the dream and what is real instinct, kicking in to protect yourself.

Worse is, your suspicions are not at all unwarranted.

Around you, the space is still. Dead air trapped within your shelter.

Outside, the howl of the Mother's Kiss sounds again, the rattling wind against the windows somehow grounding you into your home. You're in your home. You're not out in the middle of camp, not held onto that horrid stained piece of earth where all the clippings take place.

You're tucked away in your space, hidden beneath your secret still.

Your chest heaves rapidly, dregs of panic still running through your system. You force yourself to inhale slowly, blinking slowly and letting your eyes adjust to the night. It's still dark.

It's nighttime and you've had a night terror and you're still safe, still just like any other male in the camp.

Behind you, you give your wings a little shiver, just to check.

Still there, still working in every capacity. The relief that pours through you soothes like a balm, heady and overwhelming. You release a shaky breath and curl your knees up to your chest, wings cocooning around yourself.

The nightmares, this nightmare, has been unrelenting for as many years as you can remember. Well, since...

Since twenty six years ago, when you had made a very difficult choice.

Perhaps the only time you'll ever be thankful for being a bastard in this camps is when it had granted you the privacy to make such a choice. Nobody cares if a bastard child dies, male or otherwise.

It had made you dispensable and therefore, unnoticeable.

Nobody noticed when one more begging child, one more hungry face, went missing. And certainly nobody paid any mind when one more turned up again — hair cut down to the scalp, bleeding in places from the shoddy cut, and a gritty determination in their eyes.

No, in fact, the only time people started noticing you was when you started tasting the mixture of blood and dirt, knocked down in a fight you knew you had no chance of winning.

You had started it. Pushed your way into the group of boys and shoved one, hard. Fought back as best you could with half formed fists that quickly got pushed into the mud and held there as the boy you shoved wailed on you, hit after hit after hit.

By the time he had been pulled off you, your mouth was a river of blood and your face ached in a way you had never felt before.

The very bone of your skull felt bruised. Your nose was definitely broken. You wanted to cry but even scrunching your face up hurt too much. It was impossible to think anything beyond pure pain.

The group of boys were sneering as they left you in a crumpled heap on the ground, kicking mud in your direction and hissing the word bastard.

But not one mention of you being anything other than that.

Just a bastard. No slighted comment at being a female, at not being worthy of a fight for that reason.

In the Illyrian Mountains, being a bastard gave you very little in the manner of food, things, and choices. If you managed to survive past childhood, that is.

If you could scrape around for food to fill a belly that never seemed to stop growling and manage not succumb to icy embrace of the winter in the mountains, there was very little waiting for you. Even less so, if you weren't a male.

Males, at the very least, could fight for a sliver of something better.

And wasn't that just the Illyrian way? If you can fight, if you can beat and claw your way to the top, it's worth something. It's the only way to gain respect. To earn it, even when you came from nothing.

For you? Living past childhood would mean getting your greatest love torn from you.

You had seen half a dozen clippings before the age of eight. It was said that other camps littered throughout Illyria tended to be more gracious. Did it in private. Healers on hand. No excessive force.

But you'd believe that when you saw it — clippings were brutal.

Females having experienced their first blood were dragged out into the middle of camp, some kicking and screaming, others a ghostly quiet. Everybody watched and nobody stepped in, no matter the pleas.

You, no older than eight years old, had stared at the bloody patch left on the ground til your vision had blurred. It was crimson, mixing with the dirt of the earth. Beneath it was this horrid scorched brown colour.

Old blood.

The final straw for you had been Adesi— Lord Mylind's own daughter. You're not sure when or why some part of your had become convinced that she might be spared. That because her father held rank and could bend certain rules, that she might escape the fate you so feared for yourself.

She hadn't. Lord Mylind had done the clipping himself.

And she hadn't cried or fussed. There hadn't been a struggle, just this soft weeping as she kept her eyes on the ground, every pained sound that passed her lips lined with a bitter resignation of knowing this was always coming.

It had stoked a simmering ember within you — a furiously upset flame that burned hotter and hotter, til you were trembling with the force of it. Forced to watch yet another girl stripped of her freedom. Polished up for breeding stock.

If Adesi wouldn't be spared, neither would you. The future, you could see, was growing impossibly bleaker and would continue down that path if nothing radical appeared to change its course.

You had cut your hair that same very night.

It was a shit job. Trying to get it as short as you could manage without a mirror or proper tools to do so proved incredibly difficult. The lack of proper shelter didn't help either.

Bandages you were stock-piling for Mother knows what were used to bind your chest. Then you spent the rest of the night time scouring the mountain-side for those bitter herbs on the mere hope that the rumour that they would keep you from bleeding held an inkling of truth.

The next day had been the day you got into your very first fight.

The first of many. Lord Mylind didn't take kindly to bastards, especially when you paled in comparison to the size of the other novices. You had been refused to be allowed to join training the first time you had tried, his cold eyes narrowed with a cruel curl of his upper lip.

But you had, perhaps, what no one else did.

No other way forward. No other choice.

Every part of you that yearned to keep your beautiful wings, to keep your freedom, your autonomy, was channeled into your intense drive. You would not be so easily dissuaded.

You trained day and night, working up weak muscles til they hardened beneath your skin. Without proper training, it was nowhere near as efficient as it could've been. There was no-one there to soothe the aches of your growing pains, nor the sores that came with hitting the ground time and time again as you honed the balance and fluidity of your body.

A season passed. Your drive did not falter— not when half a dozen more females got clipped in that same period. A wedge drove itself between your ribs, attempting to crack open your chest; a heavy guilt at what they experienced... what you could not yet prevent.

It pushed you to train harder than before.

It took seven whole months of solitary training before Lord Mylind reluctantly allowed you to join the ranks— forced to when you disarmed and wiped the floor with Brudam in the ring to prove yourself.

By that time, the list of clipped females had climbed to nearly fifty. You kept track of every single one, forty-eight notches carved into your soul for every person you failed to protect from a terrible fate.

It killed you having to bide your time.

To train alongside the males of the camp who detested you as they did any such bastard. To hear their uncaring jeers of the clippings as they flaunted their own wings proudly. There was no shortage of things to stoke the fire within you, fury burning through every cell in your body. There was no distraction from the ultimate goal.

But between Lord Mylind's abysmal training, geared specifically at you, the purposeful way other warriors wouldn't hesitate to kick you while you were down, and having nobody else in your corner, you had no other choice.

Routines formed. Train. Eat. Train. Scrounge for ingredients, for knowledge, anything on healing tonics. Fail miserably at making anything. Chew the bitter herbs. Train. Sleep. Wake. Train.

Loneliness became a familiar companion.

Every creak in the dark was a potential threat that came looking to see if they could knock the unwelcome bastard out of the ranks. You learned to not just how to duel, but how to brawl and win. To fight dirty. To come out as unscathed as possible.

Your first bleed did eventually come, bitter leaves be damned.

They had done a decent job. They had given you a few crucial years to establish yourself as a worthy fighter, not to be messed with, and enough time to build the shelter you now called home.

It had been a saving grace. If you had been out and exposed, if any of the males in town came sniffing for a fight and felt entitled enough to challenge you, the lie that kept you safe would've come tumbling down like a house of cards.

All those years turned to ash. Wasted. For nothing.

And the only thing that terrified you more than that was... what you were certain they would inflict upon you if they ever found out.

In some of your worst nightmares, they do much worse than just clip you. They take them from you— saw them from your back, splintering bone and tearing muscle, not caring if you cry or scream — not caring if you die.

Around you, your wings give a shiver as if they could feel the ghost of pain that still lurked from your nightmare. You curl them up tighter around you. A blanket of softness, of warmth, finally breaks the chill on your skin.

Routine was easy. Your terror was manageable based on the familiarity of your life. The fact that you had nobody to lean on meant everything, every pillar of comfort, of tough love, of the extra push when you needed it, came from within.

Slipping away from training to deal with the excruciating agony of your cycle was a necessity, even if it pained you to do so. Avoidance of the Blood Rite was born from that too. It was too great a risk— too much time spent that you couldn't ever be sure wouldn't overlap with your cycle.

Besides, you already had the biggest target on your back — the label of bastard giving you more than your fair share of enemies.

They would hunt you down on the first night. That you had no doubt about. The killing would be slow and merciless. To you, the Blood Rite was just another brand of nightmares.

All this dread had become second-nature, stitched into the fabric of your angry and miserable life which seemed to exist against all odds. You were cursed with an ambition that would not let you rest. A compassion that drove you to keep training, to help others more than just yourself.

You were singular. A lone ranger who relied on nothing but your own instincts to keep getting you through the day.

You were solitary. You were lonely.

And yet, within the last month, something else had barrelling into your life and altered its course.

A Shadowsinger.

A Shadowsinger with hazel eyes that dance with mirth and a rueful smile that comes out far too easily for the battle-hardened soldier you know him to be. He's a conundrum. A mentor and a damn hard-ass when it came to training but also someone you could trust.

Calling him a friend felt too close.

A tenative ally, perhaps. A companion, even.

And the fact you can trust him — the fact that you do trust him — is perhaps the biggest change of them all.

All of your routines have been suddenly altered.

Because now, unlike ever before, there's someone there in the morning. Someone to notice your absences. To come looking when it takes longer to drag yourself out of fitful sleep. To comment on the circles under your eyes and roll back the punches accordingly.

He brings the things you need, a sudden plentiful stash of ingredients you wouldn't have dreamed of affording. The good stuff that makes a difference in the potency of a healing tonic. In turn, your feeble attempts at concocting have begun to produce far more useful results.

He brings food too.

No point in all this training if you look like your bones will snap. He had said, almost dismissively as he summoned the abundance of food from within that pocket in the shadow realm. You had been too startled by that alone to question how much he had brought with him.

A fucking feast. Enough food to last you at least half the year, if you stretched it.

Some withered, bitter part of you had shriveled up when you saw it. Your mouth watered and your stomach ached and yet still, you couldn't help how you snapped at him.

I don't want your pity.

Azriel had leveled you with a stare, his shadows roaming about his shoulders like wisps of smoke. He tilted his head to the side an inch, as if trying to pick apart the reasoning for you being so standoffish.

It's not a handout. It's part of our deal. Like I said, there's no point training you if you're starving all the while.

You bristled as his tone, even if there wasn't a hint of condescension to it. It was strong and sure.

When you still hadn't moved, Azriel had spoken once more. It's okay. To eat. I understand that generosity is not something you are familiar with but not eating will not help any of them. Getting stronger will.

He had spoken as if he knew that exact reservation on your mind — the sheer unfairness of having a platter served up to gorge yourself sick on, when so many others... So many others had nothing.

Eat. Azriel had murmured, turning for the door. He had paused just like he had on that first ever night, one scarred hand on the door. Please.

A particularly loud whirl of the Mother's Kiss outside shakes you from the memory.

You blink hard. Your wings twitch and curl in even closer as you realise you've been looking at the door. Looking at where he had stood all those nights ago.

That conversation had been in the first week of knowing Azriel. Back when you were still so wary it was impossible to not raise your hackles when he came knocking at your door, no matter how friendly he had seemed. Friendly, but not harmless you knew.

It took time to stop being constantly on guard around him. But if your lack of trust and general frostiness bothered Azriel, he never let you know.

And now... now you've known him for nearly a month.

A month of routine with him in it. With sparring in the morning, tiring yet rewarding drills beneath the winter sun, and quiet conversations in the evenings, his hazel eyes competing with the crackling fire with how they set your heart ablaze. A month of companionship.

A month, the first month in years, not spent entirely alone.

In the cool night air, knees pulled to your chest, something tugs at your throat at the knowledge he won't be back in the morning.

Last night, after an evening spent in comfortable company where you finally heard him laugh for the first time ever and nearly melted at the sound, he had told you he would be returning to Velaris.

Temporarily, he added on hastily at the flash of surprise in your eyes.

Business with the High Lord. Reports and assessments to deliver. I's to dot and t's to cross.

He assured you he would be back in a day or two, certainly no more than three. He had left ample food and generous tonic ingredients, with all the assurances to continue practicing during the evening.

With no Azriel, you had no reason to avoid training with the rest of camp.

Maybe that was why this particular nightmare had plagued you tonight. Something curdled up in your gut at the thought of returning to your old routine— another part relishes in how you will get to stand your ground as a better, hardier warrior now. To prove yourself worthy of the specialty training you were receiving.

You huff out a small sigh in the dark.

There's no telling what time it is. You force yourself to sit back, easing back into your bed gently til you're lying back under the makeshift duvet you have. It's moth-eaten and seen better days. You snuggle beneath it anyway.

It's been a long time since you've missed anyone, you think forlornly.

The thought surprises you. Staring at the ceiling, your brows furrow and you close your eyes but the truth of it rings clear throughout your very being. Undeniable.

The Shadowsinger has somehow wiggled into your life, burrowed into your routine and has begun to mean something to you. And when he's gone, you... miss him.

Your eyes flash back open, glaring up at the ceiling, and you huff as if that will change that fact.

Rolling over, you pull the duvet in closer, your arms tucking into your chest snugly. Your bed is a bit too small for someone with wings and they ache because of it. Sleep trickles back into your system, dragging your lids down.

As you fall into sleep, some part of you realises, faintly, that you haven't had anyone to miss in a long, long, time.

This time when you dream, it’s of hazel eyes.

[NEXT PART: FRIENDS]

—

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover @waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco @iamjimintrash @maeandering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee @viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13 @bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

#i hope that even tho there's no interactions this chapter u still enjoy it!!! well there is but they're all in the past #just think.... at some point all this horrible backstory... is gonna have to come out #im vibrating in my seat thinking about writing the scene where he figures it out #GAWSH im so excited for it!!#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel acotar #azriel fic #azriel fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #acotar #azriel fanfic

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impala-dreamer · 3 months ago

Text

So, yesterday... I died (almost)

No, seriously.

I've been powerwashing the house... back patio/back deck/sidewalk, etc... yesterday, I wanted to move the machine upstairs to my side deck where the birds hang out. I move the machine to the front of the house, and some of the hose was wrapped around a shrubbery... so I go to untangle it...

And was instantly stung by a bee.

Ok... no biggie.

Then another. Then one on my forehead... then I was swamped by the entire nest. And stung by like 12 bees.

....

I'm not allergic so I'm not worried, just pissed. I run inside, take my shirt off, deal with the bees and take stock. I'm OK, but lemme go take a benadryl anyway. I have one on my nightstand. I go get it and take it to the bathroom bc I'm gonna shower anyway, so I turn on the water and try to open the blister pack of benadryl. My hands start shaking and I can't open it. No way will it open. I start getting dizzy like I'm going to faint (I have a fainting condition so I know the early signs) so I'm like.. ok... if you're gonna have to sit down. And the shower has a seat. So I strip and go into the shower, sit down.

Normally, cold water stops the fainting so I'm like... this is a good idea.

It didn't help. Ok. I'm gonna faint, go lower. So I sat on the shower floor and I'm in the water and

Passed out.

Woke up disoriented, still in the shower. Ok. Get up.

Passed out.

Again. Get up and get out of the shower.

This went on for apparently, 35 mins of me losing consciousness and trying to climb out of the shower to call for help.

Finally, my brain is like.. if you don't get out of the shower you are dying here. So I'm talking outloud to myself as I crawl out of the shower unable to stand or really move my legs. (Btw.. 5 inch shower ledge to crawl over) I somehow get out, slide the phone off the counter, and text my brother 911. (Hubby at work). Then, I lay down kinda twisted on the floor like a chalk outline and keep talking to myself.

Bro comes in... freaks out...

Then the next 40mins are a blurr, but the cops came... 2 shots of epipen, and oxygen before the ambulance got there.

Another shot of epi, a shot of benadryl, another tank of oxygen...

My BP was 57/14.

They couldn't let me sit up even or I'd instantly pass out. Not that I could move.

So they carried me on some sheet thing out of the house, downstairs, into ambulance.

Apparently there were 4 cop cars and 3 ambulances on my lawn...

They got me in and couldn't start driving until they stabilized me..

I started major convulsing bc of all the adrenaline. Like full seizure shaking bad. They couldn't find any veins on me bc small veins and BP deathly low... so we were on my lawn for a while trying to get me ok enough to move.

Finally, I joked "you want me to drive?" Proving that my comedy is pure and part of me, even while on my literal deathbed. ;)

So we got me another shot of benadryl and a shot of steriods...

Drove 20 mins to the closest hospital ... bc I live in the middle of nowhere...

Guy calls in "critical incoming"... which is never great to hear.

We pull in and the hospital guys meeting us looks at me and says "you officially have the lowest blood pressure I have ever heard of on a living person."

Gee thanks! Let's fix this!

So I spent the next 5? Hours in the e.r. critical section hooked up to wires and ivs and ekgs and oxygen.

In the end I had 3 shots of epipen. 3 benadryl shots. Steroids. 2 bags of fluid. 4 panic attacks. 3 tanks of oxygen.

And a hospital turkey sandwich.

So... yeah, if I hadn't talked myself out of the shower with the dregs of my strength and will to not die naked on my shower floor...

I'd be dead.

I'm feeling a ton better today but still not good. I am on the couch and not gonna move.

Also having some theological thoughts about the lack of diving intervention or feeling of godly care.

Basically, my life was saved by myself, my brother, that cop, and Madision and John, my e.m.t.s.

Hope you are all doing better than I am lol

Happy Sunday 💖

#personal #near death experience #apparently im allergic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 months ago

Text

Same as it ever was 10

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as neglect, bullying, manipulation, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Between your home life and work, you just can’t catch a break. Especially after you draw the ire of your boss.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen ft. Pete Brenner

Note: need a little time to figure out don't speak so here ya are.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your dreams are muddied with the dregs of your reality. You wade through the swamp of waking horrors mutated by the nonsensical hues of your subconscious. Your escape is less than happy as you open your eyes to stare at the basement ceiling. The water stain there is just another latent trouble waiting to implode.

The most potent reminder of the utter disarray if your life isn't the heaps of laundry waiting by the machine or the steady drip from the old wash sink. It's the violent pang radiating from your tailbone, another tenderly throbbing by your shoulder blade. The mortifying scene plays in your mind; Pete's obtuse come on and your own bitter and insecure rejection.

Your morning routine is made more tedious by your condition. Every move is tinged in torment and the kids seem unexpectedly rambunctious. Or maybe you just can't keep up with them.

You get them packed up and in the car. You were so swept up, you didn't even get your morning coffee. It's not as if you'd expected this day to go any smoother than the last. Thankfully, you don’t run into your husband.

School drop off is just as hectic, ominous if anything. You tell Simone to take Malik inside for you as you stay behind the wheel.

“Are you okay?” She asks, ever observative. Why does she have to be so smart? Hopefully, she stays that way.

“Good, just had a late night,” you assure her, “I’ve got a big… meeting this morning.”

“Yeah, dad said something about a promotion,” she unbuckles her seat belt and sidles over to unclasp Malik from his seat.

“Do you need help, honey?” You ask, steeling yourself at the idea of getting out of the car.

“I got it,” she insists. “Are you going to work late again?”

“I… don’t think so,” you answer tenuously.

“Oh,” is all she can utter. She gets Malik out and grabs both their bookbags. “Come on,” she tugs on his hand as he opens her door.

“Love you guys,” you say.

“Love you, mommy!” Malik sings.

“Yeah, love ya too,” Simone mutters then huffs at Malik, “hurry up. I wanna read before class.”

She shuts the door, a bit heavier than you expect, and you watch them until they get to the front doors, meeting the other clusters of students and parents. You inhale and turn forward, flicking your lashes as your eyes burn. Your back is on fire with pain, but worse, your heart is a pit of agony. You feel your family crumbling all around you.

A pair of headlights flash in your rear view and you shift into gear and slowly roll away from the pick up area. You grip the wheel tight and wiggle your nose, resisting the hot wall of tears trembling in your head. You don’t know what to do, there’s nothing to do but keep going. Things will change, they always do.

You watch the time as you drive to work. You pull into the lot and click the button on your seat belt, letting it repel as you lean back. Oh god, the hardest part, getting out. With each second, you feel worse. So what? Some bruises? You’ve dealt with worse.

You open the door and snatch your bag from the other seat. You turn sideways, bag on your elbow, as you grip the side of the car and the steering wheel and push yourself to your feet. You smother a yelp to a whimper. Your legs shake with the pain hammering in your tailbone.

You lean on the door as you close it. You take another deep breath, this one racks you torturously. You set your feet and limp along the side of the building in your beat up Keds. No heels or flats, you need support.

You nearly fall into the elevator, relieved to be alone for the ride up. You lean on the wall and watch the floor light up one at a time. You hobble off, holding your lower back. It’s not an unusual sight. Your hips have been fucked up since your second pregnancy.

You limp past your desk as you keep your morning task in mind. You just want it done and over with. Then you can sit in the ungodly office chair and try not to break.

You’ve never been so thankful for the apathy of your coworkers. Hansen trained them well. They know to only worry about themselves and their work. The exemplar of capitalistic character.

You approach Hansen’s office door. To your surprise, it’s unlocked. You let yourself in, not bothering to make sure you’re unseen. Who gives a fuck anymore? He is hardly the beacon of discretion.

You drop your bag on the long console table with the vase of fake lilies and keep moving. You can’t stop. You undress without hesitation. You treat it like business. No point in wasting time.

You pile your clothes in the uncomfortable acrylic chair across from the immense leather throne on its swivel. You round the desk and stumble. You catch yourself as you brace your back and whine. Oh god, shit.

You give in to the tremble in your legs and fall to your knees. You drag yourself under the desk and sit on your knees. That’s not a good idea. You grit your teeth and gulp. You’ve never felt pain like this. Well you have, but you know you’re not going into labour.

Your legs are tingly despite the hot pain coursing around your hips. You do your best to breathe through it as you wait. What are you even doing? How did it come to this? For christ sakes, your forty-fucking-four years old. Waiting like some bimbo in your boss’ office.

Before you can sink into your self-loathing, you hear the door. He clicks his tongue as you listen to his deliberate gait. He’s making a show of it. He’s drawing it out. You bite back your irritation. As much as he plays around, he’s easy. Just like Pete. He’s entirely ruled by that dangling worm between his legs.

He sighs and struts around. You can picture the smug smirk under his dumb mustache. But you don’t. You’re already tensed up.

There’s a clink on the desk as he sets down his coffee and he hums as he rolls the chair out. He sits and spreads his knees wide. There’s a twitch in his pants. His finely tailored pants that probably cost more than your mortgage.

“Good morning,” he grips the arms of the chair as he leans back.

You don’t say a word as you reach for him. He wheels closer as you pop the top button of his pants. His gaze is stolid on you. You feel yourself sweating under it. It’s more humiliating to know he’s watching you so intently.

You tug down his fly. No underwear. You’re hardly surprised. The man who doesn’t wear socks with his tacky loafers likely doesn’t have a very full top drawer. You pull him through the vee of fabric and stroke his half-hard length.

“I didn’t even play with myself in the shower,” he taunts, “I saved it all for you.”

He snorts as you stay silent. You just keep going. He takes a breath and lets it out through his nose.

“Who pissed in your coffee?” He asks.

You once more have no answer. He flinches as you squeeze around his tip and roll your palm over it. He hisses as he squeezes the leather armrests.

“Fucking balls,” he puffs as he tilts his head back, “those hands–”

You bring your other hand up to cup him from below. You remember when you used to enjoy this. When you wanted it. How Pete’s groans used to spark a thrill in you but this, this just makes you feel grimy.

“Shit, shit,” he gulps, “slow down, baby face.”

You ignore him and he spasms. He sits forward and grabs your wrists, stopping you. You clench your jaw and look up at him.

“Hey, slow the fuck down,” he warns you, “the fuck’s your problem?”

You shrug and your cheek strains as even just that gesture tweaks in your hips. You stare at him dully. He tilts his head as he juts his jaw out. His lip curls as he rolls himself away in the chair. He snaps his fingers.

“Get out of there,” he demands.

You blink to keep from rolling your eyes. You put your hands on the floor but can’t move. You try to crawl forward but just can’t. Your tailbone is throbbing.

“I said get up,” he snaps.

“I can’t,” you rasp.

“What?” He leans forward.

“I fucking can’t–”

“Jesus fuck,” he stands and bends over you, angling around to hook his arms around you.

He hauls you up and you squeal as the fire shoots around your hips. He holds you under your arms as he turns you and lets you fall against his desk. You land on the flat keyboard and very pointy paperweight.

“Damn,” he smacks your ass, the flesh jiggling on impact, “look at that.”

You cry out, louder than you mean too. You whimper and hit the desk with your fist. He peels his hand away and you sense him raise it again. You stretch your arm behind you and wave at him desperately.

“No, no, please–” Your hand falls to your tailbone and you whine, “stop.”

You squeeze your thighs tight, overly aware of the dimples in the flesh and the lines rippled into the skin. Worse than the agony is the exposure. Both overwhelm you to the point of defeat.

“What?” He snips.

“I think– I think something’s wrong with me,” you choke out, feeling along your back. There’s a tender bump right along the base of your spine.

“What’s wrong?” He growls.

“Look…” you try to push yourself off the desk and your legs wobble. Before you can crumple to the floor, he catches you. Thankfully, surprisingly. “I fell in the shower last night,” your throat tightens at the admission of your own mortality, “I’m old, alright? And I fucking hurt myself.”

He sighs. His demeanour changes, not so rough, not so impatient as he angles you into the leather chair. It hurts just as much but you don’t care. It’s better than the floor.

“Fuck,” he puts his hands on his hips, his dick still standing above his pants. No shame. “Fine, you finish the job and I’ll let you off for the day. Go see a fucking doctor.”

You furrow your brow at him. Really?

“Well, you’re halfway there, sweet cheeks,” he turns a palm out, “so, get on it.”

Disbelief? Hardly. You could predict this. But you're exasperated and exhausted and you could rip that damn thing off his body.

You clamp your lips tight and sit up as best you can. You reach for him, gripping him tightly so he yipes. He slaps your wrist.

“Hey, lay off,” he warns.

You sniff but listen. You ease up and stroke him. He falls back into his groans, hands on his hips as he pushes his pelvis towards you. You just stare at the hem of his shirt as you keep a steady rhythm. How can men be so simple but make things so difficult?

You flinch as he bends his knees, just a bit, and reaches for your chest. You try to bat him away but he throws your hand back. He cups your tit and kneads, rolling his thumb over your nipple. You shudder and look away, crossing your arm around your stomach. You hope he can’t see everything from up there.

“Can I come on your tits?” He snarls, “don’t know why I’m asking…”

He steps closer and you feel him getting closer. His body tenses as his other hand goes to your shoulder and he rocks his hips, as good as fucking your hand. You direct his tip down and turn your chin up, disgusted as he quakes in your grip.

He grunts as he cums, his voice trailing off in thick moans as he unleashes on you. Cords of his cum string over your chest and up your neck. You swallow down your disgust as you see him through his climax, finishing with another pinch on your nipple.

He lets you go and backs up, “whew,” he blows out and gives an emphatic shiver.

You puff and gather what’s left of your strength. It’s done. You’re free. For a few hours at least. You let the pain roll out in a guttural grunt as you stand and stagger to grab a tissue from the sleek metal box on his desk. You do your best to clean yourself up. Hopefully you can do a better job at the clinic in case they need to do any tests.

“That was fucking… spectacular,” he nears and grabs a tissue of his own, brushing against your back, “even dragging your tail around like a beat dog, you just get the job done, don’t you?”

You need a coffee. You’re going to punch him. You take another tissue and continue to sop up the slimy mess.

You wince as his hand settles on your ass. It isn’t as bad as the slap but it still makes you yelp. He tuts and retracted his touch.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You go get yourself figured the fuck out.” His frustration cracks in his voice, “I was looking forward to this…”

“Life doesn’t always go as we planned,” you shake your head and toss out the tissues. You go to the chair and grab your underwear, letting them unfurl.

“Wouldn’t you fucking know?” He barks, “give me those.” He yanks the underwear from your grasp, “I told you, forget the fucking parachute.” He throws them and shakes his head, “you know, that’s the problem with you old ones, you don’t fucking listen.”

You grab your pants as he simmers. You lean on the chair as you lift each foot and pull the belt to your waist. He looms, pacing, huffing and puffing.

“...hurt your fucking back....”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” you murmur.

“You’re lucky you have good hands,” he carries on, “very fucking lucky. I could bankrupt you. You and your little brats would be out on the street–”

“Mr. Hansen,” you hook your bra behind your back with a torturous effort, “please–”

“You just keep them in mind, huh?” He sneers, “you better not be fucking lying.”

“I wish I was,” you grab your blouse and hook it over your head, poking your arms into the sleeves.

“Wait, wait,” he waves his hand and blocks you from the door, “you think… if you laid down… I could just slide in?”

You give a look. The look. The one you give Pete when he forgets something at the grocery store. Or the kids when they won’t stop fighting. He blanches as his eyes meet yours.

“Alright, alright, go see a doctor,” he relents, his frustration still sharp. “The sooner, the fucking better.”

He wags his finger in your face before he backs up. You limp to the door and grab your bag before you let yourself out. As you shut the door, you hear a thump. You see more tantrums from grown men than you do your own children.

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #same as it ever was #pete brenner #dark pete brenner #dark!pete brenner #pete brenner x reader #series #the gray man #pain hustlers #au

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serpercival · 6 months ago

Note

23. A kiss influenced by alcohol for traphawk perchance ? 👉👈

I tried to write this last night but was too high and it got really depressing, so here's an extremely purposefully light-hearted one to make up for how sad I made myself! <3 Ever so slightly suggestive but also only a little bit under the cut.

traphawk + a kiss influenced by alcohol

A long stretch of days with no casualties means getting bored. Getting bored means drinking. Getting bored for too many days in a row means too much drinking, and that had led Trapper and Hawkeye to stumbling back into the Swamp at three in the morning plastered out of their minds.

Hawkeye, ever-so-slightly more sober, dumps Trapper into his cot, giggling. “I can’t believe you! Flirting with Igor… you’re a madman, you. You’re– you’re going to get yourself food poisoning just kissing him.”

Across the tent, Frank snores loudly, affectedly, and unconvincingly.

“Aw, c’mon, Hawk,” Trapper says, fighting to get his blanket to cooperate. It’s like a goddamn circle. Or a sphere. Where the fuck are the edges? “Only ‘cause you aren’t paying enough attention to me.”

“I pay plenty of attention to you.” Hawkeye leans in, more than a bit jerky, still holding on to the last dregs of the bottle of whiskey they’d gone through at Rosie’s. “You… I woulda jerked you off in public, if you asked me.”

Frank scoffs, turns over, and puts his pillow over his head. Trapper hopes he smothers himself.

“What about in private?” Trapper leers.

“With Frank right there? He’ll have a crisis.”

Trapper pouts, finally finds the edge of his blanket, and snuggles as best as he can into his cot. “Gonna kiss me good night, at least?”

“No.”

“Hawk.”

“No!”

“Hawkeye.”

“You’re gonna taste gross.”

“Hawkeye, please?”

Frank shoots to a seat, a scowl burned into his face. “Pierce,” he snaps, “would you kiss him already so someone can get some rest around here?”

Then he’s turning over, facing the wall, and stuffing his pillow back over his head.

Trapper looks back up at Hawkeye. “Dad said it’s okay.”

Hawkeye stumbles in, nearly sloshing the whiskey onto Trapper’s bedsheets despite how little is left in the bottle. He takes a look at it, frowns, downs the last sip, and presses his lips against Trapper’s.

The whiskey’s already warm from Hawkeye’s mouth when Trapper parts his lips and lets Hawk pass it to him. The heat curls in his gut so tightly that he’s certain he’d be dragging Hawk to the supply shed if he wasn’t too drunk to move. When Hawk tries to pull away Trapper grabs him by the shoulder and swipes his tongue over his lips, pulling away the last dregs of whiskey so he can taste Hawkeye’s flesh beneath it.

When he does let Hawkeye go, Hawk looks down at him with pupils that are dilated with far more than just the dim light. “Night, Trap,” he says.

“Night, handsome,” Trapper slurs.

Frank sighs, as loudly as possible, so Hawkeye throws a pillow at him.

#serpercival writes #ask games #kiss ask meme #traphawk #for the record the depressing scenario was this but with precisely the opposite problem from being too bored

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kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay · 1 year ago

Text

I'm here

Summary: Natasha holds you as you fall apart.

Pairing: Natasha Romanov x Reader

(No use of descriptive words for Reader's appearance. If you do stumble across one, please let me know and I'll immediately find a more inclusive alternative)

Warnings: 18+, mental breakdown, work stress, feeling overwhelmed by everything, tears, lots of tears, hurt/comfort, fluff, hugs and kisses, Natasha being a perfect human being and pure soul

Word count: 1.1k

Author's note: Comforting fluff and angst for everyone who just needs a damn break from life. I wrote this for @romanoffsbish because I wanted to give you something nice 🖤 I hope you like it ☺️😳

...

Your hands blindly reach out for your caffeinated drink of choice, downing the last dregs before pushing the empty container to the side with a grumble.

You blow out an agitated sigh, eyes narrowing at the papers scattered across your desk. The black letters are barely readable in the dim light ofyour laptop screen.

Your eyes are burning, lids heavy as you fight to keep them open. You can't stop now. There's still too much to do, too many things to take care of. They just keep piling up, as soon as one thing is crossed off the list three new ones are added and you are drowning in the attempt to stay on top of the ever growing work load.

The sky outside your window is dim, the last rays of light vanishing on the horizon as the bright artificial lights of civilization take over the evening sky.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. Your teeth dig into your lower lip as you look at the mess of unfinished work spread out in front of you. Tears rise in your eyes and you tear your gaze away from the papers to stare at the ceiling.

Heavy breaths rattle in your chest as your throat starts closing up, the overwhelming pressure of life swamping you.

Your fingers desperately twist the fabric of your shirt and you can't keep the tears from falling. They roll hotly down your face, collecting at your trembling chin before sliding down your throat and wetting the collor of your shirt.

“Fuck,” you curse breathlessly, your voice shaky and unsteady. “I can't do this anymore. I just can't.”

Giving in to the tears you slump forward, elbows resting on the desk as you bury your face in your clammy hands. There's no holding back the mental breakdown bearing down on you with crushing might.

“God, I can't,” you sob, shoulders shaking with grief and overwhelm.

Broken sobs shake your body, tears dripping down your face, snot clogging up your nose and mixing with the tears.

You are so caught up in losing your mind, you don't hear the scraping sound of the front door or the whisper of quiet footsteps drawing closer.

“Sweetheart?”

You jerk up, startled by the sudden sound of a voice. Your heart starts pounding in your chest and you do your best to wipe your teary, snotty face with your shirt before glancing over your shoulder.

Natasha stands in the doorframe, her soft, red hair pulled up into a messy bun. She eyes you with concern, a sad slant to her full lips as she studies the part of your face that she can see from her position.

“Hi,” you choke out nasally, still trying to compose yourself. Natasha isn't supposed to see you like this. Weak, messy, desperate.

“What's going on, sweetheart?” she calls out softly and approaches until she stands next to you. One of her warm hands comes to rest on your shoulder, but you turn your head away, not wanting to reveal your puffy, tear-stained face.

Natasha is having none of it. She pulls your chair away from the desk and reaches out to grasp you chin between her fingers, forcing you to face her.

“What has you so upset, hm? What can I do to make it better?”

“It's nothing,” you try to deflect, squirming in her grip. But she doesn't allow you to turn away.

“It's not nothing if it makes you cry. Tell me.”

“It's stupid. Just... too much work. I have so many things to do and I don't know where to start. No matter what I do, I can't stay on top of all of it and it just keeps getting more,” you start, reluctant at first, but as soon as the first few words are out, it's as if the floodgates have been opened.

“I barely have time to relax, all I can think about the tasks still waiting for me, the neverending list of things that need to be done and I just can't- I'm tired, I'm so tired. I can barely get out of bed in the morning but I still can't sleep when I go to bed at night. There's just too much, too much to do, too many thoughts in my head, too much- I can't I don' wanna-”

The breakdown is in full swing now and the tears resurface as you crumple under Natasha's gaze.

The red-head moves quickly, pushing her hands under your arms to keep you from folding in on yourself completely. She hoists you to your feet before taking your place on the chair and pulling you into her lap.

“Shhh, it's okay. I got you,” she whispers, one hand stroking up and down your shaking back while the other holds the back of your head, tucking you comfortably into the crook of her neck.

You mindlessly burrow into her embrace, arms winding around her body to have something to hold onto while you fall apart.

Natasha holds you through all of it, the tears, the choked sobs and violent trembling shaking your exhausted body. She coos calming words at you, kissing the top of your head and humming to you to bring you down to earth.

Eventually, your sobs quieten down, tears slowing and allowing you to see more clearly.

“You're okay, I'm here,” Natasha mumbles, giving your body a little squeeze.

You stay silent, head tucked away in the crook of her neck as your breathing slowly calms down and grows more even, matching Natasha's steady breaths.

“I- I just want a nice, easy life. Is that too much to ask,” you croak out tearily, voice muffled against Natasha's skin.

The red-head hums, her hands slowly caressing your back.

“Not at all,” she says after a moment of silence.

You scoff, though there's no bite behind it. You're too wrung out to feel upset.

“Then why is everything so difficult? Why is everything more than I can handle,” you ask, not expecting an answer. Natasha gives one anyway, but not one you expect.

“We'll figure it out, love. Make plans for you, charts and lists to keep track of things. Keep everything managable,” she says and kisses the side of your head. “I'm here for you.”

The sincerity in the red-head's voice makes you tear up again. You cling to her and rub your face on your shoulder, brushing away the tears that threaten to fall.

“Thank you,” you mumble and turn your head enough to kiss her neck.

“You're welcome, sweetheart,” Natasha replies softly, slowly rocking the two of you in your desk chair. “Now rest. I have you.”

Closing your tired eyes, you do as Natasha tells you, drifting off into a deep slumber in the loving embrace of your girlfriend.

...

:'D

I need Natasha so bad, pleeaaase *whines*

#natasha romanov #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanov fic #comfort fic #angst #hurt/comfort #all the comfort #and love #drabble #i think #kinda long for a drabble #one-shot it is

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ladyswillmart · 7 days ago

Text

My flamin' hot video game take is

more games with a character creator should let you create a Grebuloff from FF14, even if that game is not FF14.

Imagine how much better Dragon Age: Unquisition (yes I know it's actually Inquisition but sometimes I like to spell it like that) would be if your Onquisitor was actually a little seal-like alien creature in an old-timey diving suit with a lamp on its helmet. Are you imagining this? Look at me:

Like can you imagine playing Monster Hunter World and one of the options for your hunter is this little guy. And you can like still make monster-themed armor (but it's all variations on the old timey diving suit) (with the lamp on the helmet).

The rich and fragrant world of Elden Ring could be made that much more redolent with the aroma of pelagic [mumbling] if only you could have a Grebuloff as your Tarnished. And lest you think the Grebuloff is "too cute" for a Fromsoft adventure, do remember that the Grebuloffs, through their own self-consuming ambition and greed (that we humans should find uncomfortably familiar), trashed their own home planet and ultimately gave rise to widespread pollution (like poison swamps) and a horrific and violent disease (like scarlet rot or that death-by-filth thing the basilisks give you that's somehow even worse) that not only turned brother against brother, but wiped their entire species off the Last Dregs' kiddie menu placemat map of the universe.

(And just so we're clear on the issue, the Grebuloffs who returned thanks to the Dynamis of Elysion or whatever are all appropriately remorseful about this and have pledged to never repeat the mistakes of those who came before them. However they did not make such promises regarding not bathing in the Last Dregs' soup pots.)

#let me play as a little guy #also put more namazus in things too #this post was brought to you by: i was playing Tunic for a bit and thought a Grebuloff sword n board adventure would be super cute #and then i thought 'why don't we just put one in elden ring'#it's a completely normal sequence of ideas

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quosterswampdregs · 10 months ago

Note

I keep meaning to ask— are we allowed to make our own swamp dregs? They’re an absolutely DELIGHTFUL species, and I’d love to have one to call my own :] If we are, do you have any particular guidelines besides the posted species information?

Absolutely!!! You all are welcome to make your own swamp dregs, as they are a completely open species! The species sheet is here, for starters. If you do, all I ask is that:

Credit me via "quosterswampdregs on tumblr" or "quosteroo on furaffinity" only!

Tag me, or let me know via DM if you ever post art/writing/content with swamp dregs! I'd absolutely adore seeing it, and I may even reblog stuff here!

Last and most importantly, keep it in the kink community!! Don't use swamp dregs on mainstream content of your own that isn't exclusive to snz, tickling, micro/macro, etc! I don't want vanillas clowning on me ;v;

#swamp dregs #furquo #snzblr #furry snz

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katyspersonal · 3 months ago

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A random thought about Rakshasa (NPC)

I was thinking about eyes color details again,

It is implied that her real eye color is/was blue, and green was something she gained! For example, Millicent's sisters likewise had real golden eyes and the clouding reflects loss of eyesight because of rot! Clouding also reflects blinding like with Igon's or Jerren's eyes for example, or with Esgar the blood takes over his actual eye color with red etc. If she was just green-eyed, why not simply pick the color green from the wheel, instead of achieving it through clouding?

(Screenshots from these ( x ) ( x ) videos) Green is a strange color in the setting, and yeah, the resemblance between Dancing Lion's eyes and Roderika's eye color is easy to catch! Then, Rakshasa gains different eye color and leaning much more into yellow made me think of how Godrick's rune changed and the other lion beasts!

Rakshasa is buried in the location that is heavily ever running waters; waterfalls and fast rivers! And whereas running water has been a place of practice for Dryleafs through forcing oneselves to jump against the waterfalls, it also has another connotation within the lore!

Okay well in fact 'stagnation of water' is a reoccurring trend in Fromsoft's games, always reflecting the resulting 'dregs' both in physical and spiritual sense! And, in a twisted way:

In isolation it would not mean much for me but just sign of devotion to one's goal, but now the context of "needing to remain always in movement, like the water, to not stagnate into a swamp" feels similar! In Elden Ring this shade of green, the one leaning more towards yellow, is also a color of poison - Scarlet Rot's "lesser" variant as both types are connected with stagnant water! Even in some location names, like how Rot dungeon in Liurnia is named Stillwater Cave!

Perhaps this particular Rakshasa has at some point stopped her quest that likewise demands to never stop, leading to her spiritual decay (regardless of what anyone thinks of this mission from moral standpoint x) ). It would tie nicely to how beastly lions have those yellow-ish eyes now and not colder green like Dancing Lions depiction, as they're severed from their divine ancestry and reduced to watchdogs! It could be similar with Godrick, who has been fixated on the distant idea not likely ever getting into his grasp, and who has been only accumulating more strength through endless grafting but not becoming stronger as that'd require battling and winning! (Though considering Godefroy had no Rune and was also doing grafting, it is likely generational stagnation rather than his own!) Maybe I am looking too deep into it, but spiritually stagnating seems to be significant. It would give burial of Rakshasa where water is always flowing a poetic meaning, as if honouring her with always drifting essence at least in death!

In other words,

#elden ring #rakshasa #rakshasa elden ring #screenshots #elden ring observation #elden ring headcanons #elden ring reference

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scribbling-dragon · 2 years ago

Note

Xornoth threatening Jimmy but not for demon reasons for "Scott is gay for you and I need to make sure you can take care of him" for fic ideas?

wait- there's a brother!?

summary:

He laughs, even more nervous than before as the demon seems content to continue observing him, eyes flicking over Jimmy’s face as though studying him. “Really?” He asks, summoning the courage to speak those few words. That same courage shrivels and dies a few moments later as the demon looks him directly in the eyes, mouth ticking up at the corner a little more.

“Oh, yes. Certainly an interesting one, definitely interesting if you've managed to catch the attention of my dear brother, hm?”

(ao3 link)

(1,929 words)

He hums, flipping open another barrel lid, pushing it back until it’s leaning up against the wall. Not at all in the position to fall on his hand and trap it. Not that that’s ever happened before. That’s the kind of thing that would happen to an idiot that doesn't know how things work. And he knows how barrels work. Everyone knows how barrels work. Not knowing how a barrel works is something an idiot would say.

There’s hardly any slime left in the barrel, only a few dregs lying abandoned at the bottom. He lifts one of the buckets of fresh slime, balancing it on the very edge of the barrel before tipping it forward, watching as the slime slowly inches out of the bucket, slow as treacle. It doesn't taste like treacle, though, and is far too thick to be anything like treacle. Which he knows from second-hand experience as well, because eating slime is not something that the dignified and refined Codfather would be caught doing.

The first bucket only fills the barrel halfway, so he leans down, grabbing the second, hauling it up to balance it on the edge of the barrel.

He blinks, staring at the bucket. And the barrel. Only he can't see the barrel. He can only just make out the parts of the bucket closest to him, no matter how many times he blinks. It means that he’s just stood there, blinking rapidly like an idiot, trying desperately to regain his vision.

It was only early evening when he entered the storage building, and even if the sun had set faster than he expected it to this evening, there are still plenty of torches hanging from the walls of this room. He’d made sure to light several of them on his way in, but when he turns he cannot see any of them.

He cannot see anything.

He swallows, breath sticking in his throat a little, hand tightening around the handle of the bucket. He knows exactly what this is, this sudden sightlessness, the sudden and all-consuming darkness that has surrounded him so swiftly is something that has been carefully recounted at several meetings over the past few months, each emperor detailing every single encounter they've had with the demon.

He lets out a breathy little laugh, eyes darting about as though he could hope to see anything in this darkness.

“Looking for something?” There is a presence behind him, stood close enough to be felt, but not close enough to be touching. He jolts away anyway, hand releasing the bucket of slime, uncaring for the way it clatters across the floor. Uncaring for the way it is definitely going to be a pain to clear up later.

He’s got more than clearing up slime to worry about if the demon plans on killing him. He’s not strong enough to escape it on his own. The other emperors recounted how dangerous this demon is, and Jimmy would have thought their tales were just tall stories with lots and lots of embellishments if it wasn't for the similarities in accounts and fear present in each of them as they spoke of their experience with the demon.

He laughs, the sound wavering as he backs up a step. He locates the demon easily, spotting their glowing eyes, easily visible in the surrounding darkness that has swamped him. They glow a deep red, menacing, and very obviously getting closer.

He takes another step backwards, though his movements are more sluggish- take far more effort than normally required. Like he’s treading backwards though slime, through the thicker-than-treacle consistency, struggling to maintain his footing as he stumbles backwards, away from the demon.

Away from the advancing and probably murderous demon.

They don't seem to struggle with the air turning to treacle around them, stepping swiftly forward, the shadows almost seeming to part around them as they move forward, cutting a straight path towards him.

“I'm sure we can talk about this-” he cuts himself off with a squeak as the demon stops in front of him, staring up at the being that is now far taller than he first thought they were. They tower over him easily, leaning down with a leer on their face, sharp teeth revealed in a smirk as they look over his face.

“You certainly are an interesting one.” Their voice causes the air itself to vibrate around him. He can feel his chest trembling with the force of it, like there’s an incredibly loud sound right beside him, reverberating through everything. Yet the demon’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet, not at all the commanding shout that he had expected from the being.

“Oh, yes. Certainly an interesting one, definitely interesting if you've managed to catch the attention of my dear brother, hm?”

“Brother?” His voice squeaks embarrassingly, but he’s honestly proud of himself for not immediately turning tail as soon as the demon appeared. Standing his ground is far more than the other emperors ever did, and he’ll tell this story like that. He stood bravely before the demon before they disappeared, and he definitely did not die. That’ll certainly be something to share at the next meeting. “You have a brother?”

The demon looks almost shocked, for a moment, eyes widening briefly before returning to normal again. He blinks, their smirk plastered so firmly across their face that Jimmy’s almost convinced that he imagined that look of shock on their face.

“I suppose he hasn't told you,” their voice rumbles as they reach a hand forward, grasping at his chin, holding his face in position. He attempts to jerk backwards, to pull himself free from their grip; but it’s like iron has closed around his face, holding him firmly in place, unable to free himself from the demon’s grip until they wish to do so themselves. He only hopes his death will be a quick one. “Though that certainly is no surprise. He was always rather concerned with his image, yes?”

“What are you talking about?” If he’s going to die, he might as well die with all his questions answered. Questioning the already murderous demon isn't going to make them any more likely to kill him than they already are. His fate is already sealed, was sealed as soon as he stepped foot in this room probably. He might as well ask the few questions he can.

“My brother.” The demon frowns. “Who I believed to have interest in you, unless I've misread the situation entirely. Do codfolk not still compose a song for their loved ones?”

“I- what?”

“I must admit, it has been several years since I've observed the traditions of the oceanfolk, but I was friends with several codfolk in the past, and I saw several of them attempt to woo potential partners with a song. But perhaps the tradition has changed? It has certainly been a few centuries, long enough for such a change to have occurred.”

“No, I- it’s still the same, yeah.” His anxiety levels drop a little bit, lowering in favour of confusion taking over everything, squinting at the demon. Maybe this is all some horrible prank. It seems like something Gem and fWhip would conspire with Sausage to do- and Sausage is rather good at mimicking voices. And there could be several potions at work here. Modified potions worked on by both fWhip and Gem. But the glowing of the demon’s eyes is certainly not something Sausage could replicate. And neither is the sheer height of the demon something that Sausage could achieve.

One of the demon’s claws scrapes against his skin, and his stress levels skyrocket again, heart thudding against his ribcage a little more insistently.

“Then you are trying to court my brother. I do appreciate the traditional approach. And my mother would certainly enjoy the romantic aspects to your song.”

He can't help it. Can't help himself. “You have a mother?”

If he has ever been given a withering stare before, it pales in comparison to the one the demon shoots him now. The only one that has come close to making him feel as though he should simply curl up in a ball and await his death so effectively is Scott, and that was before they were on better terms-

Oh gods.

“You're Scott’s brother?” He doesn't shriek it- he doesn't. But it’s a close thing. The demon winces at the pitch of his voice at the same time he does.

“Good to know you have a brain rattling around in there somewhere.” The demon releases his face from their grip, and it very suddenly feels like he can breathe again. The relief almost makes him dizzy, and he has to blink to get rid of the vertigo. “Though I’d appreciate a little more vocal control from you.”

“Yeah, well, I’d appreciate you not terrorising the server at every opportunity.” He spits back. His brain catches up with him a moment later, and he almost kicks himself, watching as the demon’s eyes narrow.

“I’d hardly be a good opposition to Scott if I didn't terrorise everyone at every opportunity.” The demon cracks a grin. “And you've been positively delightful to tease, little Codfather. Did you know I can hear your heart?” They tip their head to the side, long ears (almost reminiscent of elf ears- and really someone should have put the dots together sooner) pricking forward. “Your bravado is impressive, certainly when your heart is at a speed on par with that of a terrified rabbit’s.”

“Hey!”

The demon sighs, disregarding him entirely. “Pity I shan’t be terrorising you much any longer. Though,” they look back at him, smirk gone. It is far more chilling than the near unhinged grin of before. “If you do choose to break my brother’s heart, and it is a rather fragile one mind you, I won't have any qualms with spreading your entrails from here to Rivendell.”

The image that summons is unpleasant enough to make Jimmy feel mildly sick, taking a hurried step backwards, relieved to find that he can once more. He pulls his arms up, crossing over his chest in a defensive position in case the demon decides to go with that plan anyway.

“Relax,” the demon waves a hand, turning away from him. Leaving their back open and exposed, an obvious sign that they do not see him as a threat. “You seem rather sweet, and I'm sure we’ll have a better chance for conversation at the upcoming festival.”

They disappear rather abruptly, all things considered. There one moment and gone the next, shadows evaporating with them.

The torch in the sconce nearest to him flickers merrily, dancing back and forth. Its light - and the light from several other torches - does the wonderful job of highlighting the spilled slime. It’s managed to creep over a sizeable area of floorboard, already beginning to sink through the cracks.

He barely manages to hold back a groan, realising how much of a pain this is going to be to clean up.

It would have been more of a mercy if the demon had killed him. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with this shit.

#juno.writes #asks #neohood #empires smp #jimmy solidarity #xornoth #solidarity gaming #solidaritygaming #empires jimmy #empires smp fic #empires smp s1 #empires smp season 1 #empiressmp #flower husbands

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pestilentprayer · 2 months ago

Text

three feet under - chapter one

hello hello! i've been working on a pre-canon different first meeting bobby & buck au for a month or so and now that 'everything has its place' has wrapped up, i wanted to give a little peek! this fic is from bobby's pov and starts a month after the fire.

(trigger warnings are abundant for 'three feet under' but for this snippet they're: child loss, substance abuse, past child abuse, and suicidal ideation)

The closest to his family that Bobby Nash can get is in warped reflections on polished granite headstones.

He’s worn down an edge of the plot: two indents for his knees to fall into as he silently prays and wordlessly begs. Mornings and nights and neither and both of graveside prostration have dug out a damned-dark and crisp-cold hole for him to fall into. When the time comes, he’ll lay himself down to sleep. He pictures the thaw as a revelation. Bones in the dust and fat melting hot-acrid in the earth; maggots and larvae and he finally found rest. His priest calls this season an act of God: as long as all the psalms and a testament unto itself. Bobby calls it evidence of God’s sense of humor.

Smoke billowed out of gaping maws in the apartment complex until steam took its place, white and grey on a white-grey sky when morning stole away the night. Cold tempered hot and hot taunted cold and cosmic cruelty lodged itself between the two; frostbite claimed scant slivers of skin not licked by flame. Bobby watched each and every one of his victims as they were freed from the pyre he lit with percocet and vodka and snarling cowardice. He named them when he could and when he couldn’t, he honored them with a sip taking him closer to his end. Winter has found forever in St. Paul. Bobby hopes he has found eternity.

The closest to God that Bobby Nash can get is at the bottom of a bottle, choking on dregs and memories.

He tells himself it isn’t blasphemy, isn’t divine disrespect; he tells himself a good many things as he finds truth in lies and lies in truth. The pills dull his thoughts until he makes his own peace. The booze is so cheap that he isn’t sure if it even has a name but he knows it makes him forget his own. Daysweeks pass in a haze and collect into a mass of fuzzy warmth that never gets close to the feeling of fire. He claims his punishment in the temptation of fate as he throws drugs back blindly and drinks until he can no longer see.

Tonight, he can still see.

Cheek perched on his palm, he lifts two fingers off of his glass. The bartender, too bright and young of eye, nods slowly. Everything is slow when the liquor swamps his bloodstream. He lives in a miasma of motion, taking in little and making even less sense of it.

“This is gonna have to be your last one for today, man,” the kid says, quiet as the depths of night draw in, last-call last-chance hovering over the liminal space.

Bobby grunts and necks the swill down. These days, he thinks he didn’t only start chasing fire to follow in his father’s fateful footsteps: he figures he’s always been chasing pain. His throat is long since numbed to the sting of cheap spirits and cheaper regrets.

Vinny’s is less of a hole in the wall and more of a slash in the ground, the dive bar’s foundation sinking into the Minnesota soil with the burden of its occupants and the demons perched cinder block-strong on their shoulders. It’s far from his usual badge haunt, halfway between his house and his home. Only his home fell to embers. His station hardened to ice and Bobby is weak. He doesn’t care to find out their opinion of him or how far the rumors have spread. All he knows is that they haven’t reached this hellish haven and he can drink himself into a stupor, sleep it off under a veil of insubstantial substances. He hopes to repeat the routine ad nauseam until his nausea consumes him and his liver realizes there’s no point in holding on.

Fifty cent songs croon from the jukebox; corpses that haven’t yet caught up to their fates drown out the noise in bottles of amber and plague-sick green. Bobby’s world is red: red bodies and red flames and the red label on a clear bottle that tastes like mangled memory clouding the nip of red blood in the air. His palms are red, too.

The night he murdered his family wasn’t the first time he got burned. That was eight years old and a matchbox and the back of a hand across his cheek and a crick in his neck and a blistered scar shaped like Australia on his calf and— The second time was his fault (his fault, his fault, his fault; they were all his fault) when he forgot to disengage the airbags at a scene his fourth day on the job. It was fine because the blast barely scalded his skin and his father wasn’t there to say I told you so. It was fine. It was. The third time was an electrical accident but it made Marcy cry, so he swore not to do it again.

He did it again. He did it again and again and he did it worse each time; the scars he left never touched his flesh except for when they touched his flesh and blood in little flinches of fallout. The doctor said he might not regain full sensation in his hands and that’s alright, that’s okay. He deserves it. He’ll never be able to feel Brook’s hair or Robby’s hand or Marcy’s lips so it doesn’t matter anyway. The glass is slick in his grasp. He only knows that because it always is. Whiskeyvodkarum tumbles down his throat and then it’s gone; he’s empty. He closes out his tab and tugs on his coat. He leaves.

If he wanders a bit to the left then he’ll take a nice long walk off of a short riverbank and meet his maker in a chilling embrace. If he wanders a bit to the right then he’ll be able to understand what his patients felt when a bumper separated their pelvis and their shoes stayed on the ground as they fought the clutches of gravity. He keeps on his path. It’s not a lengthy trip and his destination is nothing like home; it’s everything like home for it smells of sulfur and smoke and there’s a picture of his family waiting for him, a rubber band holding it to the sun visor of his rusted-out truck. He’d lock the car if he had anything of worth inside of it other than the creased paper he stole from their memorial service. He’d lock it if a too-late part of him didn’t accept that other hands than his would hold the photo with more care than he could ever spare for his family.

Charlie brought the picture to the funeral home. He cropped it out of a Christmas card from the year before, the year before that, an in between year when Bobby’s spine was a crooked steeple and he fancied that he placed himself on the cross. Crucifixion came in the form of uppers and downers and he fell into the sepulcher of his worst impulses when a held-back shout hit harder than any fist. The tinsel border is still visible in the photo. Happy holidays, indeed.

Tragedy—Bobby—struck in the dead of night. The city hasn’t roused from its mourning long enough to take down red lights and green lights, take back their good tidings and well wishes. It’s a locked-in-buckled-up reminder of what once was and will never be again; it’s a broken projector casting flickering shadows of a single frame that defines a people. Angels hung upon the walls of the funeral home in robes of white and gold and Bobby’s angels rotted in boxes of pine, their Sunday best churned into the earth with them.

He held it together at the service until he couldn’t and then he cried until he had no more tears. His words dried up with them and he stood, blank and numb and black-hole-wanting as Charlie took out one year, two years, tentwentythirty of Bobby’s Hell out on him in the cold-scorched courtyard of the cemetery: every stint at rehab, every squandered chance, every time he disappeared and Marcy was left to fend for herself. Bobby was and is and will be worse than Tim ever could have dreamt of; their father had the decency to die. Mom stood by silently, a statue amongst statues amongst graves.

And Bobby broke that night, not the snap of a branch but the crack-creak-whip of a whole trunk toppling over, taking out the next and the next and the next. He broke like his nails as they scrambled through the frozen soil, jealously clawing, dragon-strong and man-weak when he scored the disturbed ground so he could curl up with his family in a horde of the best he could do. He split the grafts off of his palms and watched blood melt a covering of snow far gentler than any embrace he’d ever offered. Charlie hauled him away with arms of overwrought iron, bars around the bars of his ribs.

“This is the last time I clean up your mess,” Charlie muttered and Bobby believed him, still does. Stowed in the passenger seat of his own truck, Bobby watched the bloated sky mist past as Charlie drove and drove and drove until he realized they never really drove at all, two blocks away from the cemetery, exhaust like smoke in the parking lot as the truck idled. A bar, the bar, this bar and it was close enough to the graves that Bobby stayed. Charlie left.

Bobby takes a handful of pills. He sleeps.

#pestilentprayerao3 #three feet under #911 abc #911 fanfic #pests prayers #bobby nash

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ultra-creepy-fucker-things · 29 days ago

Text

A baby shower, but for crocodiles

Toffee attends an event celebrating the upcoming birth of his child.

The Septarian mating season had ended around a month and a half ago, and Toffee was pregnant.

After mating season, came the celebration. Between the first signs of conception a few weeks after hormones leveled out and the first chirps of baby septarians preparing to hatch, there would hang a festive air, the world alive with anticipation for the coming generation as expectant parents celebrated with their families.

And Toffee didn't have a problem with that. Really. He adored Rasticore's family, and the feeling was mutual. Seth, while not strictly related to either of them, was a supportive presence, as he'd been for the bulk of Toffee's life. If it was limited to the handful of individuals he considered family, he'd be fine.

Unfortunately, for a member of the Council of Septarsis, the celebration wasn't just limited to family.

"I can't believe we have to do this" Toffee grumbled, fiddling with the formal clothes he was expected to wear for the banquet.

"It won't be that bad, Odonte" Rasticore muttered back, putting a hand on his partner's back. "Hey, if you're having trouble, just signal me, and I'll get you out of there without making a scene"

Toffee knew Rasticore couldn't do anything without making a scene, but nevertheless, the reassurance helped. "I'm sure it won't" Toffee sniffed, "can't wait to become the proud owner of 300 pet rocks."

"Oh, it won't be that bad" said Rasticore. "Really"

"It will" he said grimly, "I understand they don't want to cause offence, but if that means having to find a place to put hundreds of river stones, I'd rather get nothing"

Rasticore sighed, fondly, "Never change, Mort" he said, "never change"

The venue was the courtyard outside the New Septarsis capital building.

Toffee tried to hide a little behind Rasticore as they walked up to the entrance, as though it'd hide him from the far too many people crowding the poorly manicured lawn.

Even largely limited to the septarian council members and their partners, the sound of dozens of banal conversations was near overwhelming. Rasticore socialized, somewhat awkwardly, with the people that came up to congratulate them, while Toffee stood behind him, trying not to be seen. His ill-advised choice in career stuck him with these people all day, the last thing he wanted was to speak to them on his 'free time',

His co-workers milled about, socializing. Most of them were septarian, although a handful of other species could be seen, individuals he knew would not take a pregnant septarian for a woman.

Not that he was any more inclined to talk to them.

A few long tables had been set up towards the middle, big enough to seat every gravid septarian in attendence, and when the dinner bell rang, Toffee cast one last longing glance at Rasticore before going to take his seat.

His eyes drifted to his watch as the head speaker--some scrawny old pencil-pusher from the propaganda arm--rambled on about the "light of the future" and "how much they'd accomplished" over the past 300 years and other trite nonsense.

When the food was brought out, he had to stifle a laugh; all that talk about how far they'd come, and here they were serving him the same barely edible dregs he'd had to choke down as a kid. But he kept it in check-It was hardly the organizer's fault that their crops had been burned, their animals culled, that the Magic High Commission had chosen to starve them out right when they were at their most vulnerable.

He took a deep breath in and exhaled through his mouth.

It was fine. He could deal with this. He would not make a scene; he would not leave in the middle of his meal.

He couldn't have people Talking again.

He let out a final shaky exhale, finally able to calm his pounding heart, and cut into the tough steak they'd managed to provide.

They must've slaughtered a work animal for this, it's body powerful, grazed on low quality swamp grasses and worked in the fields until every ounce of fat had been burned away, leaving only sinuous muscle.

With the young tender animals bred for this occasion dead and their fields rendered barren, the poor bastard must've been judged worth more in the empty bellies of expectant parents than its own lonely stall.

He ate slowly, aware that this and desert were all they'd get, but soon enough he found himself crunching through the bone, relieved that that, at least, was still worth eating.

He left his vegetables untouched. He couldn't force himself to eat roast carrot. Not today.

Desert was a no less sad affair, consisting of the saddest baked apple he'd ever seen, worm tunnels visible and spices nonexistent.

All too quickly, the meal was done with, and it was time to hand out the gifts- and Toffee thanked his lucky stars that he'd been spared the tedium of collecting an egg-shaped stone for every exhausting stranger.

One of the twins, Cera, came up to him first, stark white scales striking as ever in the dim light.

They blinked at him, nictitating membrane flashing across stark red eyes.

They reached forward, "May I?" they asked.

"Fine" said Toffee with a sigh, extending a hand.

Cera dipped their head, praying over him while he waited politely.

It was sweet, he supposed. He didn't believe, but the sentiment was appreciated.

When they were done, they pushed a basket of rolls before him, and that had him blinking.

Bread was expensive.

He glanced at the other septarian, trying not to look too puzzled.

He was shocked to see concern in their eyes.

Of course.

All the more miserable, he slid down in his seat, hurrumphing.

Of course they thought he couldn't hack it. A high-risk egg on his first season? He'd known people would talk.

He'd been prepared for judgement. He had not been prepared for concern.

The next, young Dominic--not technically a member of the Council yet but doing good work translating for the slime Prince Brrrgabog--pushed a wheel of cheese in his direction, blinking nervously up at him with strange, side-set eyes, a trait that he'd inherited from his size-shifter mother.

He turned his face away in a strained smile. "Thank you, Dominic" he said, trying to keep his mood out of his voice as he watched the younger septarian's face with half-lidded eyes"

Dominic's hopeful expression faltered, "Terribly sorry, sir" he muttered, scrambling away.

Toffee's heart fell from his chest, face going back to normal.

Abruptly, Toffee stood.

Dominic shied away from him, shrinking--literally shrinking--away from the initially shorter--now taller--Septarian.

Toffee urged himself to say something. An apology, a self-deprecating joke, a crack about old septarians and cheese, anything, but... He struggled even to make his mouth move.

"Excuse me a moment" he forced out, a touch too loud, before slipping inside.

He got to a quiet hallway and fell against the wall, sliding into a seated position with a groan.

His face fell into his arms, and he held back a sob, trying not to let himself cry.

He ground his teeth together, hissing in distress.

Why couldn't he just hold it together, damnit? Everyone else could, why not him?

He was shaken out of his self-pity session by the sound of footsteps pounding against tile- Rasticore. his mind supplied before he'd even had time to process it all.

He came into view, eyebrows no doubt pinched in worry, had Toffee had the energy to check.

"Odonte!" he called, rounding on the shorter septarian.

"Odonte!" he cried again, sliding to a stop next to him.

Toffee turned his face away, refusing to look at his partner.

"Are you okay?" he asked, gently reaching for Toffee's shoulder.

Toffee flinched away. "Of course I'm okay" he snapped, "I just... Needed to get somewhere quiet"

Rasticore frowned, "That doesn't sound okay, Toffee. Do you..." he hesitated, " Do you want to go home?"

Toffee climbed to his feet, "Absolutely not, we can't leave until the ceremonies are over. I'll just..." he hesitated, "Stay here a moment longer. Try and rest. I haven't been sleeping well, that's all"

Rasticore's fists clenched, and he took a deep breath. "I know you don't want to see it through, Mortodonte" he said, "You're always miserable at these things, and you always insist on staying. I don't get it. No one would care if you left, you know?"

Toffee looked away. "We can't leave until the ceremonies are over" he reiterated, "People will Talk-"

"They'll talk more if you have a breakdown in the damn hallway!" Rasticore snapped. "You are carrying our child, Odonte! How can you expect to take care of them when you can't even take care of yourself?"

Toffee flinched, and Rasticore backed down, his frills lowering in shame. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that"

"Leave me alone, Rasticore" said Toffee, "I just need to rest. Leave me alone"

"Let's just go home. People will understand-"

"Leave me alone. Leave me alone." Toffee repeated, his voice raising in panic and desperation as he found himself unable to say anything else, "Leave me alone"

Rasticore backed away, "Okay, I'm going, I'm going. Just... Please stay safe. I'll come back for you"

And with that, he left Toffee to stew in his misery, looking back one final time before disappearing around a corner.

Toffee spent the next hour or so laying there, feeling sorry for himself and hissing at anyone that tried to speak with him. He'd have stayed until Rasticore came back to get him, but there was a flock of kappa gathering at the end of the hall. He recognized a few of them, like Lady Von-Shrike, who's family had controlled this land before Solaria, and Killdear, her bodyguard.

It looked like Killdear was about to approach him, which he took as his que to leave, dragging himself to his feet and trying to look dignified as he walked the other way. As if she'd forget what she'd seen if he simply kept his back straight.

A few heads turned as he reentered the courtyard, watching him with worried eyes, and he realized he hadn't even bothered to brush off his suit. It would've been clear as day that he'd been crying.

That gave him pause.

He glanced over at his seat at the table, where Rasticore was having a conversation with a septarian he didn't recognize.

He sighed deeply through his nose. He wasn't ready to face him.

And so, he meandered over to a quiet corner of the courtyard, dusting off and adjusting his suit.

It was an old castle. Built before the mewmen occupation, if the rumors were to be believed.

He'd never seen it when the Von-Shrike family owned it. That had been before his time- but he had been born in time to fight in the siege that took it back.

He sighed, a nostalgic smile drifting to his lips.

It was the center of one of his few happy memories; after every mewmen soldier in the place had been driven off or killed, he and his fellow soldiers had started a fire in this very courtyard, singing victorious tunes and feasting on the whatever stores the mewmens hadn't had time to burn.

Of the soldiers he sang with that day, none but him would escape the siege on Butterfly castle.

Toffee sighed. It had been a victory, of sorts. The monster nations still held strong, mewmens having yet to take back half the land Solaria had stole, but... They were getting there. Starvation was an insidious weapon, more insidious than any magic, and the Butterfly family wielded it as brutally as they wielded the wand.

Subconsciously, Toffee's hand drifted to his stomach.

If his child ever hatched... What future would they have here?

He turned away from the wall and ended up catching the eye of Seth of Septarsis, head of the Office of Septarian Affairs.

Toffee quickly looked away, hoping he hadn't been noticed, but alas, it was too late.

The towering septarian ambled over to him, rumbling out in Gharialese "Hey, Toffee! I was looking for you"

Toffee slumped but smiled up at him. Not the fake mewmen smile, one that, to septarian eyes, more resembled an angry grimace, but a proper septarian one, eyes sliding closed as he turned his face away.

"Hello, Seth" he said, "What do you want"

Seth sighed, leaning down to press his gift into Toffee's hand.

Toffee blinked down at it, then smiled again.

"Thanks, this must've taken a lot of work"

Seth nodded, "I've been working on it since you told me you planned on trying"

That had been around a decade ago, and it showed- it was an intricately detailed Swamp Queen, a truly massive species of crocodile that had died with Septarsis, worshipped for their size, their power, and their love for their children.

This one had its tail curled around a nest, jaws parted in a very septarian-like expression of anger.

"A charm of protection" he commented.

Seth nodded.

"Heard you had one of your... moments" he said.

Toffee looked up sharply, "Who told you that?" he snapped.

Seth snorted, "No one" he said, "in fact, Rasticore was very clear that you hadn't"

"Well, you should've listened to him." Toffee snapped, "I didn't have one of my 'moments'; I just needed to lie down"

Seth nodded. "Ah, I must've misunderstood" he said, "my apologies"

He fell quiet. Right when Toffee expected him to leave, he spoke up again. "You know you can go home, right?"

Toffee looked away. "As people keep telling me." he said.

"I keep seeing you go through this, Odonte" said Seth, "You come to an event like this. You seem to enjoy yourself, and then you..." he trailed off, waving a hand as he searched for a delicate way to put it.

"I don't always do that." said Toffee. "I'm just tired. It's... Hormones, and stuff."

"Uh-huh, hormones" said Seth, looking unconvinced. "I can't make you do anything, but... Please, at least think about it. This is a social event, Toffee, nothing will fall apart if you aren't here" he hesitated, "And, I think you'd dread these things less if you let yourself leave early"

Toffee looked away, frowning. "I'm an adult, Seth. I can handle myself"

Seth opened his mouth, but then closed it again. "Of course." he said instead. After a moment, he spoke up again. "I'm proud of you"

Toffee looked away. "We don't even know it'll make it"

Seth put a hand on his shoulder. "It will. I can feel it"

Toffee rubbed his eyes and thanked him, feeling a little lighter.

By the time he felt like returning to the main event, Rasticore had gone.

Toffee scanned the crowd, and spotted him towards the back, chatting idly with a few mutual friends.

"Hey, Toffee!" said Rasticore, as he came over. He glanced around, then lowered to speak in his husband's ear, "feeling better?"

"A little" said Toffee, leaning back and shutting his eyes.

"Seth showed up, but I said you were busy. Ha, I see you ran into him"

"Indeed" said Toffee, setting the charm down on a nearby table.

"ooooh, he made that?" said Rasticore, gently picking it up and turning it over in his hands.

Toffee grinned, "Insofar as I can infer, yes"

"Oh, I see his signature right here" said Rasticore with a chuckle. put it back, stretching with an exaggerated yawn.

"Boy, I didn't expect this to take so much outta me" he said. "You know, there really isn't much worth staying for" he hinted. "The food's gone, everyone's handed out their gifts. There's no reason to stay till the end"

Toffee opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. "Perhaps you're right" he ground out, heaving a sigh.

The moon had risen high over the marsh when they finally departed, riding on Toffee's beloved Septarian Tricorn, a mutt of questionable heritage he'd rescued from a feral herd as a hatchling.

Toffee sat in the front, holding the reins with Rasticore behind him. Between the swaying of the tricorn and the feel of his husband's arms around him, it was hard to stay awake.

He felt Rasticore's hands over his own, and he looked up at the taller man.

"Hey, let me take over, will you?" he said, gently taking the reins himself.

Toffee, too tired to be proud, let him. "Thank you, Rasticore" he said. "You know, it's times like these where I'm reminded why I married you"

#toffee svtfoe #svtfoe #tofficore #star vs the forces of evil #rasticore svtfoe #seth of septarsis #toffee of septarsis

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