#thanks for bringing anchor into the fold

[forlix]

‧ ❆ ˚ 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 (besides myself)・l.f.

— you spend three years loving him, six months losing him, and four hours waiting for him to get the hell out of your house. but the human heart is more stubborn than you know.

words・5.4k

pairing・lee felix x gn!reader

genres・babysitter!au, girldad!lix, nobody look at me, toothrotting fluff, more angst than originally intended tbh, exes to lovers, hurt/comfort, happy ending yayyy, non-linear storyline

warnings・cousin has a korean name and experiences one (1) minor head bump, mc is temporarily heartbroken and experiences one (1) breakdown

playlist・house song by searows・glad by tori kelly・let's pretend by del water gap・you were good to me by jeremy zucker

a/n・hiiii my loves, i'm so unbelievably excited to bring u my first contribution to my and @astraystayyh's collaboration, "winter falls" ♡ every time i write for our ray of sunshine i'm reminded of how thankful i am to love him. this fic ruined me. hope it does the same to you (smile)

I. everything

“One day,” you muttered to the toddler sitting on your shoulders, “you’ll experience something deeply, irreversibly humbling, and I’ll be there to witness your downfall.”

Byeol responded to this with an unbothered babble. She then gathered two handfuls of your hair and yanked using far too much force to be biologically possible.

You folded like a lawn chair. “Mother—!”

Oh, that word was not suitable for button-sized ears.

“—oh, my dear mother, why? Why me?”

Technically speaking, your aunt should’ve been the target of your lamentations, but all she did was produce the child presently steering you around the kitchen like you were her own personal bumper car. Your own mother was the one who volunteered you to watch said child during the first weekend of your winter break. Only for an hour until the babysitter arrives, she’d said (raising her voice, so as to be heard over your groaning).

You adored Byeol. She made scarily accurate chipmunk sounds and possessed an immobilizing fear of grapes. She bust out a dance move before she took her first steps. The girl could have you floored with laughter without being able to say more than three words at a time. Still, this was far from how you imagined onsetting your desperately-needed few weeks off. Not to mention it was now half past three; your shift should’ve ended two minutes ago.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Byeol emitted an excited onomatopoeia like a golden retriever detecting the mailman. Your reaction wasn’t too far off; you swiveled your head in the sound’s direction, sang out “coming!” in a delighted vibrato, and twirled into the foyer, your hands around Byeol’s ankles anchoring her in place.

You cracked open the door and found yourself face-to-face with Byeol’s babysitter. The freckles scattered across his high cheekbones and sloping nose seemed to you like they were imprinted by the sun itself. His hair was dark, falling just shy of pitch black, and long, ending an inch or so below pierced ears. A few misbehaving strands rested over his forehead but did little to obstruct your view of his eyes: profoundly brown and pointed at either end, like poinsettia petals.

He was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. You felt your skin warm, your heart flip. You opened your mouth. 

Then Byeol hit her head against the vertical edge of the front door, loud enough for it to echo.

The panic that seized you in that moment was truly unlike anything you’d experienced before. You caught one glimpse of the stranger’s expression (as mortified as you expected), and then you were seeing your own epitaph on the inside of your eyelids, engraved with the four words “Death by Furious Aunt.”

“Was that—?” The man sputtered, and his voice was rich and full and accented and just as breathtaking as the rest of him and holy fucking shit now was not the time.

“My fucking god,” you whispered, completely forgetting to watch your mouth. In a hurry, you swung Byeol off your shoulders and dropped to a knee. You leaned in close to examine her reddening forehead and cradled the plush of her cheek; she blinked at you a few times, fascinated by the sudden sight of your face again.

“You okay, Byeollie? That hurt a lot, didn’t it? I’m so, so sorr—”

Byeol started to laugh.

Not laugh as in those little chuckles she let out randomly, like there was something inherently amusing about the kitchen cupboard, but laugh as in a boisterous, resounding guffaw, like a great-uncle at a family gathering off one too many martinis.

This rendered you speechless for the second time in under a minute. Then, you lifted your other hand to cradle her other cheek, her face now sandwiched between your palms, and squeezed.

“I broke my cousin,” you whispered, your voice was so deathly serious that the man in the doorway had to stifle a laugh of his own.

His knee brushed against your shin as he sat down to your left, folding his legs into a criss-cross. You could discern notes of lavender and orange blossoms in the delicate cologne that clung to him, perforated the air and your mind both.

“Can I?” He asked.

“Please.”

Carefully, you shifted Byeol’s small frame towards him; the manner in which he accepted her was so smooth and practiced that there was no doubt in your mind you were watching a professional at work. He settled her on his right knee, then dipped his head to look her in the eye.

“Hi, princess,” he cooed with a dulcet smile. He curved his pointer finger, dusted it beneath her chin. “Why are you laughing, silly girl?”

Oh.

Oh.

You might just continue your lineage after all.

“Y/N-ie,” she answered, still tittering.

He looked to you with a slight tilt to his head, and you nodded affirmatively. He murmured a quiet ah. “What about Y/N-ie?”

Somehow you sensed that she was about to embarrass you and pinched the bridge of your nose—in preparation.

“P-pretty.” I knew it!

The man let out the laugh he’d been holding back since earlier and tapped on her button nose, lowered his voice to a whisper that he knew you could hear.

“I agree.” His eye glinted playfully, matching his tone. “And so are you.” The bashful, high-pitched giggle she responded with sounded eerily similar to your inner monologue.

The two of you spent a little longer on the floor of the foyer making sure Byeol was okay, and then the girl upped and made a mad dash for the kitchen while yelling something about a horse, and if that didn’t confirm that she was completely fine (albeit incredibly strange) you didn’t know what would. You found her rolling around the carpet in the room adjacent to the kitchen and left her to her own devices while you and her babysitter fixed up a small fruit plate for her afternoon snack. No grapes, of course.

He told you he usually went by Felix, but that his Korean name was probably easier for Byeol to pronounce, with its easier consonants and whatnot. You asked which name he preferred, and he said either or. He was a recent college graduate, a year older than you, who was determined to spend at least the next two years doing nothing but working out his future. He accepted the part-time babysitting position to pick up some light cash in the process.

“And ‘cause I’m good with kids,” he added, splitting apart a tangerine. “So I’ve been told.”

“Oh, you definitely are,” you said, plating a couple blueberries. “You melted her earlier.”

“She melted me. She’s so cute. And you’re so cute with her—I didn’t realize I was robbing someone of their job.”

You turned your head to regard the tot and let out a helpless laugh. Byeol tired of being a human lint roller a few minutes ago and had since moved on to staring aimlessly out the window.

“She doesn’t take me seriously, and I can’t stay mad at her,” you mused. “I would be a nightmare as her babysitter, trust me. She’s all yours.”

Felix held out two overturned handfuls of tangerine slices, to which you quickly moved the platter across the counter. He didn’t respond to your comments as he placed them on the outermost edge so that they looked like rays of sun emanating from a multicolored core. Adorable.

“Will you be around much, then?”

You made eye contact with him across the counter. On his perfect face was a teasing smirk and a subtle blush. Ah, you’d been mistaken, writing off his silence as concentration—he’d been contemplating how to best flirt with you.

“Y’know. In case I need any help teaching her cuss words,” he appended.

It was then your turn to flush a couple shades darker. “Please don’t tell her mom.”

“I won’t, I won’t.” He walked around the perimeter of the counter until he was directly in front of you; the lavender and orange blossoms returned. “On one condition.”

Not even one hour on the job and he was already trying to blackmail you? You respected it. “Which is?”

As he shifted some of his weight onto the counter, something too shifted in his smile, giving it a quality that was every bit as hopeful as it was gentle.

It was then, while Lee Felix was looking at you like that, all dilated pupils and long lashes, when you predicted that he would one day break your heart. You predicted you’d let him.

“Be around,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a question or a demand. In hindsight, you think it was more akin to a birthday wish, ill-fated the moment it hit the air.

II. has changed

Felix pulled Byeol’s hood up and over her ears, and you realized he was right about the winter coat getting too small for her—she looked like a bowling pin. You muffled your snort into your scarf.

“And what was the last rule again?” He asked, his breath puffing into the frigid afternoon in tiny clouds. Byeol sighed like she knew anything of the world’s woes.

“No barking at other kids,” came the sad reply, but a toothy smile spread across her face anyways when Felix nudged the underside of her chin. She loved when he did that.

“That’s my girl,” he hummed. “I believe in you.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” you said, and the wounded look Felix shot you was like you’d just confessed to hating kittens. “Come on—she doesn’t have a good track record. I’m allowed to have my doubts.”

“I dunno what that means,” Byeol announced with admirable frankness, and then turned around and scurried down the porch stairs, scattering fun-sized footprints across the snowy streets.

As you braced yourself to follow her, Felix stopped you with a slip of his hand into the pocket of your puffer. His fingers first aligned with yours inside the insulated nylon, then chased the spaces in between. He leaned in close, placed a kiss on the apple of your cheek, another on the corner of your mouth. This brought a helpless smile to your face, too. He had a way of melting you and Byeol both.

“It’ll be fine,” he soothed. “A little barking never hurt anybody, baby.”

“Lix, last time somebody called animal control.”

“Ermm—a little barking never hurt most people.”

That winter, Byeol was four, and your relationship with Felix was about to turn two.

Funnily enough, you’d never figured out when your anniversary actually was. Felix wagered it was the day you met, as he knew he loved you the instant he saw you; you insisted it was months later, since it took both of you an entire winter break of open-ended flirting and informal dating to label yourselves for real. Imagine your horror when he showed up outside your college apartment on the last day of your fall semester, arms overflowing with flowers and gift bags brimming with your favorite things, the phrase “happy anniversary” on his lips three months before you perceived it to be. You’ve celebrated both days ever since.

You loved the ocean growing up. You didn’t get to visit it often, but when you did you would run up to the water’s very edge so that your toes dipped into the cold—and just stand there, observing, absorbing, until even the seam of your lips and the ends of your eyelashes were studded with crystals of seasalt. You found endless tranquility in its rhythmic whispers and unspeakable comfort in its oscillating waves, guaranteed to return after momentary departure.

Your fascination stemmed from the folktale your mother used to read to you before bed, about a sun goddess creating the earth. In the story, every component of nature was one of the sun’s beloved children. She allegedly loved them all, but you suspected the ocean was her favorite; it was obvious, the way she twinkled off its ebbing surface, the way every minuscule spot of light looked to you like a handprint of hers, left behind by eons of endless doting.

Felix reminded you of the ocean. Every day you grew more certain that you wanted to drown in him, to let his resonant voice and kind eyes sweep and keep you inside his depths. It was never salt that he pressed into your skin but warmth, stamped and sealed with caring hands and cautious lips. His deep whispers promised eternal love and temporary ecstasy and everything in between. You knew he would come back to you even if stranded in a different realm. And there was no questioning the goddess’ favoritism, either. The freckles on his face mirrored the sun’s very spots like an homage to his creator.

You didn’t love the ocean growing up, no. You had never loved before Felix.

The park was busy when the three of you arrived. Byeol and Felix recognized a few families as your aunt’s neighbors and hurried over to say hello. Your social butterflies. 

“I’ll be over there,” you called after them.

Felix stopped in his tracks, looked over his shoulder. It had started snowing lightly on your walk there, and snowflakes now sat atop his sable locks. He looked like a painting. “You okay?”

“Yes, yes.” You shooed them off. “Don’t worry about me. Go have fun.” 

With that, you withdrew to the sidelines, an unoccupied swingset adjacent to a baseball diamond covered in frost. 

Your baby cousin was brawny for her age, which you could’ve seen coming with how she was hauling at your hair two years ago, but even she couldn’t yet terrorize the playground without assistance. Who better to make her partner in crime than her favorite Bokkie? You couldn’t help but giggle as the two revolved around each other for the better part of an hour, Byeol’s smile colossal as she frolicked every which way, Felix’s smile worried but hopelessly endeared as he followed behind. He never let her leave his shadow. She never tried to.

It was there on those icy swings that you experienced a moment of strange clarity, like you’d broken the fourth wall of your own story. You could feel the winds of change blowing your hair across your shoulders. You were aware of time’s trickling from the gaps of your fingers like liquid mercury.

Your laughter dissipated to a bittersweet smile; your smile mellowed to dewy eyes. It seemed like just yesterday when Byeol was small enough to sit on your shoulders and Felix stepped into your kitchen for the first time. Now, she was scaling a rope ladder with the celerity of a crazed monkey while Felix hovered a wary hand by her waist. The muted sunlight caught on the silver rings he wore, particularly the thin, bright one on his middle finger. You had one just like it, adorning the same place. 

The last two years were the happiest of your life. Why couldn’t you remember where they went?

Lavender and orange blossoms announced your boyfriend’s arrival—that, and the sigh of fatigue that he expelled as he dropped into the swing next to you.

“I’m not cut out for this anymore.”

Byeol’s neighbor had temporarily relieved Felix of his post by taking her and his son to test out the seesaw, and you wouldn’t be surprised if the whole town could hear her enthusiastic shrieking.

“You know how people walk their dogs?” You mused. “Some dogs walk their people. She’s one of them.”

For a moment, he could only stare in disbelief at the grin creeping across your face; then, he groaned in a way that could only mean you were right on the money. You gave his thigh a sympathetic pat.

“You’re whipped, my love. It’s okay.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, suddenly perking up. “Hey, no barking though.”

“Are we considering that a win nowadays?”

“Do you see animal control anywhere?”

“Good point.”

Felix monitored your expression during the quiet interval that ensued—saw through the melancholy curve of your lips, the pensive slant of your gaze. There was a red tinge to the whites of your eyes that hadn’t been there before.

You saw him reach for you in your periphery. His fingers brushed a lock of hair behind the shell of your ear, remained there for three slow heartbeats, and then lifted away.

“Angel,” he murmured. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not.” Not even ten seconds after the last time, he reached for you again, now to take your hand and bring it to his lap. “You know it’s not.”

“It’s just that—”

Felix thumbed over the ridges of your knuckles, his touch so gentle that it could’ve unraveled a chrysalis; it certainly unraveled you. You took a stabilizing breath.

“I wish could recognize my own happiness in the moment,” you sighed, “not just in retrospect. That way, even when it comes to an end, I’d still be able to look back and say with confidence that I was happy once. I’d like that, I think.”

His brows knit together as he processed your words, and, the next thing you knew, he left his swing trembling in his sudden absence and his trenchcoat became a black blur in the cold air.

Felix rested his elbows atop your knees as he knelt in front of you, cradled your face in his hands. He was achingly beautiful always, but you truly felt your breath swiped from your lungs at the new proximity of his ethereal features: petal-shaped eyes, wind-bitten cheeks, coral cupid’s bow. A painting.

“That’s easy enough,” Felix hummed. “How do you feel right now?”

You had zero agency in the smile this brought to your face. You wrapped your hands around his wrists, your answer quick, thoughtless. “Happy.”

He pressed his lips to the space between your eyes. “And now?”

“Happier.”

He pressed his lips to the curve of your jaw. “What about now?” 

“Even happier.”

His gaze flickered to his final destination, but you beat him to it, sealing your mouth against his with urgency. The kiss that followed was so intensely loving that your head went fuzzy. How was it that you felt his adoration for you even in his pliant lips, his velvet tongue? You ran your fingers through the part of his hair. You loved when you could feel the locks flutter back into place afterwards.

“GET A ROOM!”

You and Felix pulled away from one another, wearing matching expressions of bewilderment. Byeol was approximately five Newtons away from soaring off into the stratosphere, her legs jostling around as she clung to her seat for dear life. It seemed your neighbor had a very aggressive way of seesaw-maneuvering. It seemed your cousin had a very aggressive vocabulary.

“Where did she learn—?” The two of you began in unison, then shot your heads back towards each other.

“It had to be you.”

“Outrageous—you’re the Australian here!”

“You cuss like one too!”

“Because of you!”

“So we’re just lying now?”

“Well, yes.”

Felix cracked a smile—and then the two of you were dying of laughter, his right eye squinting closed and your forehead thudding onto his shoulder. You hardly managed to get out your next words. “We have to do something about her vernacular, don’t we?”

“Oh, badly,” he replied. “Badly.”

After you expended your giggles, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, blissful, glowing. “Thank you, baby.”

“What for?”

“Being my happiness.”

He angled your face back to his and kissed you once more, whispering I love you like it wasn’t enough that it graced your ears; he needed it embossed upon your flesh in permanent ink.

Your intermingled breaths floated up into the air like flare signals over a capsizing boat. Here marks the time we were happiest.

III. (besides myself)

He’s blonde.

That’s the first thing you notice when you see your ex-boyfriend on your aunt’s porch: the slightly off-white color of his silky tresses, grown out longer than you’ve ever seen, pushed off his forehead and tucked behind his ears.

It’s not the only thing you notice, of course. His face has thinned ever so slightly, the shadows thrown over his features by the streetlights behind him particularly opaque. His outfit is glorious, expensive, with the black blazer and white dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, the pendant of a silver necklace resting between toned collarbones. His hands are almost overflowing with what must be gifts for your family. It’s impossible to discern all of them from this distance, but you know the bouquet of white poinsettias is for your mom, the batch of brownies doused in sprinkles and icing for Byeol.

But the hair is where your gaze returns, because tucked among the platinum strands are black roots: millimeters of the color you grew to adore, peeking out as if trying to catch a glimpse of you, too.

You’re so occupied with this game of “I spy” that you don’t notice the rampant footsteps coming up behind you. Your six-year-old cousin collides with the back of your leg head-on and nearly topples you like a bowling pin.

“Is it him?” She asks breathlessly.

You come this close to berating her as you steady yourself against the wall—what did I say about treating human beings like couch cushions? But you look down to see her chin resting on the side of your thigh, her eager eyes shining so brightly that she puts her own namesake to shame. Your scolding tirade dissolves on your tongue like popping candy.

You simply sigh instead. “Yes, but—”

“BOKKIE!” She shrieks, and Felix’s head snap upwards at the sound of her voice. His tender smile melts some of the frost laminating your heart.

You crack open the door, making eye contact with Felix for the first time in six months.

“Put everything down. Quickly,” you whisper, and he obeys right away, alarmed by the urgency in your voice. A wise choice.

The last present has hardly touched down upon the wooden planks when Byeol wriggles through the doorway and charges towards Felix like an angered toro. He swivels at her bright holler of his name, lowers himself to a squat just barely in time to catch her in his embrace. The delighted laugh that leaves his mouth as he staggers backwards sounds like the sun itself; you feel lost in orbit hearing it again.

“Bokkie,” Byeol murmurs, her voice muffled in the dip of his shoulder, by the tightening of her arms around his neck.

“Hi, princess.” He kisses her temple, presses his nose against her hair. “Whoa, you’ve grown strong, haven’t you?”

“She takes taekwondo classes now,” you hum from above, and the shock in his face asks the very question that your poignant smile confirms. Yes, because of you.

Felix pulls away, cocoons her cheeks with cherishing hands. “Is that true?”

She bobs her head. “I want to be like Bokkie.”

And his eyes go impossibly, terribly soft, like he’s gazing at the horizon itself. The sight twists the knife in your gut and yanks on your tangled heartstrings. It’s all because of you.

“And kick some ass!” Byeol adds, knocking you out of your sentimental spiral. You clap a defeated hand to your forehead. Felix falls over himself. So much for fixing her vernacular.

A few minutes later, Byeol is pirouetting towards the kitchen with a couple of Felix’s smaller presents in her arms, all too happy to be of help. You linger behind as Felix takes off his shoes, your cousin’s departure leaving the two of you alone in the dim foyer.

Felix straightens. The two of you come face to face. The air hangs so heavily with unspoken words that you half expect it to start dripping.

“Hi,” he says.

You nearly laugh at the cruelty of it. The man you were certain you’d grow old with greeting you like you’ve been forced to sit next to each other on the first day of school.

“Hi,” you answer. “You look—”

The two of you say this last part in unison; old habits die hard.

“—nice,” you finish.

“—beautiful,” Felix breathes, his eyes flicking off to the side abashedly.

Your throat constricts, pulse quickens. Says you. If he was a painting before, you think he’s a sculpture now, his perfection as tangible as if hand-chiseled by the greatest artists of old. As clear as the sun’s beloved sea. You can’t tell if it’s his stylist’s doing or simply a product of him growing into himself.

“Thank you,” you reply quietly. “And thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me. I didn’t think you would.”

“I didn’t do it for me.”

No part of you wants to see the subtle wince that crosses his face at your statement, so you turn your gaze to his jewelry-laden hands instead. 

For a split second, you swear you see the same promise ring settled in the same place on his middle finger. You realize what you’re really looking at only after blinking the phosphenes from your eyes: the thin tanline that it left behind. The realization fixes and destroys you all at once.

Then, Byeol starts wailing about Felix’s whereabouts like an actress hired to spare you from this very interaction.

“Her Highness beckons.” The smile you manage feels like drying cement. “Shall we?”

On your way to the kitchen, you notice the cologne emanating from his person smells only of citrus—no lavender. Its absence steadies you, deludes you into believing that it’s a stranger you’ve just let inside.

That illusion lasts for exactly three hours and forty-eight minutes.

It’s clear that the breakup has your family walking on eggshells, but it’s even clearer that their adoration for Felix has never wavered. You’ve never resigned yourself to the restroom so many times in one night, only to stand with your back against the door, unmoving, unfeeling, listening to the low thrum of his voice through the mahogany. Chatting comfortably with your aunt, bursting into laughter with Byeol, reminding you of the time you considered him family too. 

With every glance you toss your reflection, you discover new cracks in your composure. Has he noticed them yet?

After you come out of the restroom for the sixth time, you notice a light spilling from Byeol’s bedroom into the hallway. A low Australian accent graces your ears, followed closely by a tinkling giggle, and your body nudges you towards the sounds before your head can intervene.

You give your cousin’s door a feather-light nudge. It opens a few centimeters more and grants you vision of Byeol tucked into bed, Felix knelt at her side. Both of their faces are illuminated by the flaxen light of the nearby lamp.

Felix brushes her choppy bangs out of her eyes, a teasing smile on his lips. “Can I tell you a secret, princess?”

This wrests from her another fluttering laugh; you swear he’s the only person in the whole world who makes her shy. “Sure!”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Promise.”

“Not even Snernard.”

“M’kay.”

“Or Bong.”

“M’kay.”

“Especially not Trash the chicken. I don’t trust him.”

“I know, I know, I won’t!” Byeol huffs, and Felix laughs at her outburst. You also snort into your sleeve, amused (and deeply perplexed) by your cousin’s plushie-naming conventions.

“Thank you,” he hums, and he lowers his voice enough that you don’t catch the next thing he says.

All you perceive is the way that Byeol reacts. She sits up straight in bed, resting her back against her pillow. Her features rearrange themselves slowly, awfully, like the spread of cherry-flavored cough syrup over one’s sore throat, into the furthest thing from her trademark too-big-for-her-face smile.

Your stomach plummets to your fucking ankle.

“Why?” Her voice sounds microscopic.

“Well, do you remember what Bokkie’s dream job is?”

Byeol considers for a moment. “Being a singer?”

“That’s right.” He runs a knuckle over the hill of her cheek, the action achingly familiar, immensely fond. “And I found a place where I can do that, but it’s very, very far away. I won’t be able to come home very often.”

The telltale signs appear as he speaks; the final word sets them into motion. A tear streaks down the side of Byeol’s face. It hardly leaves the corner of her eye before it’s being intercepted by a doting swipe of his thumb.

“No,” she replies.

“You've grown so much.” Another tear falls. He wipes away that one, too. “You’re growing so well.”

“No,” she repeats.

“You’ve stolen the light of every star in the sky already. The whole galaxy will be yours someday, sweetheart. I know it.”

“I don’t want it,” she whispers. “I want my Bokkie.”

His vision starts to blur also. “But you don’t need me anymore.”

“We do.”

You know the precise moment Felix’s heart pauses in his chest because it is when yours does too.

“We?” He repeats, and she nods.

“Your dream job is being a singer.” Now Byeol is the one to reach for Felix, her delicate hand cupping the curve of his cheek. Her fingers are too small to catch his tears, she tries anyways—

“But what is your dream?”

It becomes too much for you.

You turn around. A choked sob escapes from behind the hand you have sealed to your mouth, causing both heads inside Byeol’s room to whirl in your direction. You don’t care that you nearly break both of your ankles beelining up the stairs; you only care to get the fuck out of that hallway.

You topple into your room, close the door behind you, and crumble.

Your quivering hands find purchase around your folded legs; your eyes squeeze shut against your knees. Rivulets of tears cascade over your shuddering lips like ruptured barrels of wine, left in the cellars of your soul to age, to spoil.

You never wanted your grief to see the light of day. Pouring your regret over every sidewalk wouldn’t change the past. Splashing your heartache across every wall like the world’s most fucked-up mural wouldn’t alleviate the pain of losing him. He was the one who left, but you were the one who’d asked him to. Feeling, yearning, mourning. Those always seemed so futile.

But you’re not just crying in this moment, rocking back and forth on your bedroom floor; you’re bleeding, the wounds you never treated igniting all at once as if exposed to vinegar, leaving you writhing and gasping in their wake. How you wish they’d been able to heal sooner. Maybe then seeing Felix tonight wouldn’t have splintered your soul like dropped porcelain.

Your door clicks open. Your breath hitches in your throat with a quiet scratch. The gulp of oxygen you intake tastes of oranges.

Every night before you fall asleep, you still think of the last time you visited the sea. The cool sand chafing against your toes, the coarse winds slapping your hair against your face hard enough to sting. The weather was terrible (you neglected to check the forecast before making the drive), but when you stepped onto the embittered coastline, you took what felt like the first real breath of your young adulthood. The fog melded to your skin as if melting a blindfold away, showing you the world in its entirety.

You return to that beach when Felix pulls you into his chest, and there’s no fog this time. Just the faint smell of lavender and your ocean, guaranteed to return after momentary departure.

Feverishly, Felix presses his lips to your temple, the apple of your cheek, rests his forehead against yours. Brokenly, he utters, “it’s you.”

You can feel his shaking in every part of him: the tickling breath, the fluttering eyelashes, the unsteady hand that reaches into the pocket of his blazer. You graze your fingers over his jaw, an attempt to steady his careening heart, only to lose yours in the fray also when he produces a small red box of unmistakable dimensions.

“God, it’s you. It always has been, always will be. Anything can change except for this.” His voice disintegrates as he speaks. You disintegrate as you listen. “Everything has changed besides myself.”

Felix leans back in to pepper kisses across the expanse of your wet features, then brings himself to one fated knee. He flicks open the lid. You don’t even spare the ring a glance; you don’t doubt its perfection. All you care to look at is the love of your life, deliquesced to adoration and tearwater.

“Thank you for being around, my dream.” His soft smile tends to your scars like ambrosia. “Will you let me do the same?”

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@skzms・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend ・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp ♡

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support!

[rainybubbles]

141 coming back to you after a eight months mission

Plus size reader :) !

(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC)

G H O S T

-Eight long months, every fiber of his being yearned for a hot shower, his eyes struggled to stay open.

- Yet, it wasn't his shabby apartment that the taxi drove to.

-Simon, buried beneath the Ghost's mask, still held a glimmer of humanity within him, a breath hidden beneath Ghost's blood, death, and violence.

-But on that evening, what he ardently desired was them: their gentleness, their scent, their warmth.

-Like a wild animal slowly tamed by food, he returned to them whenever possible.

-Under the pouring rain, he advanced, hastily thanking the driver, the heavy bags weighing on his shoulders.

-He stepped into the still slumbering pastry shop, and the bell rang.

-And there they appeared.

- Covered in flour, with a pastry cap and apron, they were surprised to find someone there at five in the morning.

-"Simon," they murmured.

-The sound of his name was so sweet, so soothing.

- But he wanted more.

-He wanted them to whisper his name over and over again, filled with desire, until they could only utter it, clouded with pleasure.

-His bags fell to the ground, and his arms enveloped them in an instinctive movement.

- Their hair smelled of sugar and butter, the flour staining their black sweater. Simon wanted more.

-"Y/n"

-" I missed you," they whispered.

-He couldn't bring himself to respond, to admit this longing, but they could sense it.

-His arms didn't let them go.

-"Scone?" they asked.

-"No. "

-"Muffin?"

- "No."

-" Croissant?"

- "You," he finally said.

A silence stretched between them.

-"I have to finish my batch, I open in an hour. Do you think you can wait?"

-No, he couldn't. But reason prevailed, and he nodded.

-"I'll help you," he murmured.

-"You barely know how to fold a dough."

-"I can follow orders."

-"Sorry, soldier."

-Their laughter echoed, and a sense of relief washed over him.

- He wanted to hear that sound again and again.

- In silence, they worked. Simon followed every move, ignoring the pain, stretching each muscle. He was ready for anything.

-When the last batch was ready and the saleswoman arrived, Simon breathed a sigh of relief.

-Y/n gave their final instructions and left.

-Alone on the street, they walked together.

-Like a starving beast, Simon jumped at every crumb of affection, grabbing their hand, his fingers brushing theirs through gloves.

-"We need to talk, don't we?" they finally admitted.

-"Yes," he replied.

- "About what happened before your deployment…"

-The kiss. A hurried kiss, without thought.

- Lips so soft, erasing the bad news of his deployment and eight long months of silence.

-"I… "

-'Don't say you regret it," he finally said.

-"No, I don't. I mean it. But I don't want it to destroy us."

-"It won't."

-"I know you avoid people, Simon. Attachment."

-"Yes."

-But not them, he thought

- Since the moment his feet led him to that pastry shop. Simon knew he was doomed.

- A stupid cake for Soap's nephew, and he found himself charmed by a baker making incredible scones.

-Simon had become a regular there, a man of habit enjoying the good things, he told himself.

- It was close, he said.

-Close to his shabby apartment, to his gym.

-Just a daily stop for coffee and scones, he reasoned.

- But every morning, his eager eyes searched for their silhouette.

-Their rolls, their belly, their thighs, that smile.

- Every crumb he could get, he took.

-They eventually noticed him.

-A mountain of muscles, hidden by a mask, softened by scones, it wasn't the most discreet.

-They greeted him.

-Always the first customer at dawn.

-In reality, Simon came so early out of military habit but also to avoid the saleswoman.

-Simon desired the baker, not the small, slim saleswoman.

-Slowly, they spoke to him, and everything fell into place.

- They had become his anchor, an anchor in reality.

- A tough mission, and he came to them silently, without needing to place an order, without having to face the crowd, slipping to the back and watching them work.

-No questions, just comfort.

-The smell of sugar, flour, and eggs permeated his clothes in the most exquisite way.

-And now he dreamed of a life where this scent would be constant.

-"I don't want us to drift apart," they said.

-"We won't," he assured them.

-"So, what do we do, Simon?"

-"Kiss me."

-It was a prayer, a barely audible order, a cry for help.

-Slowly his mask fell.

- Their eyes met, hesitant but filled with desire.

-And they kissed him.

- In that dark street, under the pouring rain.

-"Again," he murmured.

-"We have to go back," they said.

- "I don't care about going back," he replied.

- "Simon, you don't want to spend your leave sick."

-"If I stay with you, I do."

-"Idiot."

- "For you."

-Their laughter burst out, and Simon kissed them again to capture it.

-Slowly, they finally arrived at their place.

-Their dog welcomed them, barking happily at Simon. And after eight long months, Simon could finally breathe.

-"I'm home," he murmured.

- "We were waiting for you," they replied.

-Nothing surpassed this feeling, he thought as he kissed them again.

-Simon was a man, and like any man, he had finally found his long-desired home in their arms.

__________

P R I C E

-In an emotionally charged atmosphere, Price let the water flow slowly, carrying away the remnants of blood under his nails.

-After eight long months, he felt like a ship drifting without a course, without a real destination.

-At least that's what he claimed to anyone who would listen, but the ring hanging under his uniform whispered different truths to him.

-Staring at his own reflection, Price read the inscription inside the ring, a name he hadn't uttered in years.

- Like enchanted by a spell whose charm he feared, he hesitated to whisper it again.

-Yet, his heart demanded it.

-He knew it was the longing that drove him.

-Without those eight months, he wouldn't be here, longing desperately to have them back in his arms.

-(It was false; since the divorce was signed, he dreamt of them.)

-Since the day their marriage ended, he had wanted to throw himself at their feet and beg them to come back.

- He desired their warmth, their ridiculous work stories, their cooking, their scent, their fingers, their kisses.

-They were the oasis in the desert of his life, and through negligence, he had let them evaporate.

- It all dated back to before his promotion to captain.

- Back then, he was just a young lieutenant full of ambition, willing to sacrifice anything to obtain that coveted title.

-But the long hours at the office had gradually poisoned his time with them, an absence they had signaled to him, one he had ignored, one he had maintained until everything exploded like a grenade.

-Now, he stood there, on the minefield of his emotional life with a ring they had probably forgotten, longing to hear them say yes once again.

-As he dried himself off, Price settled into his office.

-He told himself it was just simple nostalgia, but the bitter taste of tobacco wasn't enough to distract him, remembering how much they hated that smell. He extinguished his cigar.

-To take his mind off things, he decided to go to the nearest bookstore. A good book would be welcome, he thought.

-"John?"

-That voice, which had haunted him for three years and eight long months of divorce.

-"Y/N."

-It had been so long.

-Too long, he thought, seeing them so different.

- He admired their new haircut, their new clothes. What a lucky man he had been.

-"Yes. Still teaching?"

-"Yes. And you, did you manage to become a captain?"

-"Yes."

-The silence stretched, their eyes avoiding his.

-"But it wasn't worth it," he admitted.

-"Too much work?"

-"Not enough of you"

-"John," they interrupted.

-"I'm not trying to get us back together, far from it. I know it won't happen, but I wanted to be honest with you. I think this divorce has been the biggest failure of my life, and you deserved better than me."

-Hesitantly, they opened their mouth, a mouth he had kissed so many times, one that had shared all their troubles, all their doubts.

-"Thank you, John. But I'm also to blame. I should have told you everything that was going on in my head, everything that wasn't right."

-"You couldn't, when all I listened to were orders."

-"Maybe…"

-"Good person, wrong time, it seems."

-"Nothing prevents us from correcting the timing, right?"

-John raised an eyebrow.

-"It doesn't mean we have to start all over, but… you've been a pillar in my life, John. I missed you. Whether as friends or more, it doesn't matter."

-"Thank you, love," John murmured.

-They approached him, and during this long absence, John could finally feel human warmth again.

-To just be John again, not Captain Price.

-Their hands wrapped around each other.

-They both knew it wouldn't be purely platonic, but like a suspended promise, for now, they would stick to it, hoping that one day the rings would find their respective places again.

-Theirs from their drawer to their finger, and his from his neck to his hand.

-"I missed you."

-"You too. Tell me what I've missed."

-And John could only smile.

-If these eight months of hell, these three years of desert led him back to them, then it was worth it, he decided.

- So when he packed for his next return, the soldiers watched him curiously because for once the captain had a home where he really wanted to be.

_________

S O A P

-Immersed in an ocean of turmoil, Soap returned after eight months of absence, longing to celebrate his return with his family.

-His thoughts, drowned in alcohol and his mother's reprimands, were rocked by the cheery laughter of his nephews and nieces.

-Between the urge to scream and the desire to simply savor their presence, he oscillated.

-When the festivities finally came to an end, he could finally breathe.

-Eight months.

- Alone in his flat, memories flooded in, evoking strategies, bombs, deafening tumult, and lingering smells.

-Everything was an attempt at distraction; the television, the rain, a run, a cup of tea, messages on his mobile.

-He longed for something, even if he didn't know exactly what.

-But it was missing, creeping under his skin little by little, scratching at the door of his mind.

-"Again, really?'

-His eyes fell on his neighbour.

-The same one who had endured his screams at three in the morning, his hurried departures on missions, his heavy suitcases dragged at seven in the morning.

- And now, at four o'clock, they stood before him, a mischievous gleam in their eyes, the result of an incident involving dumbbells in his hands.

-"Sorry.", he apologized.

-"I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose."

-"On purpose…? "He raised an eyebrow.

-"So that we see each other. You know, like in those cliché romances where the noisy neighbour ends up seducin' the complainin' neighbour."

-Incredulous, he couldn't help but laugh.

-"Ye wouldn't need that."

-A teasing smile stretched across his neighbour's lips.

-"I know. But you seem to need it. Not an adventure, but a distraction."

-They referred to the dumbbells.

-"Aye."

-"I make cookies." they said.

-"At 4 a.m.?"

-"I know how to keep myself busy in silence."

-"…"

-"Interested?" they asked.

-The latent feeling under Soap's skin resurfaced.

-He nodded and followed them. And then he realized.

-The warm atmosphere, the decor, the unstacked dishes, the soft carpets.

-That's what he had missed, a heaven of peace.

-"They won't be the best cookies in the world, but they'll do."

-"Ah'm good at it." he said.

-"Pastry chef?"

-"Military."

-"Hm, that explains a lot. "They gave him a complicit look.

-"Like what?" Soap asked.

-"This horrible haircut."

Laughter erupted in the kitchen.

-"Ma haircut is incredible."

-"For a 6-year-old."

-"Ah look handsome with it."

-"Even without it."they said.

-"Good at flirtin'?"he asked.

-"With the right person, yes."

-Soap smiled.

-"Ye would be bonnie with a mohawk."

-"No thanks. But, well, I understand the muscles and the irregular movements now."

-"Aye, Ah don't choose my hours."

-Too bad, you'd think criminals can't be punctual, huh? "they joked.

-He smiled.

-"Exactly."

-Hands in the dough, Soap couldn't help but let his gaze drift over his neighbour's curves.

-He admitted that sometimes his door slammed a little louder in the hope of catching a glimpse of them, like a good luck charm before a mission.

-Curves he longed to explore, letting the eight long months fade from his memory to be replaced by love for them.

-"Ah should hae made more noise if it means havin' cookies."

-His neighbour smiled.

-"Maybe. I was worried about this silence, you know."

Soap felt touched by their concern.

-"Ah'm sorry."

-"Don't apologize, you didn't decide on that. It's just… maybe I could give you my number? If you ever have plants or stuff like that, I'll take care of them."

-"Okay." he acquiesced.

-He took the paper feverishly, keeping it as a precious treasure, and continued cooking.

-At the end of that day, returning home, Soap could finally close his eyes.

-The creeping feeling had come to an end.

-That longing, that emptiness, it was them, the sound of a life together.

-He brushed the paper, a smile on his lips.

-Getting up, he decided to drop a dumbbell loudly.

- A noise at his door rang out, and he smiled. Nothing was worth his neighbour.

-So slowly he opened the door, and dinner followed to apologize.

-Then another to repay.

-And slowly, they erased from his mind the eight long months that had haunted him.

G A Z

-After eight long months of absence, Gaz finally found a moment of respite in his humble accommodation on the base.

-The deafening noises of the base's incessant activity, the hurried faces, the soldiers' rushed departures, everything seemed to dissolve into a chaos filling his ears.

-Everything seemed to fade away as soon as he could cross the threshold of his room.

-Here, in this haven of tranquility, he could finally silence the external turmoil.

-His pulse slightly quickened as he reached for his phone, his fingers instinctively finding his favorite contact: them.

- He felt this visceral need to reassure them, to feel their presence through the voice that was so dear to him.

-In this suspended moment, he longed to hear nothing but their soothing breath, to lose himself in their tender words.

-His ears buzzed, every beep deafening his eardrums and…

-"Hello?"

-"Y/N," he murmured, relieved and tender.

-The echo of their voice provided him with a welcome comfort, a balm for his weary soul.

-"Kyle. Back among us?"

-"Yes, I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you."

-"No, I'm on break. I have a shift tonight."

-A silence stretched.

-"Is everything alright?"

-Kyle hesitated before speaking.

-Is everything alright? The blood, the bruises, the cries, the deaths… Everything seemed to still be on his skin, vivid in his mind.

-"I don't know," he admitted.

-"You didn't break an arm, did you?"

-Kyle smiled at the memory.

-After a rough mission he had rushed to his flat ignoring the pain in his arm and the medics.

-Yet he ended up to E.R days later with a blue arm and broken bone.

-Y/n was one of the nurse who was in charge of him and his cast, they kept contact.

-"No, I don't know how I managed to cope without hearing from you."

-"Charming," they laughed at his attempt at flirting.

-"Maybe."

-"More seriously?"

-"Tired," he admitted.

-"I would tell you to sleep, but I imagine you don't want to."

-"I can't."

-Not when he knew the nightmares awaiting him.

-"…I finish at 1am, if ever. I'm not implying anything, I know your base is super far, but I know that company can help."

-"Hmm, I don't know, will there be food?"

-"My company isn't enough for you, Kyle?" they joked.

-"I fear not."

-"Damn," they exclaimed, laughing.

-Ah, there it was.

-A tender smile stretched across Gaz's lips.

- In this exchange, he found comfort, a precious connection.

-His body relaxed slightly.

-"I missed you," they confessed.

-"You too."

-"You know, I bought those awful biscuits you talked about so much, hoping you'd come eat them at my place."

-"I'll take it as a declaration at this rate."

-"Shut up, I know you'd never buy them because 'no time'."

-"I like speed."

-"Even in bed?"

-A mischievous smile formed on his lips.

-"That's for you to find out."

-"You always say that."

-"I mean it."

-"About?"

-"Us."

-"Kyle…"

-"I know, after eight months of absence, it might just be the longing speaking, but… the only thing I wanted was you. Coming back to you, holding you in my arms, making you laugh one last time. And… staying friends… it's worse."

-"Worse than eight months without me?" -"Yes."

-"You're horrible for doing this."

-"I know."

-"At a distance, over the phone. I can't… I can't guess anything."

-"I guess I'm a coward."

-"Shut up, I… I swear I'm going to hit you and then kiss you."

-"Kiss me?"

-"Of course, do you really think I answer all your calls at any time out of friendship?"

-"Y/N…"

-"Last time there was an eight-hour time difference."

-"You told me…"

-"That there were only two, yes, because… I didn't want you to worry. You're a stubborn idiot always thinking of others, so I wanted to be selfish for once that you are."

-"I am. I want you, Y/n."

-"Then come get me."

-Kyle smiled and hung up.

- In his car, stress, fear, adrenaline surged. But for once, the enemy wasn't to be fought.

-Once in front of the hospital, hours of driving later, he stood at the entrance and saw them come out.

-Their name spoken from their lips, and he embraced them.

-"Never again," they whispered.

-"I can't promise anything, but I'll try."

-"I swear I'll kick Price's ass if he does that again."

-"I'll help you."

-"Promise?"

-"Promise."

-And he kissed them.

-Suddenly the eight long months evaporated on Y/n's couch, his fingers sliding through their hair, and his lips on theirs.

-The silence returned and Kyle could finally breathe.

If you want more : my masterlist

[honestlydarkprincess]

welcome to the club

buck & hen || rated: g || wc: 908 || read on ao3

Buck rang the doorbell to Hen’s house and took a deep breath. He was nervous but since coming out to Maddie and Bobby, he wasn’t as anxious as he might have been. He was ready, he was going to tell Hen today.

Hen opened the door with a look of surprise. “Buck?”

“Hey, Hen, uh, can I come in?” Buck asked, biting his lip as he played with his hands.

“Yeah, of course,” Hen said, shaking off the surprise and stepping to the side, gesturing for him to come in. “If this is you wanting to get day drunk again I’m afraid I’m going to have to take a rain check, I have to pick up Denny in two hours.”

“No,” Buck laughed, proud that his voice was only a little bit shaky. “That’s not it at all.”

“Okay, then what brings you to my door?” Hen asked, taking a seat at the table and nodding for Buck to do to the same.

Buck swallowed, taking a seat and folding his hands on top of the table. “I came to tell you something. It’s something I only recently figured out and I’m telling you guys one by one which feels like the right move but also it’s been terrifying as fuck. So far I’ve only told Maddie and Bobby and that’s because Maddie’s my older sister and Bobby asked me about it, y’know?” He rambled, unable to stop now that he had started. “And I know it would be ridiculous to think that you would think differently of me because,” Buck gestured vaguely. “but I don’t know, you’re like a sister to me and this is really scary and—”

“Okay, okay, slow down there, Buck,” Hen interrupted, putting a calming hand on his. Buck let out a shuddering breath. “Now, I think I know where you’re going with this, but take a deep breath and continue.”

Buck followed her instructions, letting her steady presence anchor him. He felt his heart slow down and he closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling. “I’m— I think— well, actually, I know—“ He cut himself off, huffing when the words refused to tumble out. “I’m bisexual.” He said finally, forcing the words from his lips.

He stared at his hands as he waited for her answer.

“I was wondering when you were going to figure it out.”

Buck’s head shot up and he stared at Hen in shock. “You knew?”

Hen shrugged slightly. “I’ve always had a feeling but I was never one hundred percent sure.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked.

Hen laughed quietly. “Buck, I can’t tell you how to feel or how to identify. Sure, I had my suspicions but they were always just that.”

“Yeah, but I might have figured it out earlier if you had told me,” Buck grumbled, pouting slightly.

Hen gave him an amused look. “This was always something you were going to have to figure out on your own, Buckaroo. And now that you have, I can say welcome to the club.”

Buck smiled widely, his cheeks hurting. “Y-Yeah, I guess I am part of the club.”

“Now,” Hen gave him a mock serious look. “Who is it?”

“What do you mean?” Buck asked even though his cheeks flushed. He had a feeling he knew what she was asking.

“Who made you realize it?”

“Uh,” Buck briefly considered lying and claiming it just came to him but if he was being honest with people he might as well go all the way. “It was Tommy. He kissed me.”

“Work Tommy? Tommy Kinard?” Hen asked, surprised. The surprise only lasted a few seconds before she said, “Yeah, you know what, that makes sense.”

Buck laughed, his cheeks bright pink. “Yeah, he, uh. He’s something else.”

“Well, thanks for telling me, Buck. I know that it’s not an easy thing to do,” She reached over and squeezed his hand again. “I’m very proud of you.”

“People keep saying that,” Buck said, ducking his head to hide the tears that sprang up in his eyes. “I don’t know if I deserve it.”

“It’s not an easy thing to do, Buck. Being open and honest about yourself is terrifying, even when it’s people you know who will support you,” Hen said gently. “So yeah, I’m proud of you and you should be proud of yourself.”

Buck felt his throat go tight as he got choked up. “Thanks, Hen,” He whispered. “That means a lot.”

“Anytime, Buckaroo. Anytime.”

And when Buck got to work the next time they had a shift together, Hen came up to him, hiding something behind her back. “I have a present for you.” She handed him a little bag and after giving her a curious look, Buck looked inside.

In the bag was a rolled up bisexual pride flag, a pin, and a fridge magnet. Immediately Buck felt like he couldn’t breathe, emotion choking him up. “Hen…”

She shrugged. “It’s not much but I know how much it meant to me when I got my first flag, so I hoped that I could be the one to give it to you.”

Buck tugged her into a bear hug, his throat too tight to get the words out, so he hoped that she felt just how grateful he was through their hug. God, he loved his family. Hen hugged back just as tightly and Buck knew that she had gotten the message loud and clear.

[chronicowboy]

Eddie knew this was going to be a trainwreck ever since the moment Buck asked Cap if he could bring Natalia to the Grant-Nash barbecue. Now, of course, he had assumed it'd be mainly an internal trainwreck on his part, aching at the sight of Buck's arm around her waist, gritting his teeth as he smiles at her and attempts to be overtly polite. He just didn't expect the trainwreck to breach containment quite so spectacularly.

Its just...

Natalia says something about Buck's death being awesome and the entire garden falls deathly silent. Bobby's face freezes like he's caught in some terrible memory, whether its smoke or rain he's smelling, Eddie couldn't tell you. Hen steadies herself on Karen's arm, and Eddie is only the slightest bit bitter that the person he'd steady himself on isn't his to be steadied by. Maddie's eyes fill with tears almost instantaneously, and Chimney wraps her up, his own face tight with grief. Athena doesn't react beyond a poorly concealed scowl. Even Christopher has stopped playing with Denny to stare.

Still, its not quite a trainwreck until Christopher meets Eddie's eyes. The devastation on his face is enough to have the words falling off Eddie's tongue before he can bite them back.

"Awesome?" Eddie chokes out, swinging his gaze over to the happy couple. His eyes land on Buck, however, a ghostly pale, tight and drawn Buck. "What about it was awesome exactly?"

"Well, I mean, its pretty spectacular you have to admit," Natalia says, a hint of apprehension lining her words.

"Oh, sure. Spectacular. That's exactly how I'd describe it." Eddie nods, lets a cold, rueful laugh bubble up from inside of him and it feels like its been building ever since he joked about lightning striking twice. "What exactly about it was spectacular? His heartbroken sister sobbing in a hospital hallway, wondering if she'd have to watch another brother die? Oh, or was it his captain praying desperately by his bedside because he couldn't bear the thought of losing another child? Was that spectacular? Or was spectacular his brother-in-law's guilt heavy with grief and anchoring him to the hospital room because he thought he was supposed to be the one on the ladder? No." Eddie shakes his head, eyes darting to Buck's blank shock. "Do you know what was really spectacular? The eleven-year-old boy in the hospital waiting room begging to see his Buck on the brink of death just to ask him to come back. Was that spectacular?"

"N-no, of course not," she stammers out, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that, I just..."

Eddie ignores her, eyes locked onto Buck's faraway stare. He takes a step closer, tries not to preen when Buck's eyes immediately focus on him.

"You think she sees you?" Eddie asks, voice raw and way too honest for an entire family and a stranger to hear. "She can't see past the lightning bolt, Buck. But I've been here the whole time." Its here that his voice breaks, cracking into an ugly, pained whisper. "Seeing you, just waiting for you to see me too." He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, takes a step back. "Chris, its time to go, come on."

Eddie grabs their jackets from where they're folded over the back of a garden chair and puts a hand on Christopher's back when he's close enough. Eddie doesn't look back as they disappear into the house, but he catches Maddie's mumbled thank you when they pass.

The ride home is silent, Christopher's eyes teary and Eddie's throat still clogged with the words he left unsaid. They'll talk when they get home. Eddie will ask Buck to talk later too, not an apology for the words, but for how they were said.

Its fine, they have time.

But the blare of truck horns feels a lot like a wake up call.

[nanamiscocksleeve]

I'm so sorry but I want to get this in before someone takes it but can I please get #16 with Toji please and thank you. I love how you write for Toji.

Awww thank you! I'm always second-guessing how I write Toji so it's reassuring to read comments like this.

"I want to ruin you." --------

Your feet are balanced on Toji's broad shoulder as he fucks you, his thick length bottoming out each time. The roll of his hips, his muscled back, all of them wokring in harmony to make you lose all your damn senses.

"I want to ruin you," he growls, gripping your ankles to anchor your body in place, the smooth glide of his cock between your moist folds setting him on edge. "This pussy is mine. It belongs to me. I want you to remember every inch of me. The next time you hear my voice, your cunt will drip with the expectation of me getting ready to fuck it.

The edges of your vision fade as this broad muscular man pistons in and out of you, bringing you to the very peak of pleasure, the thick cockhead brushing your g-spot and kissing your cervix with each stroke.

"Cum on my cock. Let me feel you."

Almost on command you feel the coil in your belly snap and moan in pleasure, ecstasy coursing through your veins as his body brings you to a satisfying orgasm.

Send me a prompt!

[neciebee]

Title: I Need You

Pairing: Azriel/Eris

Word count: 5k

Summary: Azriel had always wanted a mate. Both of his brothers were so happy with theirs. It used to be the three of them together, but now his brothers had their own lives and wives and Azriel could not contain his envy. All he had was this. Dirty, secret, meaningless. Perhaps he could pretend it was something, if he’d just take one bite.

Link: to AO3

Eris disentangled himself from the sheets and padded barefoot to the sideboard, where he poured a few knuckles of whiskey into two tumblers and, after a moment’s hesitation, selected a bunch of grapes from the bowl of fruit. Returning to his expansive bed, he proffered one of the glasses.

His bed-mate heaved his solid frame to sit up against the majestic headboard and accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. His wings reposed lazily against the silken pillows, his knees splayed out with comfortable ease. Eris folded himself atop his sex god, straddling his hips and bringing the whisky to his lips.

They were fully spent, cocks soft and sleepy, as Eris nestled their balls together in an affectionate, but innocent tease. They had wrung out so much pleasure from each other throughout the night that their satiety offered them a moment of rest. He bit a grape away from its brethren from the bunch in his hand. Chewed it. Swallowed. The next one he held between his teeth and pressed it to his partner’s mouth.

Silently, secretly, he cradled the golden glow within his chest, covering it with his entire soul. His mate didn’t know. Couldn’t know. But still, he leaned forward with desperate intent, knowing he would never be forgiven, but he had to advance all the same.

Azriel took the grape between his lips and sucked the sugary flesh into his cheeks. They’d never done this before, but the act felt so intimate and honest that he could not help but submit to the offering of fruit. He had wanted, needed, a ritual like this all his life. For tonight, he could pretend he was one half of a whole. He could pretend that this was more than just clandestine, forbidden sex, and he could almost believe that he and and Eris were males of no consequence to anyone but each other. Tonight they were not the protectors of rival courts. Tonight they had no proverbial swords hung precariously over their metaphoric necks.

As the chilled fruit slid down his throat, an unfamiliar feeling chased it into his chest. Warmer than he could have expected, a golden glow bloomed inside of him. His eyes widened and he sat up with a jerk, spilling Eris out of his lap and their drinks into the sheets.

He sprang out of bed like the covers were on fire. Eris looked at him steadily with his cunning, amber eyes.

“Did you know?” Azriel spat. He was stunned. He couldn’t actually be bonded to Eris, could he? After all this time, he would have known. Since they first came together in the war camp after Hyburn’s defeat, having saved each other’s necks, they’d had ample opportunity to learn what their insatiable hunger for each other had meant. He was ruined. He could not return to Velaris like this.

Eris refused to acknowledge the remorse bubbling in his gut. This had to happen. It was for the good of Autumn. It was for the good of Prythian. Deleting all emotion from his voice, he replied, “Yes.”

A flurry of shadows stormed throughout the chambers. Azriel called them to him, panicking, trying to get away through the dark portal they shared solely with him. The shadows whirled frantically, but Azriel didn’t move. An irresistible yank on his ribs kept him anchored to the spot.

“You are my mate, Azriel. You belong with me.”

~

Azriel landed on the balcony of the House of Wind, mind blank and feeling dazed. His feet lead him mechanically into the cool dark of the house, and he came to realise that he’d taken a seat at the dining table. What had just happened? His entire future had been hijacked and he didn’t have a clue how to return to his life in the Inner Circle.

Fuck! The Inner Circle! What will he tell them? The scent of the bond had been glamoured but his actions would be inexplicable.

Eris was certain that Azriel could fabricate an excuse. He’s smart. He’d think of something. They were allies after all. But the pull Azriel felt towards Autumn could not be dismissed as the mere fulfilment of courtly duties. His desperation to return to his mate’s side was taking all of his strength to resist.

“Azriel!” Cassian greeted him jovially as he joined him in his usual chair. “How was the mission?”

Plates of roasted fowl and garden vegetables appeared before them both. “Fine,” Azriel answered automatically, staring at his plate. The Autumn vegetables stared back.

He couldn’t focus on Cassian’s babble as he picked at his lunch. Hyburn had been defeated and Briallyn unmade. The courts were enjoying a tentative peace. Even Spring had started to regrow after Lucien had hunted down Tamlin in the wilds of that southern court and wrestled him back into the Manor.

None of them knew about the status of Autumn as well as Azriel did. There was an oily sense of foreboding within the Forest House, heavy enough to seep through Eris’s wards and unnerve the Prince. Though he sometimes watched from the shadows, he’d more often than not find himself revealed, as the Autumn scion sought to remedy the black moods that regularly claimed his evenings.

Beron wasn’t happy.

If Beron wasn’t happy, Autumn wasn’t happy.

Briallyn had been flirting with an alliance to Autumn, and her disappearance had caused the Autumn High Lord much distress. He couldn’t openly acknowledge his thwarted plans; Briallyn had been on Hyburn’s side in the war that Prythian had narrowly won. Allying with her would be politically... unbecoming.

Eris’s delicate handling of his father’s rages were all that kept Autumn running. The pressure on the Heir and the threat of collapse lead Eris to solicit his own comfort.

The relief and freedom they all felt after the final battle against Hyburn made them do some previously unheard of things. For Azriel, it was to seek out the Fae who had taken a sword to the face as they fought side by side on the Northern flank, deflecting a blow that would likely have severed Azriel’s still-healing wings.

Since that day, he’d found more and more reasons to collect intelligence from within the wards of the Forest House. If most of that time was tailing Eris, it was because the political and military hands of action were his. Beron was surely still scheming, raging, and planning, but the true leader of Autumn was the Heir.

During the nights he watched him agonise over demands from the dissidents and the infighting of his divided people. One of the brothers often came to debrief with him after the volatile meetings, but Eris had always been the driving force. It was a big job. He was tired. He needed to rest. He needed help.

Azriel bringing him to release after release was practically a public service.

~

Eris had promised that Azriel’s life could go on as it always had. He didn’t need to keep coming to Autumn unless he felt the pull. Azriel had dropped all pretences of spying on Autumn, as he didn’t know how he would react being in the same vicinity as Eris now. His dirty little secret had become something much, much worse.

He had returned to Velaris, falling back to his old routine, and possibly spending more time flying around the Illyrian Steppes than was really necessary.

It was days later, in the middle of a sparring session with Nesta and Cassian, when a desperate tightness snapped against Azriel’s ribs and he doubled over in agony. He needs us he needs us he needs us!

His wild eyes met his brother’s confused ones, concern flooding his features, but Azriel had no time to explain. He dissolved into his shadows.

~

Fuming, Azriel stood by the window in a soldier’s pose. Eris slunk up behind him and breathed softly on the back of his neck.

“Thank you, Azriel. Zelus would not have been so easy to recruit if it weren’t for you.”

Azriel growled, “I would have helped you, you know. You didn’t have to invoke the bond.”

Eris closed his eyes, hesitantly placing both hands on Azriel’s hips.

“I couldn’t take any risks. The situation is still dire. Beron has become even more ruthless. I didn’t know any other way to ensure you could be here fast enough.”

“There are ways.”

Eris knew that Azriel never wanted the bond. He’d been heavy handed in securing such a powerful... tool. But his loyalty was to the people of Autumn, and they were suffering under his High Lord. Eris had to do whatever it took to ensure a better future for his citizens, and the most powerful, most dangerous Fae in Prythian was just there, right at the other end of his golden bridge.

He silently promised that when the upheaval was over and Beron gone, he would find the witch on the continent and release Azriel from his shackles. His glorious angel deserved freedom, but he couldn’t afford to give it to him yet. He wished that some day he could give Azriel everything he’d ever wanted. For now, all he had to give was himself.

Eris slid his hands up to encircle Azriel’s shoulders, pressing their bodies together. Wings tensed against Eris’s chest, but Azriel didn’t otherwise react.

“Can I apologise?” Eris murmured into Azriel’s back. He brushed his lips against the black leather, ghosting kisses towards the side of his mate’s neck and up to his ear. “I really am sorry we’re in this situation.” He tugged Azriel around, who resisted, but reluctantly turned to face the Autumn Heir who’d betrayed him.

“It’s not all bad, is it?” His lips continued their journey from where they left off. Down the sharp jaw of the shadowsinger and the column of his throat. He lifted his eyes to meet the hazel ones, and reached his lips up to coax a kiss from him.

“Please, can I thank you?”

Azriel wouldn’t kiss him back, but didn’t pull away either. Refusing to be disheartened as yet, Eris pulled at the fastenings of his mate’s leathers.

“Please?” he repeated. He lowered the chest plate to the floor, and the back fell along with it. Planting another soft kiss in the centre of his chest, he repeated, “Please?”

He lowered himself to his knees, facing the scuffed, dark, leather pants. Tracing his nose along the crease in the fabric between Azriel’s hips and thighs, he drank in the masculine scent of his lover. His lips found their way onto the leather.

“Please.” Kiss. His hands caught the laces and tugged the knot loose.

“Please.” Kiss. Pulling at the waistband, the lacing slid open.

“Please.” Kiss. He pushed the leathers over Azriel’s hips, and down his powerful thighs.

Azriel finally moved, only to toe off his boots and kick away his pants. Eris’s heart clenched, relieved to know that Azriel wasn’t pulling away. He knew that if Azriel rejected him, he’d more than deserved it, but wouldn’t be able to bear it. He continued reverently mapping the skin between Azriel’s thighs, mouthing down lower to plant kisses on his knees, revelling in the cold touch of his skin against his burning lips and hungry tongue. He retraced his path back up to Azriel’s groin, nosing at Azriel’s half hard member, nudging it to lay across his face as he reached his tongue out to taste the soft pouch that cradled his balls.

He kept his eyes on the singer’s, who looked down at him impassively. Eris was no longer pleading with his voice, but his eyes were loud and clear. He opened wider and engulfed Azriel’s flesh within his mouth, sucking gently at each of his balls. Working his warm tongue with all the talent he’d honed over the centuries, he tried to draw out a response, any response, from Azriel with the pleasure he was bestowing upon him.

Azriel’s expression remained unchanged, but his cock swelled thicker. Eris pressed his face against it, nuzzling it with his cheeks. His eyelashes brushed against the head, bestowing butterfly kisses onto the sensitive flesh that was peeking out from the skin. His tongue spelled out poems of his adoration for the singer against the soft skin of his sack. With one last, wet lick, he drew his tongue flat up the hardening cock, all the way along the length to lap at the tip. Wrapping his lips around the head, he kissed and suckled and worshiped his mate until Azriel had fully hardened. He was rewarded with the salty bloom of pre-come in his mouth, and an interrupted grunt that escaped Azriel’s throat.

Sliding his hands up the back of Azriel’s powerful thighs, Eris gripped the prominent globes of his ass and pulled the heavy cock into his mouth. He worked his tongue along the underside of the length, flicking against the vein that lead from the base to the crown. He relaxed his tongue to take more of him down, moving in shallow pulses to ease the tip into his throat. Sliding one hand around to the front, he cupped Azriel in his palm, rolling the flesh with his elegant, spidery fingers. Swaying his head gently from side to side, he was finally able to inch his way down the shaft and bury his nose into Azriel’s dark, pubic curls.

He heaved a great, sensual breath.

Azriel hummed and threaded the fingers of one hand into Eris’s auburn locks. Eris could have cried with relief, unable to weather another minute of Azriel’s stony indifference. He redoubled his efforts, pulling back slowly until he could roll his tongue around the head, licking into the slit and suckling at the spongy cap.

Azriel’s hips began to rock in time with Eris’s movements, as if he wasn’t conscious of his response. Eris kept one hand firmly on his hip bone, encouraging him to maintain their tempo, and gently tugging his balls in harmony. Eris’s mouth met him stroke for stroke. The shadowsinger remained silent, though Eris moaned when he felt Azriel’s other hand join the one in his hair and the beat of his hips became more domineering and assured.

Eris twined one hand around his mate’s thigh and reached up with the other to clutch at his waist. He wanted to pull and pull and pull until he and Azriel would merge into one. Azriel’s hips snapped and then he was earnestly fucking into Eris’s throat. Tears stung at the future High Lord’s eyes as he took everything that his mate was willing to give him.

Eris felt utterly used and wretched, but he deserved this. He had manipulated Azriel into accepting the mating bond for his own purposes. Offering himself as the vessel of Azriel’s sexual pleasure was the least he could do. Nothing would ever make up for that deception, that exploitation. Eris had never pretended to be honest. All he could give his mate was a momentary glimpse into the land of milk and honey, and hope that it was enough to stop Azriel from killing him outright.

Azriel growled and his balls tightened in Eris’s hand. He wrenched his cock out of Eris’s mouth and fisted it in his own scarred one.

“I’m gonna mark you,” he thundered.

Eris nodded emphatically and stared up at Azriel with imploring eyes. “Please Azriel, I need you,” he breathed hoarsely, sticking his tongue out as far as it would go, presenting his gulping mouth to accept his mate’s gift.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Azriel’s wings drew in tight as he came. His seed bounced off Eris’s tongue and splashed against the back of his throat. The shadowsinger groaned as spasms rocked his body, wringing out his prostate in uncontrollable, quivering waves. His cock was twitching with the intensity of his orgasm.

Eris gathered the considerable volume behind his lips and took the throbbing cock in his face fully into his mouth, spreading the fluid all the way down the length. He caught every escaping drip and lathed them around his balls, up into the crease between his hips and thighs, and smeared it into his groin. Pulling back, he rubbed the come-covered member all over his face, bathing in the scent that made him feel whole. Sticky strands caught in his eyelashes, his brow, his hair. He wanted to live in this moment with his mate coating his entire being.

Azriel’s front shone wetly, having had his messy mate’s face rubbed all over him like he was a desperate cat. He took Eris’s wrist and wiped the spit and spend from his skin on Eris’s sheer, silky sleeve.

“You’re deplorable,” he accused, pulling on his pants and retying his laces. Eris’s heart fell as the cock he’d been worshipping disappeared back into the leathers. He was ravenous. He wanted more. He wanted Azriel inside him. He wanted them joined forever. He couldn’t always get what he wanted.

He drew his other sleeve across his face, clearing most of the mess. He ignored the wetness in his eyes that came not from Azriel’s body, but from his coldness.

He stood up slowly, gasping, to kiss his lover, but Azriel cruelly turned away. “Next time, you don’t need to pull so hard on the bond. It nearly killed me today. Just... Just tug. Tug on it and I’ll be there.”

Eris reached out his arms, but Azriel was already beyond his grasp. Dejectedly, he wrapped them around his middle instead, and nodded.

“Sorry, I didn’t know.”

Azriel regarded him with an unreadable expression as he gathered the rest of his clothes, nodded in return, and faded into his shadows.

Eris couldn’t hold it in any longer. A heaving, honest-to-the-Mother sob escaped his chest. He shuffled, despondent, into his bedchamber, onto his bed, and without his nightly bath, buried his tears into the silken pillows.

~

The shadows deposited Azriel above the training ring at the House of Wind. Snapping his wings wide, he glided down to land on silent feet. Still carrying his chest armour, he trudged towards his room, hoping the rest of the House inhabitants were still asleep.

No such luck.

Cassian was sitting on the floor outside the door to Azriel’s bedroom. Resigned to getting his explanation over with, Azriel heaved a sigh and approached.

Cassian’s perpetually honest face conveyed his hurt. “Why did you leave like that?” he asked.

Azriel rubbed the back of his neck. “I have been... Ensorcelled.”

“Ensorcelled? what does that even mean?”

“Uh... There’s a sort of... spell. A magical tie. It calls me away to help... someone,” Azriel blundered. “It’s irresistible.”

“This someone put you under a spell? Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me?” Cassian sounded hurt. “We can help you. We’re brothers. We’re in this together.”

Azriel sighed. “It’s a done thing. Can’t be changed. Don’t worry, it won’t happen often. They... he... promised. Not until there’s no other option.”

“They... He?” Cassian shook his head as if the roiling thoughts in his brain could be resettled with a physical upheaval.

“Yeah. I’ll only be called away if there’s no other solution.”

He pushed his hesitant confidence into his brother. “You won’t even notice it the next time. I’ll be in and out before you know it.”

He stepped around Cassian and entered his room. No matter how long he stared at the ceiling, sleep did not come to him that night.

~

Azriel’s shadows were spread thin. If they could just hold on to their targets a little longer, Beron’s guard would be compromised and Eris could challenge Beron without interference.

The resultant fight was a bloody mess, with Eris nearly burning out as the entire Forest House Throne Room was engulfed in blue flames. Beron’s charred corpse was laid to rest with all the ceremony befitting a millennium old High Lord. Although Eris and his brothers had suffered by his hand, his steel, and his flame, he was their father and in a way, they had loved him. Their mother was the last to add her flame to her husband’s pyre, her eyes brighter and her complexion warmer than she’d been for centuries.

Eris had shown Azriel Autumn’s gratitude with his body again. He rode the shadowsinger as the pyre burned brightly outside of their window, new magic bathing the room with incandescent heat. The first act of the new High Lord was to venerate his court’s allegiance to Night, and he did so with his heart and soul and body. As he felt the bloom of come flood inside him, he unleashed his first emit as the High Lord of Autumn, seeding the chest of the Night’s foremost courtier with his spend.

Azriel was gone before the pyre had burnt to ash.

~

Eris had not contacted Azriel since he’d ascended the throne. That was several months ago, and although Azriel had felt a few twinges down the bond, none of them constituted a summons. He had left a cadre of shadows, more than he could justifiably explain, in the Autumn Court, and he watched, reluctantly impressed, as Eris and his brothers weeded out Beron’s remaining supporters and found ‘diplomatic’ solutions to their ‘differences’.

Every night, the bond felt like a heavy smog, shrouding the golden bridge with a presence that seemed to push Azriel away. He tried not to explore the fog, wanting nothing to do with it if he could help it. One evening, he couldn’t help it, and by the time he’d sighted the flaming forest at the far end, he felt a desperate pull down the line.

Fearing the worst, Azriel fell through the shadows into Eris’s chambers. From the bedroom came wretched moans and pitiful cries. He entered to find Eris splayed out on his bed, two fingers inside himself, writhing like a frantic mess.

Wild eyes found him, and Eris keened, "Azriel, I need you!"

Azriel knelt on his side of the bed, not that he had any claim to a side, and Eris rolled over, crawling towards him and pulling him into a bruising kiss. There were tears flowing freely, seeping in between their crushed lips, and Azriel could taste the salt of them. Eris's skin was hot - too hot - and his usual milky pallor was blotched with angry red.

Azriel pushed against his mate's shoulders, wresting their lips apart, and his eyes searched over Eris's ruined appearance. He traced a finger along the tear tracks. He could feel the months of agony their distance caused, built up behind a barrier on the far end of their golden bridge. Eris had been abstaining from pulling on the bond, and his yearning had boiled over. Softly, he murmured, "I'm here."

"Take your pleasure from me, Azriel." Eris's hands scrambled at Azriel's leathers. He had forgotten his magic, forgotten his powers - at this moment he was reduced to a primal creature who only wanted to see his mate laid bare before him.

Azriel's hands delicately circled Eris's wrists, pulling him away. "Let me." He stood by the side of the bed, unhurriedly releasing his clasps and laces whilst Eris watched hungrily. The High Lord reached out impatiently to pull the leathers off, but a scarred hand on his chest guided him to lay back against the mound of pillows.

Azriel finished undressing at his own pace, and unhurriedly joined his mate in the bed. He ran his palms down the overheated chest, soothing the fever with his icy touch. Lips followed the same path, tasting the warmth that radiated his scent. He inhaled deeply when he returned to meet his mate's eyes. The whiskey and wood-smoke were intoxicating, but the scent of tears tormented him.

He wiped away another droplet, and Eris squeezed his eyes shut. "You don't have to be gentle, Azriel. My body is for you to enjoy. Do what you want with me. Please."

"I am."

Azriel brushed a kiss against both closed eyelids, and kissed towards Eris's mouth. His hands continued their exploration, cooling the Fire Lord's skin. He could sense the burning anguish down the bond, and his soothing hands only seemed to hurt him worse.

"Don't be sweet with me. I can't handle it. Stop torturing me."

"Hush. Turn over."

The Autumn Lord obsequiously turned to present his ass into the air, but Azriel tenderly pressed him down into the mattress, encouraging him to relax. He continued feathering kisses across the nape of Eris’s neck, until they became more insistent and dripping in passion. He summoned the oil and greased the crease of Eris’s fair bottom. His flesh was already willing and pliant, pre-prepared by his desperate masturbation earlier. When he found that his fingers could easily push into the hole, he pressed the tip of his cock into the tight ring of flesh, which freely gave way to his breach. Slowly, he sunk into his mate, prone on the mattress, and languidly rocked against the creamy white ass, taking his pleasure in the measures of the skin he could lay against his mate’s.

Azriel’s hand found Eris’s, and he interlaced their fingers, placing their entwined hands against Eris’s chest as he held their bodies close. Eris met Azriel’s hips stroke for stroke, their movements soft and indulgent in the slide of their bodies, connected as thoroughly as they physically could be. Eris turned his head to capture Azriel’s mouth with his own. Azriel lost himself in Eris’s lips, luxuriating in the kiss as if it were their last.

Azriel bracketed his knees around Eris’s waist and drove in deeper. His other hand found his mate’s cock and worked it’s semi-erect state into full mast. He matched his sultry pulls with the rhythm of his hips, thrusting his cock into his mate’s eager flesh each time he stroked down with his hand.

Eris tugged Azriel's grasp off his cock and replaced it around his neck. This was what he needed. He couldn’t stand being loved so thoroughly by this fearsome Illyrian; to be taken, however, was all his heart could accept. After the sins he had put him through, this was what he had deserved. Azriel seemed to understand, and tightened his grip on the creamy neck as the pace of his cock solidified into a harder fuck.

Coming was an afterthought to the both of them. They savoured the feeling of their bodies moving together, synchronised as if they had an understanding of one another. Azriel moved within and above and against his mate, revelling in their physical connection for as long as he could. As Eris was consumed by the sensation of his mate surrounding and invading him, his cock rutted against the sheets until ropes of semen smeared into the fabric. His moans remained unchanged. Azriel’s claiming of his body was the last bastion of hedonism he could allow himself, and no orgasm could transcend the feeling of being held in the arms of his mate.

Tears escaped his eyes again, as his heart bade farewell to the leash with which he had chained his mate. Soon, he would no longer have any claim to this wonderful being. Soon, he would not be able to call him to appear by his side, no matter his desperation. He relished in the slide of his mate’s cock against that sweet spot within his body, and with a sob, another wave of come escaped the tip of his cock, mashed into the weave of the satin rubbing against his body.

Azriel clutched the hand and the neck he was holding as he gyrated rhythmically into his mate. He had missed this body, but they had never had sex like this. It felt like a finale of some sort. It felt like farewell.

As he held his mate tight, he came deep inside his flesh, grasping their bodies together as if they’d never come apart again. He panted against the lips of his lover, their eyes meeting reverently, and he finally relaxed. He remained inside his lover, raining soft kisses across his face. Their arms and legs were intertwined. His wings flared to encapsulate them both. The shadows drifted down to rest across their bodies, although one of them dove at him again and again. It was distressed, but Azriel was too comfortable to care.

He rolled them both to the side, spooning their bodies together. Eris twisted around to face Azriel, hooking their legs together, and kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his lips.

As Azriel drifted off into slumber, Eris whispered his vow against his lips. “I would do anything for you. I will set you free.”

~

Weeks passed, and Azriel hadn't felt anything down the bond. Not a summons, not a tug, not even a hint at how his mate was feeling. He hadn't been waiting for one, he wasn't hoping for one. He was expecting one, though. After their last entanglement, he thought Eris would want to resume their previous arrangement - before that infernal grape changed their entire dynamic. He felt unnerved by the silence. He considered plucking at it himself, but he couldn't say why. What would he even do if Eris responded? Did he really want him to feel it? He didn't miss the connection. He didn't want to see Eris again.

Later that evening, after a family dinner that Feyre had insisted upon, he sat playing with Nyx, contemplating the Prythian in which his nephew was to grow up. A fizzle in the River House wards caused Feyre to look up from her sketch book. Her face broke into a grin as she rushed to the entrance hall.

Azriel heard her elated voice carry back into the sitting room. "Lucien! How lovely to see you!" Her voice was muffled, as if pressed into the chest of her first Fae friend. After some indistinct conversation, they both entered the room, and Nyx barrelled into his glowing uncle.

Standing up awkwardly, Azriel waited for the greetings to die down before he slipped out of the room. He sent a shadow to whisper into Lucien's ear, and made his way out to the cool garden.

He'd been sitting in the moonlight for at least half an hour as Lucien made his rounds in the River House. He'd been all throughout Prythian and carried news from at least three courts, as well as the Mortal Lands. As Night Court's spymaster, Azriel should have been very interested in his updates. But there was only one thing he was desperate to ask the clever fox when he finally stepped into the fragrant garden.

Wordlessly, Lucien joined Azriel on the wrought iron bench. It was well placed to enjoy the beauty of Elain's work; night-blooming posies waved their salutations to the stars. The emissary turned his eyes to the spymaster, patiently waiting for the other to speak.

"Have you," started Azriel, then hesitated. Steeling himself, he continued, "Have you heard from... from Eris?"

Lucien regarded him with eyes of both russet and gold. He seemed to be calculating something, or looking deeper into Azriel's enquiry than was really warranted. "He's travelling in the continent," he finally replied.

The continent. Perhaps the distance was why the bond felt so lax. "What business does he have there?"

"Last I heard," said Lucien after a long moment, "he's been seeking a witch with unforeseen powers. There are whispers of her dark experiments, and it appears as though some of them have been successful."

"What kind of experiments?" A shadow of dread coiled around Azriel's bones.

Lucien's gaze looked too much like pity. He chose his words carefully, unsure of how Azriel would receive the news.

"Rumour has it she's found a way to cleave cauldron-made bonds."

End of part 1.

[ny-nymeria]

Resignation

What if Aki left the Special Division?

Tw: aki x female, smut, sex, slow burn, obvi not canon... Minors, do NOT interact.

If you asked yourself 6 months ago if you’d be tangled up with Aki on his couch, you’d say you’d gone mad.

But there the two of you were— a knit of limbs and bedsheet he pulled from the bed prior.

Half eaten pizza left cold on marbled counter while the movie that ended long ago replayed it’s menu sequence. Clothes scattered over the floor, your bra dangling delicately over one of the cushioned armrests. The mess would’ve caused him restlessness, but Aki didn’t care when he was with you.

You had that effect on him; you made him stop caring. About work, the Gun Devil— you were a blot in his brain he sunk himself in like quicksand. Like the cock he buried inside you, like the feelings he had quietly accumulated over the days he spent with you. Each of you wanting more as he pushed you back and forth on himself, his hands over your legs spreading you open.

“Aki,”

The sound of your voice he wanted to memorize, the subtle upturn in notes that made you sound sultry and feminine. Like a crescendo to his unwavering vibrato of his hips and hums; closing each other’s flesh into one.

“Oh, Aki,”

Now he had you underneath him, legs pulled around his waist to anchor you while he fucked you. Steady with the weight of his own body putting a pleasurable pressure on top of your lungs. Each other’s moans bringing a mindless haze and yet he felt so safe knowing you were there with him. His beacon in the bliss.

That was the moment when he told you he loved you.

At first you’d thought you misheard, his voice muffled in your hair while he buried himself in the crook of your neck, kissing you there with his mouth. The silk of his own hair tangling with yours. But then he said it again: it was as soft as a whisper but felt as deep as thunder.

I love you.

It finally died, you realized. The part that caused him years of pain suddenly broke with a simple admittance of his love for you. You drew his face to yours, inspecting and immortalizing this image of him in your mind. Aki was free.

When Aki realized he was falling in love with you he began to wonder what life could be like. It made him contemplate his own future— something he’d always felt would come to a bitter, necessary end to accomplish his goal of revenge. To think otherwise felt selfish; it scared him, made him feel vulnerable- the guilt and betrayal to his family for even considering he could live happily while they laid in their graves.

That was until the day you kissed him after a night out of drinking. It was like the first day of spring; he could still remember how warm that kiss was. And while everyone left the two of you stayed; spending company until daybreak, sharing things he couldn't have unless he trusted you could bear it with him. By the drizzled sun of morning Aki forgot the reason why he’d ever think of keeping you out of his life. His family would’ve wanted this; and more importantly, Aki wanted this.

“I love you too,” was the simple reply you gave before becoming each other’s rib.

Impeccable handwriting neatly folded as a crisp letter on Makima’s desk just hours before. He left before even saying goodbye to his superior, since every contract somehow ceased once vengeance lost it's teeth. He left as quietly as he came; rushing home to see you and smiled once he'd seen you'd let yourself in, succumbing to each other's needs shortly after.

Aki held you until his arms felt numb, watching you sleep soundly and admiring your bare body in his before turning off the lights. He realized he could always tell you later—now that he has a lifetime.

And that’s why he put in his resignation at the Special Division.

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If you got this far thank you 🥹 I haven’t written a damn thing in months. I might’ve lost my spark and felt self conscious of my writing after being gone for so long. But it felt good to right this! Anyways… Hope you enjoyed <3 AND REBLOG CAUSE THAT FEELS EVEN BETTER HEHE

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Rinse and Repeat

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Even moments of reprieve are no release at all. The cycle continues, endless and circling ever tighter.

Thank you so much to @whump-kin and @inscrutable-shadow for beta-ing this for me! 🥰

Contains: Explicit noncon, intimate whump, bathing, aftermath of torture, mind/emotion control, mind reading, dissociation, shame, manipulation, cockwarming

~~~

The feeling of being dipped into warm water pulled Elze’ith ever so slightly out of the haze of agonized semi-consciousness.

An instinctual part of him almost expected the water to sting, to lap at his flesh and scour his bones. But there were no open wounds to bring fresh pain; the aches and anguish that radiated from his core were just a visceral memory, the sticky blood on his skin having long stopped its flow.

He didn’t remember healing himself. And yet his body was intact once again. Once, that might have been calming, comforting. It wasn’t now.

The air smelled of iron and lavender, of steam and smeared gore. Though his eyelids weighed as much as anchors, he still tried to force them open, only managing a weak flutter. It wasn’t enough to see anything beyond vague blurry shapes; giving up, he let them close once again. The steady, solid hands that had lowered him into the water didn’t leave him as he settled into what he distantly recognized as the tub, instead holding him upright even as his head spun and his body sagged.

“I know, my light. One moment, and then you can relax.”

Lord Denholm’s voice surrounded him, filled his senses and his mind with reassurance and dread. The promise of rest was tantalizing, but he had long since learned that such comforts were not given freely. Maybe once Elze’ith would have been willing and eager to pay that price; now, he wasn’t so sure. For a moment Elze’ith was left to linger in that hope-uncertainty-dread, held in place by Lord Denholm’s unwavering grip, before the water around him shifted, and a cold body slipped into the tub behind him.

“There we are. Isn’t that better, light?” Joy and contentment radiated off of Lord Denholm, even as Elze’ith’s weary heart clenched in numb, exhausted fear. Groaning, he tried to shift, tried to extricate himself from his position against Lord Denholm’s chest, but Lord Denholm only hummed and folded his arms around him to hold him securely in place. “Shh, light, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Of that, Elze’ith had no doubt. It was what came next that worried him. He could feel every inch of Lord Denholm’s bare skin, the bulk of his muscles, the bulge between his legs. They were naked together; there was only one thing that could lead to. Even through the haze of exhaustion closing in on his mind, the prospect was still enough to horrify him. After all he had already endured, even his Lord’s careful ministrations would surely break him.

A soft whine escaped his parted lips as he once again tried to squirm, hoping beyond hope that he might avoid the inevitable. But Lord Denholm’s strength and his own fatigue won out, and he collapsed back against his Lord within moments. A torrent of emotions threatened to swell up and drown him, only to be whisked away as Lord Denholm pressed a kiss to the top of his head. The compelled calm was not unfamiliar, and not entirely unwelcome, even as part of him yearned for the briefest moment to be granted the dignity of resistance.

Elze’ith drifted in that docility as deceptively gentle hands caressed him with a soft cloth, letting all of the blood and sweat of the day run into the water. Each brush was done with such care, as much care as the subtle but overwhelming influence on his mind.He was afraid, and yet he couldn’t be. He was angry, and yet he couldn’t be. He was grateful, and yet he shouldn’t be.

Every tender swipe of the cloth had more and more blood removed from his skin, had more and more tension leaking out of him. There was something sincerely, uncomplicatedly relaxing about it; after so much turmoil, he was being treated gently. The blood and gore was being washed away. He didn’t have to do anything but let himself be taken care of. The more time passed, the less he was sure how much of the calm he felt was imposed, and how much of it was genuine.

A sigh left his weary lungs. Would it be so bad to just let himself enjoy this moment of peace? They seemed so few and far between, and he needed as many of them as he could get.

“My beautiful, precious light,” Lord Denholm murmured, almost absentmindedly. “So magnificent. So strong. And all mine.”

The water shifted. The cloth and its gentle, caring, undemanding caresses vanished. Elze’ith whimpered; dull, echoing agony still resonated through his bones, through his soul, and he wasn’t ready for the soft touches to leave in favor of something more insistent. But it didn’t matter what he wanted. It never did.

Was his Lord’s love truly worthwhile if knowing it made him feel as though he were drowning?

The thought threatened to slip through his fingers, to be tugged away from him, but he clung to it. He clung to it as Lord Denholm gripped his hips and grasped at the juncture between his legs, making him gasp in dread and desperation. There was no strength left in Elze’ith to struggle or squirm or try to wordlessly ask for mercy. All he could do, as he felt the soft warmth in the back of his mind pulse with uncertainty, was cling to the knowledge that Lord Denholm had tried to erase from him, even as the conscious thought was finally pried from him and only the deep, instinctual understanding remained.

This was no kindness. This was violation. And it was wrong.

Lord Denholm pushed inside him with a slowness that might have been tender, but was nevertheless nothing short of agonizing. Though his voice was raw and ragged from screaming, Elze’ith still let out a hoarse cry as he was made to part around his Lord once again. His exhaustion and the arms cradling him didn’t let him try to escape the intrusion; all he could do was arch his back and accept what Lord Denholm wanted for him.

For a moment, Lord Denholm went still, as though basking in the feeling of Elze’ith encompassing him. His satisfaction and joy was thicker than the steam that suffused the air, almost thick enough to choke on. And it was getting harder to breathe, though that might have been tied to the panic constricting his chest, the heat gathering behind his eyes.

Lord Denholm had never wanted to take him to bed so soon after something so intense. The agony of being pried open by Lord Denholm’s careful hands and seeking teeth still hadn’t left him, even after his wounds had been healed and the blood had been tenderly washed away. Elze’ith knew, he knew, that this would only make him feel so much worse, on every possible level.He wasn’t ready for this.

(He was never going to be ready.)

The light in his mind called to him, sang something that he couldn’t identify. And Elze’ith, coward that he was, shrank away, tried to shut it out, because he didn’t want Altair to witness him like this, even as distantly as whatever this connection allowed him.

The rhythm started, that steady cadence of movement and sensation that Elze’ith knew far more intimately than he had ever, ever wanted to. The water sloshed around them, barely louder than the almost-silent whimpers Elze’ith couldn’t hold back. Each thrust sent pulses of anguish through him as his muscles futilely twitched and his bones quaked in protest. He yearned for the peace of when Lord Denholm had been bathing him, for the comfort of it, because as awful as having his thoughts suppressed was, being ravished like this was simply unbearable.

“You’re perfect, my light,” Lord Denholm murmured into his ear, making him tremble despite the fading warmth of the water. “Perfect just like this.”

Perfect. Always perfect. His Lord was the only one to ever call him perfect. To always want him, no matter his faults or mistakes or transgressions. Elze’ith didn’t know who he would be without that love. It almost made everything else worthwhile.

Almost.

Because he didn’t want to be perfect. Not anymore. Not when this was the price of perfection. Not when he could never be sure how much the affection would hurt. Not when there might be something better waiting for him, even despite all his failings.

Lord Denholm’s hand between Elze’ith’s legs came to grasp his dick, and all thought shattered once again. There was only his Lord, and his Lord’s desires, and the overwhelming sensations and emotions and intent that threatened to smother Elze’ith in the process.

“Let go, light. I’m right here. Just let me take care of you.”

Elze’ith shook his head, but there was no resisting his Lord. He had never been able to, especially not in this. There was no pleasure, only misery, as Lord Denholm drew his release from him. Even if his body had not hurt so much, the violation of it would have been awful enough. At least now, with his hand no longer paying attention to Elze’ith’s cock, Lord Denholm could wipe away the tears that were starting to gather at his eyes.

The water was still warm when Lord Denholm stilled inside of him, holding him close with a groan as he spilled into Elze’ith like the vessel he was. Lord Denholm tucked his face into the crook of Elze’ith’s neck as he came, and though the contact made Elze’ith’s blood turn to ice, there were no piercing teeth. Just Lord Denholm’s arms, wrapped around so tight they threatened to bruise. The smallest of mercies, and Elze’ith didn’t even know how he felt about it anymore.

Awful. Relieved. Ashamed. Too many emotions warring for dominance in his mind, none of which he wanted to examine too closely, even if he thought he could.

But it was over now. It had been quick. He could put on his robe and crawl into bed and sleep and sleep and sleep until his Lord called upon him again.

And yet, Lord Denholm made no move to pull out. Though he relaxed his grip, his arms remained securely around Elze’ith. His aura thinned, though his delight still rang out through the air as strong as any cathedral bell.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” he sighed, pressing a kiss to Elze’ith’s neck. “You are always so wonderful to be around, light. And we so rarely get to relax like this. I think we should indulge a bit, don’t you?”

All Elze’ith could do was whimper. He just wanted to be left alone. He just wanted to sleep. But his wants never mattered. What Lord Denholm wanted was to soak in the bath, the two of them inextricably linked in body and mind, and Elze’ith could not refuse. He was but a vessel to be filled by his Lord’s desires.

Lord Denholm rubbed Elze’ith’s arm in a soothing gesture. “There we go, that’s it. Just relax and enjoy this. You don’t need to worry. I’m right here. I’ve got you. And there is no one who cares for you like I do.”

Elze’ith knew his Lord spoke the truth. And that was the entire problem.

[putnamcapital]

Queerness and power in YR / why the best comparison is Normal People and not Heartstopper

It’s a big week for Heartstopper - Young Royals comparisons and i’m not on here to throw any shade on Heartstopper. I haven’t even watched all of S2 yet and i know i love it! But thanks to the absolutely stunning, spell-binding work of fiction called the Normal People AU, i’m more and more convinced that Heartstopper and YR have …. not really that much to do with each other — aside from being tremendously good stories, amazing performances, stellar cinematography and direction etc.

Lisa Ambjorn and the team behind YR have been frequently heard saying that they didn’t want to make a show about homosexuality, where the queerness of the relationship between W&S was “the problem” that drove the plot. Heartstopper, on the other hand, is very much a story driven by the tensions and joys of budding queer and non-conforming relationships, sexualities, and identities. But does that really mean YR isn’t about queerness? I think it’s still about queerness, but with a framing that has kind of been lost from view in the post-AIDS crisis / post-gay marriage era.

I didn’t really appreciate this until I thought through the intense parallels with Normal People - as the author of Obviously has so powerfully drawn out. Normal People is about power; and if you’ll forgive me the short-cut, once upon a time, queerness (in modern global North society) was also about power. In NP, the anchoring drama, and the elemental wound, that both Marianne and Connell face rests in power structures that oppress them - in Marianne’s case, the emotional and physical abuse in her family, in Connell’s case, the abuse that capitalism inflicts on him and his family as the working class. They both seek to become who they are in spite of this power structure - while at the same always being molded by it. There is not so much a core identity to either character that seeks to ‘set itself free’ or ‘reveal itself’ by overcoming power but rather a character who comes into fuller awareness of themselves while being shaped by their contexts. For example, in that scene by the fountain in Italy, where Marianne/Wille acknowledge they have never had to think about money, and Connell/Simon says winning the scholarship has changed his life so that there are things he no longer thinks about - and then between them, they bring to the surface that Marianne/Wilhelm’s mother has been paying Simon/Connell’s mother dirt wages for years, and Marianne says out loud how she knows that there is this basic harm in the way they came to know each other - a wound that is not of their doing, but from their class positions, and yet could never be forgotten as part of their story and part of who they became as a couple. The scene is not - we can run away from all this or i see the ‘real you’ behind all this - but, we can love each other and be who we are and yet still be where we come from, with the consequent constraints on our worldview and possibilities for action. “Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances listing already, given and transmitted from the past.”

Basically i think that in YR, Lisa is giving us back a much more Marxist / power relational form of queerness - where queerness is refracted through and emergent from material conditions, as opposed to being purely about declaring identities [“i was born this way”] and thus essential truths or essential desires, but about the ebb and flow between people, where that ebb and flow is mediated by the power structures in which we cannot help but experience our lives. For Wille, the power structure is obvious: the Crown. But it’s there for everyone. For Sara and Simon, it’s three-fold: the power dynamics around class and race, and the power dynamics from an abusive household / childhood trauma. For the other characters, too, it is not far away. August’s struggles are with his family’s expectations, and with a drug addiction and eating disorder that speak to the pressures of hegemonic cis-het masculinity. For Felice, she deals with racial bias and the pressure to be the perfect image of a woman her (thin, white) mother wants. It’s true for all the students at the school - the scene on parents’ weekend as all these parents swarm in is utterly stifling, as every student feels the structure they are meant to conform to. BTW it’s a subplot, but YR seems also to be saying that capitalism and class structure harm even the rich. People - everyone - experience their gender and sexual identities through and in between all that power - it’s necessarily shaped by it.

To me, this is the root of what is so intoxicatingly liberating about Young Royals (and by extension, Obviously) - that i just don’t feel watching HS, or even reading the canon NP - of the possibility of emancipation. It comes about not principally through outward facing revolt, though there is some of that, but catalyzed by a kind of relational self-growth: the characters grow into themselves as a result of their relations with others. It’s not at all about Wille walking this road alone - despite what Simon says he must do in S1/E6. It’s actually about the characters growing together, in a kind of solidarity against the power structures they rebel against. After all, it is Simon’s confession in the cloakroom, and then the look he gives Wille from the choir stand when August is about to give the speech, that compels Wille to his feet to claim his power, on his terms.

It’s a profoundly ‘class consciousness’ form of identity formation and self-actualization - like they become who they are through their struggle in concert with others. It feels utterly foreign and refreshing to me, because it’s just not the dominant discourse for queerness in popular culture, and it helpfully puts the power struggle back into queerness - it recenters the feeling of community, of joint struggle, of solidarity, and yes, of resistance.

This is how it is. This is how i feel.

[swan-of-sunrise]

Taking Care of Business (Chapter Forty-Five)

Summary: On the anniversary of the Battle of Endor, (Y/N) opens up and shares more of her past with Din as they spend the anniversary in their home on Nevarro.

Pairing: Din Djarin X F!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings/Disclaimers: Disclaimer for a discussion of wartime trauma/traumatic experiences

A/N: Hi there! Since The Mandalorian and Grogu and The Mandalorian: Season 3 aren't gonna release anytime soon, I decided that I'd write a few chapters about Din, Alor'ad and Grogu's life on Nevarro before their adventure continues in their movie/show, so stay tuned for more chapters :) Thank you for reading, I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Forty-Five The Festival (Previous Chapter)

One of the first things that newcomers to Nevarro learned about the small Outer-Rim planet was that the sun set quickly over the vast lava flats and rocky terrain, all thanks to the planet’s unique orbit. The second and most surprising factoid about the Hydian Way’s booming anchor point was that its inhabitants – both the beings that lived on the ashen world of black sands all their lives and the settlers who’d emigrated there after its eventual liberation from Imperial forces – absolutely loved a good party. To please the people of Nevarro, High Magistrate Greef Karga instituted several jubilees commemorating various historical events and local holidays, and the largest of those celebrations was the Festival of Freedom, a day to celebrate the Battle of Endor and the ultimate defeat of the Galactic Empire by the Rebel Alliance.

While (Y/N) enjoyed the city’s many holidays and participated in as many of the festivities as she could, the Festival of Freedom was one that she couldn’t bring herself to celebrate. To a significant part of the galaxy, the war ended that fateful day and peace was automatically achieved the moment that Emperor Palpatine’s death was announced, but that simply wasn’t the case for (Y/N) and every single person who’d fought for the Rebellion; there were still planets to free from Imperial occupation and citizens to save from the wrath of their oppressors, and they simply didn’t have the luxury to stop and celebrate the momentous victory. That, coupled with the fresh memories of their violent and traumatic battle against Moff Gideon and his Stormtroopers on Mandalore, was what compelled (Y/N) to speak up and ask Din over breakfast if they could stay home instead.

“Of course we can, alor’ad,” Din automatically replied, setting his mug of caf down and reaching across the dining room table to rest his hand atop hers, his warm brown eyes overflowing with sincerity and a touch of relief as he continued. “To be honest, I was about to ask you the same question; my back’s still sore from that last hunt, and I don’t think it’ll feel any better if I go ahead and weigh it down with over fifty pounds of beskar.”

“In that case, I suppose that everything they say about great minds thinking alike is true.” (Y/N)’s tone was light and there was a smile on her face, but she expressed her gratitude to her husband by twisting her hand around and threading her fingers securely through his.

(Y/N) and Din spent their day tidying up the house, a task that they’d both been putting off for far too long; with (Y/N) spending most of her time fixing up what would soon become her seamstress shop, Din training Grogu in the Way of the Mandalore and the pair of them hunting down bounties across the galaxy for Captain Teva, their humble home and garden had fallen into the wayside. By dinnertime, they’d cleaned the kitchen and ‘fresher, straightened up the bedroom and living room, weeded the garden and were nearly finished folding their newly-washed clothes, all while taking turns encouraging Grogu to practice wielding the Force.

The sun had already set by the time they finished preparing dinner and tiredly sat down to enjoy their food, the both of them wishing that they could call it a night and go to bed early but knowing that the Festival of Freedom’s fireworks show would only disturb their slumber. “So, what do you wanna do to pass the time until the festival’s over?” (Y/N) asked, reclining on their couch with Grogu seated on her lap and absentmindedly tossing his silver sphere across the room, only for the child to halt its movement and summon it back to her using the Force. “We could play a game of sabacc…or we could watch a holovid…or we could always disassemble and clean every single blaster on this property…”

“If we did that, we wouldn’t finish until next cycle’s Festival of Freedom,” Din chuckled as he plopped down onto the couch beside her. Although they’d been living on Nevarro for several weeks, she was still growing accustom to seeing her husband without any of his beskar armor on; on their little tract of land, he exclusively wore the durable work-wear and comfortable lounge-wear she’d sewn for him, and she couldn’t get enough of seeing the fearsome Mandalorian looking so relaxed and at peace. “Why don’t you teach me how to sew?”

(Y/N)’s brow rose in surprise. “You wanna learn how to sew?”

“Of course, alor’ad. Your craft is important to you and to your people’s culture, which means that it’s important to me as well,” Din explained as his brown eyes shone with earnestness. “If you can learn how to fight from a Mandalorian warrior, then I can learn how to sew from a Naboo seamstress.”

A smile slowly spread across her face at that. “All right, then. We’ll start with something simple and go from there, okay?”

Her husband got up from the couch and bent down to kiss her forehead as he went to retrieve her sewing kit. “You’re the alor’ad!”

Although sewing was the furthest thing from the typical repertoire of a fully-trained Mandalorian warrior, Din was a patient student who listened to her instructions and watched her demonstrations with rapt attention. She showed him how to thread a needle and tie it off, then sat back and allowed him to practice on a scrap of plain cotton; thanks to his mastery of countless weapons at a young age, he possessed a delicate touch typically unseen in those with larger hands and after a couple of attempts, he successfully completed the task. It was then that Grogu, having grown bored with their unusual distraction and tired from his active day of training, let his parents tuck him into bed and instantly fell asleep, cuddling up to his stuffed loth-cat toy as he snored. As quietly as they could, they crept back into the living room and after enjoying a glass of wine, (Y/N) talked Din through sewing a button onto the scrap cotton.

“Okay, now make four stitches below the button to secure it…no, a little to the-yep, right there. Now, tie the thread off,” (Y/N) instructed and once Din finished, she offered him her small pair of scissors along with a proud grin. “And all you have to do now is trim off the excess.”

Accepting the scissors, her husband carefully snipped the thread and held up the cloth to admire his handiwork. “I lost track of how many times I’ve tried and failed to stitch buttons back onto my clothes, and I don’t even wanna know how many credits I spent at different tailoring stalls and seamstress booths before I met you.”

“While I can’t get you those credits back, I can make sure that you never have to pay to have your clothes repaired…with credits, that is. I still require kisses and cuddles in exchange for my repairing skills,” (Y/N) sunnily replied.

The Mandalorian’s lips curved into a suggestive smile as he set the cloth aside and rested a hand on the curve of her waist. “And what’ll these lessons end up costing me?”

Feeling a little mischievous, (Y/N) leaned over and trailed soft kisses along the scruff of his cheek, stopping right next to his ear and whispering, “Dish duty for a week.”

“Mir’sheb!” Din exclaimed in exaggerated outrage, his fingers dug into her side while (Y/N) devolved into fits of giggles and attempted to squirm away from his tickling attack.

Before Din’s lips could descend onto hers, the thunderous explosion of a firework echoed outside and their home’s foundation quaked; in an instant, (Y/N) was jarringly reminded of why they opted to stay home in the first place, and she immediately sobered. “Let’s, um…let’s try a little embroidery. It’s tricky to get a hang of but it’ll be a nice challenge…” She quickly extracted herself from her husband’s arms and crossed the living room to rummage through her chest of sewing supplies, vaguely aware of her frantic heartbeat and sweaty palms as she fought to keep her voice to stay steady. “We need some embroidery thread and needles-” Another firework exploded and her grip on the chest’s lid tightened in response. “D-Did you know that Boba gifted me an embroidery machine? Yeah, it’s a pre-Empire model, even older than the one my mother used to use.”

“Alor’ad…?”

“It works in a pinch, but I’d much rather embroider by hand if I can help it-”

“(Y/N).” Her eyes briefly closed for a moment and she shut the chest’s lid, slowly sinking to the ground and wrapping her arms around her knees, her gaze diligently trained on the star-patterned material of her lounge pants but mindful of Din as he tentatively lowered himself to sit on the floor beside her. “Please, ner cyar’ika alor’ad, tell me what’s wrong.”

Biting her lip, (Y/N) finally looked over at Din and felt a surge of guilt when she saw the concern written across his face. “Where were you when you heard about the Battle of Endor?”

Her husband’s brows briefly rose in surprise, apparently taken aback by her unusual question. “I was at the covert. I’d just returned from a job with a beskar ingot and the Armorer was forging my left vambrace when we got word that the Emperor was dead; in the city above us, the citizens were rioting and the Imperial garrisons were quick to abandon the planet once they realized that there were targets on their backs.” When she nodded and remained silent, a look of realization filled his warm brown eyes. “I thought that the fireworks might’ve triggered memories of your time in the Rebellion…but it’s something more than that, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” (Y/N) mumbled, dropping her gaze and tightening her hold on her knees when another firework exploded in the distance. “The day the Emperor died, I was smuggling over a hundred civilians off of Chandrila. We were stopped at a blockade and when I realized my cover was blown, I initiated evasive maneuvers; the transport I was piloting was a piece of bantha fodder, though, and it wasn’t long until the TIE Fighters damaged out fuel cells, making it impossible to make the jump to hyperspace without landing for repairs first. If those refugees were from any other planet, surrender would’ve meant they’d become prisoners of war but at least they’d be alive. Unfortunately, Chandrila’s outspoken support for the Rebellion meant that any of its citizens caught fleeing Imperial rule would be labeled as traitors to the Empire and executed on the spot.”

“What happened then?”

“My transport received an urgent transmission from one of the Rebel Alliance’s top generals, relaying the news that a second Death Star had been destroyed and rallying the galaxy to join in the fight against the Empire,” (Y/N) replied, briefly glancing over at Din as she continued. “They told me later that the holographic transmission had been broadcast across the galaxy but in that moment, I could’ve sworn that it was meant for me; it gave me hope for the first time in cycles that someday we’d be free and that everything we were doing as Rebels would finally come to fruition.” Her fingers idly fiddled with the material of her lounge pants and she could feel him shift beside her. “So, I flew our transport into an asteroid field and eventually managed to shake the TIE Fighters in there before landing on a nearby moon for emergency repairs. Once we repaired the fuel rods, I flew them all to our base on Bayora and was given orders to immediately evacuate another refugee settlement on Kuan.”

When she finished her tale, she took a deep breath and turned towards Din; his expression wasn’t one of pity or sympathy, but one of deep understanding that only someone who’d known bloodshed and loss all their life could ever convey. “The war didn’t end for you that day. That’s why you didn’t wanna go to the Festival of Freedom today.”

“It’s difficult to enjoy the celebratory fireworks show when all I hear are the terrified screams of those refugees every time those TIE Fighters bombarded our shields,” (Y/N) replied with a sullen, humorless smile. “I don’t fault anyone for commemorating one of the Rebellion’s landmark milestones, of course, but I don’t think I’m ready to move on and forget about that day.”

While her words still hung in the air, her thoughtful and kind-hearted husband reached over and rested a hand on her knee, the sensation of his thumb tracing warm circles along her limb succeeding in grounding her swirling emotions. “No one can tell you what to feel, alor’ad; you spent years witnessing first-hand the galaxy-wide horrors that the Empire inflicted on its people, and it would be cruel to tell you to just forget those horrors for the sake of a celebration.” He brought his free hand up to brush a wayward strand of hair behind her ear before gently cupping her cheek in his palm. “But you can’t remember the bad without acknowledging the good; you saved the lives of over a hundred refugees that day and the moment you got them to safety, you went on to save countless more. If it were up to me, the New Republic would set a day to honor you and every other Rebellion smuggler who risked their life to save our galaxy’s most vulnerable from the Empire’s wrath,” Din paused to give her a knowing smile. “But I’ve known you long enough to know that you’d rather eat a mynock than be the center of attention.”

(Y/N) laughed. “You really do know me, don’t you?” When their laughter died down, she took the hand that had been resting on her knee between her own and held it tightly. The Mandalorian’s hand was calloused and scarred from his years as a follower of the Way but while he viewed them as simple blemishes, she considered them to be badges of honor; they were an integral part of who he was as a person and evidence of his devotion to his religion and despite his own ambivalence towards them, she adored each and every one of them. Most of my scars are invisible, she thought to herself as she stared into her husband’s softening eyes, but that doesn’t mean he loves them any less. “But you’re right, sweetheart. I’ll find a way to balance the good and the bad and maybe next cycle, we’ll make it to the Festival of Freedom.”

“As long as you’re ready, we can do whatever you’d like,” Din promised, leaning forward to press a sweet kiss onto her brow and pulling back to give her a challenging smirk. “So, what’s this I hear about embroidery being too tricky for a beginner like me?”

“Hey, I never said that it was too tricky because you’re a beginner…” She didn’t bother to suppress the impish smile that began spreading across her face as she continued. “Everyone knows that bounty hunters lack a delicate touch.”

Instead of countering her playful insult with one of his own, Din arched a suggestive brow while his brown eyes darkened with a sudden fiery desire. “Is that so? Kelir Ni tengaanar gar pehea laandur Ni liser cuyir, ner ori’atin riduur?”

Upon hearing her husband speaking Mando’a so seductively to her, a pleasant shiver ran down (Y/N)’s spine and she felt her face warm when his eyes darted down to watch her reflexively bite her lip. The smoldering expression on Din’s handsome face was momentarily overtaken by confusion when (Y/N) got to her feet and began walking away, and she couldn’t help but smirk as she stopped to look over her shoulder at him and planted a hand on her hip. “You coming, or do bounty hunters require a written invitation?”

Din, clearly opting to ignore his aching back, leapt to his feet at an almost inhuman speed and scooped her up into his arms with a chuckle, muffling her own giggles with a passionate kiss as he carried her into their bedroom and locked the door behind them.

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

Mando’a Translations:

Alor’ad-Captain Mir’sheb-Smart-ass Ner cyar’ika alor’ad-My darling captain Kelir Ni tengaanar gar pehea laandur Ni liser cuyir, ner ori’atin riduur?-Shall I show you how delicate I can be, my very stubborn wife?

A/N: I know that this chapter was on the sadder side but don't worry, the next one is wall-to-wall fluff! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! Oh, and I’ve created a Spotify playlist of all my favorite music from the world of Star Wars, so if you’re interested in checking it out the link is down below!

Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2KuSKJhVOPPvxdJ9YHeo4M?si=2977ff31bf0c4bdd

Chapter Forty-Six Taking Care of Business Masterlist

Tagging: @remmysbounty​ @sinon36​ @seninjakitey​​ @thatonedindjarinfan​​ @ginger-swag-rapunzel​​ @mostclevermiss​​ @momc95​​ @welcometothepedroverse​​ @sarahjkl82-blog​​ @elinedjarin​​ @ccomandercody​​ @crowleysqueenofhell​​  @goldielocks2004 @wondergal2001​​ @groovyqueer​​ @impala1967666​​ @fluffy-canada-pancakes​​ @icee228​​ @siimiasoi​​ @uncle-eggy​​ @amyg1509

[rosella-writes]

For some indulgence (me, for my indulgence): ❛ please ,  please ,  please - ❜ for Connor and -dom of your choice- uwu

I think it's Solavelyan time. For @dadrunkwriting

Rating: E but gentle Pairing: Solas x Connor Trevelyan Words: 704 Tags: rope bondage, soft domming of the Solas persuasion

Solas lost himself in touching the Inquisitor.  It was the same touch as they had had before, but turned to a different purpose. Connor Trevelyan’s leaning weight was familiar against his chest, as was the way he swayed slightly towards the pressure of Solas’s hands. But where before this touch was used to express a more platonic, grounding love, this was… different. 

Solas was no stranger to rope. Its rasp was familiar in his hands, as was the methodical process of it — draw length, loop, draw through, tighten tension, test — but Connor’s sounds. Such an experience was new. They sighed from him with relief, as if with every inch of restriction, Solas was setting him free.  Solas shifted, letting Connor’s larger body rest against his for support, and spread his hand down the breadth of the Inquisitor’s freckled arm. In a smooth, controlled motion, he pushed Connor forward, simultaneously drawing the bulk of Connor’s arm towards his own spine. He bound it there, almost meditatively affixing each loop to the anchor at the center of Connor’s back. As he did, he soothed Connor’s quick breaths back to the slow, sighing ones of before with slow strokes up and down the bulked muscles of his shoulders.  He didn’t speak. Neither of them did. He simply moved around the folded body of his fettered love, observing the absolute trust Connor had in him, the way he yearned towards him as if any gap of time between touches was too long. He paused only long enough to remove his own tunic, as he grew warm as he worked. He continued while dressed in leggings alone.  Connor’s sparse underclothes bunched slightly as Solas turned towards tying his thighs. As he did, Connor leaned toward him, making a new, confusing sound. Solas took stock, paused, and took Connor’s downturned face in his hands. The doubled length of rope lay, harmless, across their laps for now.  “Vhenan,” he said softly.  He smoothed strands of hair back from Connor’s cheeks and forehead, baring more of his face to view. Connor’s light, unfocused eyes finally fluttered open, and his lips parted around another, now uncertain, sigh.  “I —” Solas waited, then chuckled. “You?” Connor swallowed, seemingly searching for words. They seemed very far away and hard to reach, wherever he had gone while Solas had tied and untied and tied him again. “Thank you — for…” “Ma nuvenin,” Solas assured him. He kept smoothing his long fingers over Connor’s cheeks, his temples, his forehead, as if he could press more of the words from him by caresses alone. Connor finally shook his head. He pressed closer to Solas, as close as his binds and their awkward way of kneeling facing each other would allow, as if he wanted to be as close to him as physically possible.  “Please — please —” Solas began to let his hands spread their soothing path lower, across shoulders, arms, chest. Anticipation and an odd sort of fear threatened to choke him — this felt too far, beyond the permission the Inquisitor had given. But Connor pressed forward into his hands. Connor’s eyes fluttered shut again as Solas’s fingers grazed over his nipples. Solas lingered, breaths quickening, as he watched and listened for more signs of Connor’s enjoyment. He let himself give the Inquisitor this small measure of comfort — for there could be no harm in it, not when the man so desperately craved his touch. Not when he was begging Solas to provide it.  His hands slid lower, across rope-creased flesh, across warmth and scars and faint hair and clothes. And at a pathetic, needy, desperate sound from Connor’s throat, Solas finally let the soft rocking motion of Connor’s hips bring his core in contact with his palm.  “Ah,” he sighed, pressing firmly against soaked fabric. “There.” Connor nodded, wordless, and leaned forward until his forehead rested on Solas’s shoulder. Solas’s own body prickled and ached with this small allowance, this little pleasure he allowed himself. He supported Connor’s weight gladly. He allowed the gentle strokes of his fingers to slake their hunger to touch and be touched. And he turned towards the soft breaths Connor huffed against his clavicle, only to murmur praise in a tongue the Inquisitor didn’t understand.

[onward--upward]

waiting game

sorry, i had to jump onto the 6x10 spec game. here's some bobby pov from the hospital, post-lightning strike. [read on ao3]

“Hey hon,” Athena says, leaning in to press her lips to Bobby’s cheek. “I brought you coffee. How’s he doing?” 

“Thanks.” The coffee is a welcome offering – Bobby is exhausted. They’d been nearly through with their shift when Buck got hit, and he’s been sick with worry ever since. “He’s alright. Doctor’s say he’s stable. It’s just a waiting game, now.” 

Athena’s eyes drift over to the open door to Buck’s hospital room. Bobby keeps his eyes on his coffee – the image of Buck’s broad frame somehow dwarfed by the crisp hospital sheets is burned behind his eyelids, and he doesn’t anticipate it going away anytime soon. It hurts to look at him for too long – but, then again, it all hurts, right now. Jagged pain behind Bobby’s breastbone, a reminder of every person he’s already lost. The only thing that would bring him relief would be the sweet burn of bourbon down his throat until he didn’t have to worry about things anymore, but that’s not something he can even consider, now or ever. The coffee is a poor replacement, but at least it’s warm. 

“Has he been in there the whole time?” Athena says softly, hand reaching out to tangle with Bobby’s free hand, a warm weight that anchors him to his body, to the moment.

Bobby looks up, following her gaze to Buck’s bedside, where Eddie is folded into the too-small chair, his fingers tangled up with Buck’s own, unfeeling against the white sheets. “Yeah,” Bobby confirms. 

“Poor boy,” Athena murmurs. She squeezes his hand, and for a moment, the weight of her hand in his echoes the two men in the hospital room in front of them – tethered together. A safety line. 

Bobby has never been sure what, exactly, Buck and Eddie’s deal is. It’s none of his business – he’s always had faith that they would manage to figure things out for themselves. But it’s so, so obvious, no matter the nature of their relationship, that they don’t suffer from a lack of love. The love has always been there. He’d heard it, years ago, when Eddie had been buried in that well, and Buck was losing himself with panic. And he’d heard last night, when Buck was thrown from that ladder, and Eddie was ready to do anything to get him down. 

The love, it seemed, was always coloured by pain: near death experiences and old traumas, shallowly buried. Bobby had watched them rebuild, this year, getting themselves back on solid ground. Together, always together. 

And now they were falling again. 

One could only hope that that love could pull Buck through this. 

“Hey,” Athena says, her voice, as it so often does, pulling Bobby back to himself. “Are you okay?” 

Is he okay? No, because he can’t help but think about worst case scenarios. Buck has been scrambling for solid ground for as long as Bobby has known him, and it seemed like he might be making his way there. What happens if he doesn’t pull through this? Bobby is left with a hole in his heart and his life? He never gets to see the life that he knows Buck has it in him to build? “I don’t know,” he tells Athena finally. 

“He’s strong,” Athena says. “One thing I know about Buckaroo – he never gives up.” 

Bobby closes his eyes. “I know.” 

“So don’t you go giving up on him either.” 

Bobby squeezes her hand. “I won’t,” he says. 

“Hey!” 

Bobby looks up to see Maddie and Chimney hustling down the hallway towards them. “Hey, guys,” Athena says, letting go of Bobby’s hand to pull them each into a brief hug. 

“We got Jee-Yun set up with Albert,” Maddie says. She looks as exhausted as Bobby feels. Her eyes keep drifting back to Buck’s room, a compulsive motion, like she’s checking that he’s still there. “Any change?” 

Bobby shakes his head. “Still the same,” he says. “Doctor says he’s stable, but that doesn’t mean much unless he wakes up.” 

Maddie flinches almost imperceptibly at the implication, and Chim wraps his arm around her. “He’s stubborn,” he says softly, practically into her hair. “You know he’s fighting like hell in there.” 

Maddie sniffs, nodding. “I know,” she says. She wipes at her face, eyes drifting back over to Buck’s unconscious figure. “It looks like Eddie hasn’t even moved since we left,” she says. “Is he doing okay?” 

No, Bobby is fairly certain he isn’t. But then, none of them are. “He hasn’t said much,” he says. 

Silence falls, and they all look at Eddie for a moment, at the empty, destroyed look on his face. 

“You all should give him some company,” Athena suggests gently. “He looks like he could use some love.” 

And that’s easy enough to agree to. Maddie and Chim make their way into the room – Chim squeezing Eddie’s shoulder, and Maddie brushing Buck’s hair back from his forehead. Eddie looks up when they come in, blinking hard like he’s surfacing from a nightmare. 

“Hey,” Athena says, and Bobby turns his attention back to her. She looks tired, too, but she probably looks a hell of a lot better than he does. Athena has always been better at compartmentalizing than he has. “I’ve got to get to work, but you should get in there, too,” she tells him. 

Bobby shakes his head. “He doesn’t need me.” 

“He does,” Athena says. “When – Listen to me, when that boy wakes up, he should be surrounded by his family. That includes you.” 

Bobby looks over, at Buck with his sister and her partner, and his… his Eddie. Whatever Eddie may be to him. The Buckley parents are conspicuously absent – Bobby knows they’re in town. It’s typical of everything he knows about them, that Buck’s life is hanging in the balance and they still won’t show up for him. 

“Okay,” Bobby says finally. Buck deserves a parental figure at his bedside, even if it’s just a poor substitute. “You’re right.”

“Love you,” Athena says, leaning in for a goodbye kiss. “Now, you get in there and make sure that boy knows his whole family is waiting for him to wake up.” 

And so Bobby sees her off, and then he claims his own tiny, uncomfortable chair and settles in for the long haul. Buck is strong, he reassures himself. He’ll pull through this. He has to. 

[nczaversnick]

Writing Share/Out of Context Tag

Thanks to @drchenquill for the tag

This bit is from Chapter 6

———————————————

Faint background noise echoed from a small, dark room. The only things that could be seen that were illuminated by the flashing images displayed on a 32-inch glass screen

could be heard echoing from a couple of speakers in a small room. Displayed on a 32-inch glass screen were flashing images of an unknown product, neither interesting nor entertaining to the two uniformed figures in the small, dark room.

One of them with wild, ginger hair reached out and plugged in a wire from the glass screen to their laptop to add to their endless collection of several other wires that went this way and that.

“We should really find you a better set up,” the other with golden as the sun hair gruffed, inspecting the tangled mess of rubbered strings.

“Hey, if it works, it works,” the ginger grinned, plugging in yet another wire, this time from their laptop to one of the three computer monitors they had set up in front of them.

The blonde huffed which earned a chuckle from the other.

“Jealous of my awesome setup?”

“Hardly,” he turned his attention back towards the screen, “The news should be coming back any minute now.”

“Don’t worry your pants about it, I’ve got it all taken care of in 3, 2-”

The ginger pointed to the glass screen and, as if right on cue, a brunette woman appeared on the screen with a serious expression plastered on her face. There was a red banner with scrolling white text on the bottom and the letters ‘IN’ were placed in the corner:

TV: “Good evening, this is Truman and you are watching Insider

News, the best news network to bring you the cold, honest

stories from all across Titania. In today’s headlines-”

“The ‘cold, honest stories’, give me a break,” the ginger stuffed a chip inside their mouth as the news anchor wrapped up her introduction and another commercial began to play.

“Hey, I need you to focus.”

“I can’t focus on an empty stomach, it stresses me out.”

The blonde gave them a look.

“Oh, come on, when have I let you down?”

Silence.

“Exactly. Just let your ‘ol pal do their thing.”

They leaned back in their chair, hands folded behind their head. After another long minute of mindless music passing painfully in the already tense room, the screen finally changed. They peeked one eye open and straightened up in their chair.

“Showtime.”

Keyboard keys clattered in the background:

TV: “Moreover, the government has decided that all markets and malls in the division should remain closed until the situation gets better. However, the pharmacies and the export industry will remain open.”

TV: “Thank you, Clarkson. At about 18:03 today, officers assigned to District C-7, Bourne, responded to a radio call requesting back-up. On arrival, officers found two hospital security personnel semi-conscious inside of the pharmacy. One of the security members provided information on the possible whereabouts of the suspect. Additional units arrived at the scene and began to search for the suspect and eventually located a male in the city of Dreake.”

The image on the screen froze for a brief moment and a faint bzzt soon followed. A computer mouse clicked in the distance a few times and the images unfroze as the broadcaster continued:

TV: “Officers arrested 47-year-old Riley Clements in front of his home. Clements is expected to be arraigned in Titania District Court on charges of Disorderly Conduct, Aggravated Battery, and Possession of Stolen Property. It’s still unknown whether Clements worked alone or was part of a group, but investigators are working closely with officials to make sure all who were involved are taken in. We will keep you updated on any more information that is brought in. Until then, it’s time for a commercial break. Stay with us!”

A silent wave of relief swept over the room.

“Hah,” the ginger threw their hands up in the air, a wide grin spreading across their face, “maybe this will teach you to stop using crappy security and being so predictable with all your news anchoring, Truman!”

The blonde raised his eyebrow at their fanatics.

“What? I just don’t like her,” they shrugged.

———————————————

Tags (comment if you want to be +/-)

@honeybewrites @wyked-ao3 @kittrrrr @zackprincebooks @theverumproject @the-golden-comet @fractured-shield @poppycat-writes @illarian-rambling @finickyfelix @kuebiko-writing @yourpenpaldee @willtheweaver @the-letterbox-archives @moltenwrites @davycoquette @leahnardo-da-veggie @sableglass

[the-wanderer-2022]

Feather Serpent Goddess Chapter 4 (Dark Namor x Reader)

(Please note you can find the Masterlist for this series at the top of my blog)

Warnings: swearing, yandere themes

Taglist: @zooni92802 @ohantonia @astrospunutt @omgsuperstarg @aslutforscarletwitch99 @multifandom-boss-bitch @tzurue @gardenof-venus @zheezs14 @bookfrog242 @honestlyka @weaponb33 @angel-bi666 @telepathic-queer

"Oh great and benevolent Khios, we thank you that we in our transgression are able to come before you.”

Shimmering emerald light pulsates from a smaller opening at the back of the cave, filling the damp cavern with painful light.

Ten men draped in robes of scarlet stand around the ceremonial table, their arms raised to the sky, their lips frantically moving as they pray.

The girl is no more than ten. When the prayer is finishes, a bowl is passed to her.

“Is it going to hurt Father?” She addresses one of the men.

“Rebirth is always painful my child,” he assures her, placing a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. “But were I allowed the privilege of seeing the face of Khios, I would take your place in an instant. You are here, fulfilling your life purpose. To become the vessel of a god.”

“It is my honor to serve.”

“An honor to serve,” the worshippers echo around her.

The song begins. It is a dark song, not like a normal song. It is a song that tickled the body and creeps along the bones, a song that disturbs the ears and rattles the senses.

The Father leaps up as if possessed, urging the girl to drink, as his eyes roll back leaving slides of white.

“Oh great Khios, with this offering . . .” More and more she drinks. “Purge us of our transgression! It is our honor to join with you in bringing home the new world!”

“The new world!” The worshippers cease their song, and all the lights go out.

When the light resumes, the girl is floating a few feet above the table, her head hanging.

She looks up, her eyes, lidless, veins of black pulsing through her cheeks. For a second, it appears as if something is happening.

And then comes the blood. Like a jet stream from her mouth. Her body folds in on itself like paper and she hits the table, dead.

Immediately they all go down on their knees. The Father remains standing as the light

“G-great Khios . . . I off-offer you my soul . . .”

“Your soul is useless to me,” comes the reply booming from the depths of the cave. “All your souls are useless to me. I need Anchors who are strong enough to take my essence. The union of my forefathers bore many women who can see the spirit realm! How is it, that you so called ‘devoted’ ones have been unable to produce even one for my use?”

“The Sisters are clever great Khios!” The Father insists, falling to his knees. “They hide their young. A female child has not been born to us in so long! It was a miracle to find even this one! Please . . .”

“Save your begging for the afterlife,” Khios answers, his voice as level as a ruler. “If you cannot produce a single Anchor for me, it is obvious, I will locate one myself.”

“Great Khios, I thought spirits needed a body to move in the human realm.”

A silence. And then it hits. “How right you are.”

-

“How could you not tell me this sooner?!” Chimal snaps.

The past hour has been agony. Ever since it became apparent that a change of direction was underway.

“Where are we going?!!” (Y/N) growls, desperately trying to gain control of her body as Chimal makes her way towards what (Y/N) has been dreading all along.

“You should have told me the truth.”

“And I think you should fuck off,” (Y/N) hisses. “And I’m sorry for my language, but can I just point out, I’m not some kind of covert agent here, I’m not practicing two personalities. You never asked. So I never told, I don’t see what difference it makes. It doesn’t change anything.”

When she hears the water, that’s when she starts to panic. Even more.

It is a horrid sensation to feel as if you are floating in the midst of nothingness but try though she may, (Y/N) cannot make her own arms and legs move.

Her thoughts fill with thoughts of her father, of his last words to her. Of her mother, and how her hand froze, her arms outstretched as she disappeared into dust.

“I told you all spirits were the same.”

They reach the beach. And the water is waiting. And Chimal strides forward, and stands there resolute, her face occasionally twitching as she tries to keep her second guest in her place.

“Why are you doing this?! What are you waiting for?”

“If I’m right about you and him, as soon as your feet touch water, he’ll know where you are.”

“Who will . . . oh shit . . . No, no . . .”

He’s even sexier than when she dreamed about him. And he ought to be because if Chimal doesn’t let go, those dreams that were not always good, may well become reality.

His wet hair somehow seems to add to the handsome ruggedness of his appearance, the salty water tumbles down his tanned muscles, and as his legs move swiftly towards them, (Y/N) takes note of the wings on his ankles.

“And they say the spirits no longer answer prayers.”

He reaches to touch her face but Chimal recoils.

“I’m not here to hand her over if that’s what you’re thinking.” (Y/N)’s blood runs cold in her veins.

His face darkens. “What is your name spirit?”

“I’m showing you that I have her. (Y/N) is under my full control, there is no way out for her. This is me being generous, letting you look into her eyes one last time. Unless. You. Give. Me. What I want.”

“You are going to try to keep her from me? You have gotten bold.”

“And you have gotten stupid. You know there is no power on this earth that can make me give up this body until I am ready.”

His laughter has no ring to it. “I know a few who could try.”

She leans in closer, running her nails along his shoulder. “Try it my little feather serpent god. I have everything I want within reach. I’m not going to be some common spirit any longer. I'm going to take my place at the top where I have always belonged. You have until tonight. Bring me what I asked for. Or you will be privy to just how ‘bold’ I really am.”

She turns to go but Namor grabs her hand.

“It’s going to be ok (Y/N),” he says before Chimal rips her hand away and disappears into the forest.

[littlemisskittentoes]

WIP word search!

RULES: use this generator to generate three random words (or however many you’d like to do!) and share the lines where they show up in your wips!

all my thanks to the darling @songliili @leojfitz @rockyroadkylers @gayrootvegetable @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @firenati0n @leaves-of-laurelin @kiwiana-writes

AHHH so many of you! thank you so, so much! alright, let's go chickie wings.

My words: current, leave, pray

current- kensington divergence au

When he presses his shaking fingers against his cheeks to chase away the lingering treks of tears, he scrubs harder than he means to. But, the bite of the abrasion against the panes of his face help bring him back to himself, an anchor through the riptide currents lapping at his feet.

leave- kensington divergence au

He clears the room in long, calculated strides. He even has a broad hand wrapped around the doorknob. But, as loudly as he tells himself to twist it, to move, to leave, Alex has never had much success in pulling his body out of Henry’s orbit.

pray- assassination attempt au

For long moments, Henry kneels. He keeps his hands folded together and his head bowed against the wooden pew. His senses latch onto the smell of incense and aged parchment. Slowly, he closes his eyes and he tries to pray to a god he’s not sure he believes in. And all at once, Henry understands— this is what they mean when they speak of desperation.

tag, you're it!! @read-and-write- @happiness-of-the-pursuit @inexplicablymine @affectionatelyrs @msmarvelouswinchester @absoluteaudacitywrites @user-anakin @raysletters @dot524 @daisymae-12

[picklefics]

Benefits of Camping, or How to (not) Hunt Bigfoot With Your Parents

This was originally posted on Ao3, but I decided I'd see what posting on Tumblr was like for fanfiction :) (https://archiveofourown.org/works/47138986/chapters/118767895)

I already have chapters 1-5, just not gonna put em all up right now as I'm at a coffee shop and need to work on heading home.

Summary:

It could've been a great vacation. Probably. Except there's one tiny issue: Danny's parents have decided to take a break from hunting ghosts, instead supporting their fellow cryptobiologists in hunting Bigfoot. The big problem? They do find Bigfoot. And Bigfoot can talk. (...and has a PhD?)

Chapter 1: Benefit 1-New Cooking Skills

Danny’s folks are usually ghost hunters, but that doesn’t mean they don’t branch out. After all, they’d spent almost 20 years of their life studying a science practically everyone thought of as a paper house in a rainstorm. Surely one of those droplets of evidence would disprove the science as a whole.

Really? Entire beings made of one substance? Supernatural entities?

Absurd .

Maddie and Jack have a great deal of sympathy for cryptobiologists. They also have a tendency to suspect that ghosts are involved every time someone spots Bigfoot or some other being. But really, they’d be happy with either the discovery of a ghost or a new animal to dissect.

Danny, on the other hand, is not in love with either of those two discovery options. He is having a great deal of fun tormenting Jazz, who’d been forced to come along on a trip to the red cedar forests of California. He’d tried to bribe Sam and Tucker into coming along. Sam, with the lure of a new animal (maybe) to check out, and Tucker with peer pressure and lots of grilled meat. Unfortunately, after the reality check that was another fight with a new ghost named Fortuna (self-proclaimed follower of Fortuna, Goddess of Fortune and Misfortune, and with luck-related powers), they’d been forced to concede that having people at home who could fight ghosts was too important to have all three of them on a camping trip.

Thank fuck that Val wasn’t in school right now and that she’d gotten less extreme about ghosts since meeting Danielle. One day Danny might even consider telling her about him, if she doesn’t figure it out first. As a result, there are three competent ghost hunters in Amity Park who don’t actively hate ghosts while Danny is on vacation.

At any rate, Danny is trapped with a bunch of adults who are way too enthusiastic about hunting down rare animals and (in at least one case) killing and taxidermy-ing them. The guy in question keeps tracking new hunters down and showing off pictures of his living room and business, covered in eerie deer, bear, and alligator heads, among other things. There’s even a snake wrapped around a driftwood piece on the table. It reminds Danny of Skulker, and makes him consider yet again whether ghosts might be more likely to form out of these kinds of people. He’s pretty sure his parents were obsessive before they started regularly working with ectoplasm, and after?

They grew much more extreme.

And who knows? It could be due to exposure to ectoplasm, or maybe the obsessiveness causes ectoplasm to accumulate near them. He’s heard theories going both ways.

This guy, Danny could easily imagine dying and becoming a ghost.

At least he helps with setup. The camp takes a while to go up, yellow and beige tents popping up like gophers among the trees. His parents’ tent is a green dome, one of a few splashes of color in the group. Another guy sets up a big grill and a solar panel in a little clearing, one of the few places with sunlight. His incredibly buff partner totes a bag of backup coal to the grill like Mom would carry a sack of flour.

All around the area, people bring up folding chairs and situate equipment. In a big, waterproof, black container, they all put their tech away. The container is anchored with thick ropes to be absolutely certain that nothing can drag it away. It’s flash-flooding season in the area and there’s a river nearby, so they’re concerned that the container could float away, but they had wanted to make the equipment available to everyone, so they aren’t keeping it in anyone’s vehicle. 

A cage goes up towards the far west corner of the camp, away from the fire pit, because they’re worried anything they capture might be unduly frightened by said fire.

With that, a few people sign up in rotation to monitor the grill, planning to bake some potatoes and apples in the fire pit and grill weenies. It’ll be about three hours before supper, but the planning, and a snack, are needed. As the only kids present (apparently many of the others’ kids are nonexistent or at summer camps), Danny and Jazz are put on apple coring and potato poking duty involuntarily. 

Matthew Kapp is their instructor. He practically drags them to the fire pit and tells them how to make the food like he thinks they have infinite memory space for commands, no matter how long the list is.

He explains that potatoes explode when in the ashes without holes, then shows them the basic steps to prepare the food. Essentially, they’re supposed to stab the potatoes with a fork “until it feels right”, wrap them in tin foil, and then yeet them into the fire. Then they have to be surrounded by the ashes and dug out later. Jazz and Danny both work on this, quietly chattering.

Danny grins and with particular emphasis stabs a potato old enough to have green sprouts studded all over its surface. He has to use his right thumb to put enough pressure on the sides of the sprouts that they fall off. He jokes, “If I were Skulker and this potato was me, I’d be so happy right now…”

Jazz raises her eyebrows at him. “Sometimes I worry about the normalization of violence you’ve experienced, Danny.”

Danny is like 90% sure she’s saying that mostly to get on his nerves, but he’s not 100% sure. Ah, the delights of a sister who adores psychology and tormenting her little brother. He rolls his eyes. “Literally everybody in town probably has that. The school has at least one attack every week.”

Jazz retorts, “That’s really not normal.”

“Well it’s normal for me.” 

At that, Jazz changes topics. “Did you remember to bring our tent?”

Danny gives her a thumbs up.

“Great. We don’t have to listen to their snoring!” She cheers. Granted part of the reason they have the tent is because of Danny’s nightmares and occasional power use. Particularly, he’s prone to leaping out of bed and turning intangible the second he gets startled awake because of the sheer number of times ghosts have woken him up.

“Thanks for suggesting it,” Danny offers. Then he adds, “Stabbing the potatoes until it feels right is so…imprecise. How do we know when it feels right?”

Jazz groans sympathetically. “I know, right? I get it for people who’ve baked campfire potatoes before, but we’ve never done this. Mr. Kapp is a scientist, isn’t he supposed to know to be exact for beginners?”

Danny tosses his potato back and forth. “This potato better be good. It’s very hole-y now.” He sets it in the metal bowl to his right and adds, “It’s starting a cult.”

Jazz raises her eyebrows at him. “...why?”

“Holy? Y’know, like saints or whatever?”

Jazz snorts and grabs the tin foil roll. She starts unwrapping it to the familiar crumbly crackle of ripping metal, tearing off pieces big enough for each of the potatoes they’ve prepared. Danny snitches some of the squares and starts wrapping them around each potato as fast as he can. For this part, they don’t talk. The aluminum is too loud anyways. It covers speech pretty well.

After all 14 potatoes are wrapped, they toss them into the fire. Sparks flash into the sky and drift away, and one of the logs collapses into the pit with a soft thud. The white ashes have increased in number, but there aren’t many yet, so they wait to bury the potatoes in the ashes. While they wait, they move on to the apples.

Danny mixes the cinnamon and other spices together and Jazz cores the apples while grumbling about how hard it will be to work on her paper out here. She brought paper so she could handwrite some of it, but out here there isn’t any internet so the most she can do is type on her phone. She isn’t doing that because she’s worried about running out of power and not being able to call if there’s an emergency.

They both stuff the apples with the mixture and then wrap them and toss them in the fire in the same way as the potatoes but to the side. About 15 minutes later, they use sticks to roll the apples out of the fire. The potatoes are saved for later since it will be a few hours before they’re done, while the apples are served as a snack/dessert immediately. 

Having had a long drive and therefore possessing a strong craving for sweets (or any sort of snackage really), everyone swarms the apple pile and as a result only gets one each. Danny plots to sneak another apple into the fire later so he can have seconds, and Jazz wholly supports him. He forgets to eat, and she has to remind him far more often than she’d like.

After the apples are all eaten, some of the people sit down to rest (those who weren’t already asleep) and some of the others begin prowling the area, including Taxidermy Guy (Oscar Polson) and his wife Paloma.

When the two of them come back, they have a map of the area filled with markings denoting where they want to put various kinds of traps. The Polsons are the experts on trap-setting and location, and they’re responsible for deciding which places to put the traps each person brought. With the locations for each trap decided, everyone fixes the last few supper items and sits down for supper as the sun sets, mostly because there’s not enough time to set up the traps that evening.

Next Chapter:

https://www.tumblr.com/picklefics/730299785376104448/boc-chapter-2?source=share