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starshoyo · 4 months ago

Note

Hi! I think I talk on behalf of all the fandom when I say that I need a second part of that suna!fake boyfriend scenario/fic, just saying

Lots of love uwu

FAKE BOYFRIEND II ★

PAIRING Suna Rintarou x fem! reader

WARNINGS aggressive behavior (from ex)

TAGS suna’s protective asf, your ex is still an ass

IN WHICH your ex waits for you outside of your home, and Suna just happened to be there at the right time

A/N Thank you for the support! Hope you enjoy <3

<- 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

EVER SINCE THAT day, you had a small war within yourself, pondering whether to ask Suna out or not. Well, you were planning to disguise it by telling him you wanted to treat him dinner as thanks. It took you a week before you finally sent him a message.

To your surprise, he replied almost instantly, and you had ended up texting throughout the night. On your first “date”, you were so nervous that it would be awkward between the two of you, especially because you were practically polar opposites.

You found out that Suna was full of surprises, because he had the same interests as you. He liked the same movies you did, and listened to the music you listened to. You found yourselves having deep conversations, and slipping into small talk in repetition just as easily.

Not to mention how much of a gentleman he was. The movements were automatic and subconscious, but they still made your heart pound. He would open doors for you, pull out your chair, and held your purse. When you went to the bathroom, you came back to the bill already paid.

Chivalry wasn’t something you were used to, and it definitely wasn’t something Takeshi cared about.

You learned that Suna was a tattoo artist, who also helped out at Atsumu’s garage once in a while, fixing street race cars. He was the complete opposite as you, who was in college, working part time at a cafe. Still, you clicked instantly.

You lived in a two story apartment complex, and after your nth date with Suna, he walked you home. Takeshi still texted you time to time, so you finally blocked him weeks ago. You hadn’t seen him since, and you definitely didn’t expect to see him today.

Suna grinned down at you as you gave him back his jacket that he lent you. It was now fall, about a month since you’ve first met Suna. The sun had long set under the horizon, and the two of you stood under the star filled skies.

“Thanks for today.” He hummed, a gentle finger placing a strand of hair behind your ear. You found yourself leaning into his warm touch, craving more. “I want to see you again, soon.” You said so softly that you weren’t sure if he even heard.

But he indeed heard it, resisting the urge to lean down and press a firm kiss into your soft hair. So instead, he brushed his thumb against your cheek affectionately. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He smiled, fingers sliding away from your reddening cheek.

“Bye.” You whispered. He watched you as you turned, climbing the steps to your apartment on the second floor. You felt his gaze burning holes into your back, your heart pounding in your ears. When you were finally out of his sight, he turned on his heel, a slight bounce in his step as he walked away.

Your eyes were on the floor as you walked towards your door, biting your lips and trying to contain the silly smile on your face. You giggled at a memory, tips of your ears impossibly redder.

You had only finally noticed that someone was standing in front of your door when their feet came into your sights, and you looked up, surprised.

Surprise quickly turned into fear when you saw the familiar face of Takeshi, who was leaning against the wall next to your door. He raised a brow, kicking off the wall. “Well, finally. I’ve been waiting for an hour, now.” He mumbled, as if he had told you he would be here.

His presence was like cold water being splashed onto the warm embers of your date, snuffing out any giddiness you felt. The smile was wiped off your lips, and when you took a step back, he wasted no time maneuvering his body so he caged you between your door and him.

Your legs shook in fear, but you scowled as you glared up at him. “What are you doing here, Takeshi?” You spat through grit teeth, pressing yourself against your door and trying to get more space between the two of you.

His hands were planted on the sides of your head, expression filled with irritation. “You know what I’m doing here. You blocked me, didn’t you?” He huffed, voice deep and eyes a little crazy.

Your heart was pounding in your ears for a different reason now, balling your hands into fists to stop them from trembling. “I had every right to block you. We’re not dating anymore, Takeshi. Get that through your thick skull.”

You flinched as he punched the space next to your head. Your eyes widened at his outburst, all confidence gone. “No, you listen to me. We are not done until I say we’re done. You didn’t give me time to explain shit, and then went off to open your legs to another man. How dare you?”

There were a thousand things you wanted to say against his berating words, but they were all stuck in your throat, and all you could do was look up at him with eyes that were starting to water. He was being aggressive, and a hint of alcohol was mixed with every breath that fanned your face.

Suna was three minutes into walking home, when he dug his hands into his jacket pockets for warmth and realized you had left your favorite lipstick in one of them. He smiled gently at the cosmetic, a memory of you talking about how much you loved it floating somewhere in the back of his mind.

He turned around, heading back. Maybe it was an excuse to see you one more time before the end of the day.

He walked up the steps, turning the corner to walk down the hall that lead to your door. He stopped in his tracks when he saw another man there.

It was a familiar man, a frame he had seen before. Short, lanky, and most definitely Takeshi. Suna was frozen for a second, registering what was happening in his head. But when he realized that you were crying, and Takeshi was practically barking in your face, his body moved before he could come to a decision.

Suna fisted a hand into Takeshi’s shirt, a violent smack echoing through the night as his fist connected with the latter’s jaw. You gasped, body still pressed against the door, chest heaving.

“I swear, if you ever talk to her like that,” Suna huffed, a growl underlying each breath. He was furious, that was for sure. You weren’t sure if you were terrified of the fact that he had just smacked the shit out of Takeshi, or the fact that there was a small part of you that loved his protectiveness.

“If I ever even see you again, I’ll fucking kill you.” He finished, before taking the keys in your hand. He unlocked the door, hand on your waist and leading you inside. You couldn’t even see if Takeshi got up or not before Suna’s slammed the door behind him, locking it.

It was then that he finally took a breath, facing the door with his back turned to you. There was silence for a couple heart beats, both of you not sure what to say next. What… what just happened?

Suna was the first to speak up. “I’m sorry.”

His words were soft, all the anger inside him flushing out and instead filling with guilt. Your head reeled back in confusion. “You’re sorry?”

He turned around, and it pained you at how disappointed he looked, scrunching his brows. “I didn’t- I shouldn’t have-” He stuttered, the words dying at the tip of his tongue every attempt. You frowned, immediately wrapping your arms around his neck, bringing him down into a tight hug.

He was taken off guard at first, standing as stiff as a board, before finally melting into your touch and returning the embrace. “Thank you for saving me. Again.” You whispered into his skin, sending a chill down his spine.

His strong arms wrapped around your middle, holding you like you were fragile, despite the fact that he had displayed his strength just seconds ago. Unsaid words were exchanged during that hug, heart to heart.

He pulled away, and you almost held him tighter, trying to get him back in your space, when he pressed his lips against yours. It was soft and warm, but sent sparks like fireworks throughout your entire frame.

His hands held the sides of your face now, lips moving in perfect sync. All words that were afraid to be said had been communicated in that short moment, and when you pulled apart, he looked into your eyes with such adoration that you thought you would melt into a puddle in that spot.

“Let me protect you, (Name). Let me be yours.” He said in a hushed tone, thumbs brushing your cheeks gently. You held the hands on your face, nodding furiously, like he had just gifted you the stars. “Be mine, Rin.”

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holoska · 19 days ago

Text

after debating for weeks whether to stay very far away from the deltarune soriel discourse or let myself ramble about my faves like I want to, the latter has finally won out

I've had time to properly absorb the weight of all that happens at the end of chapter 4, and obviously I do feel for both kris and susie. that is The Point of the scenes being from their perspectives; after everything they just went through and all the worry they had for toriel's safety (for the second time in 24 hours!), the scene they come home to is maybe the most uncomfortable slap in the face possible. it sticks out to me that the last thing susie talks about before the dark fountain is sealed is her wanting tomorrow to be the same as yesterday and for everything to always be able to go back to how it was, and that's what greets them - a blatant, obnoxious sign that things are changing. even though the scene has a lighthearted side, its overall tone adds to the downcast feeling the chapter ends on.

having said that, as someone who has spent the past 9 and a half years being normal about sans and toriel, I'm still very very happy that this is a canon scene we got 💜

the fandom may be largely not considering their perspectives in the slightest (or worse, only viewing their perspectives from the most bad faith angles possible), but I for one love this for them!! as other very good posts have pointed out, toriel has been sorely in need of someone who's there for her - an awful lot of people in town saw the divorce play out and have something to say about it, the holiday family are closer to asgore than toriel, kris is her child and stuck in the middle of their parents' issues, and while she's friends with alphys, them being coworkers and alphys being kris' teacher likely puts a distance of sorts between them. but sans is new in town, someone she immediately connects with, who has no pre-existing opinions about her family and has seen firsthand what toriel has to put up with from asgore. in every universe, sans is exactly the kind of person toriel needs in her life.

there's less to work with from sans' perspective given how little we know about him, and I'm not all-in on sans being from deltarune just yet (more specifically I do love the theory, I'm just giving myself room to not be too disappointed if it doesn't happen), but the new version of it's raining somewhere else being named 'the place where it rained' emotionally destroys me forever. either way it drives home just how happy toriel makes sans in both worlds and I love that so so much :']

to be clear I'm not saying they did nothing wrong, their choices negatively impacted kris and susie and they were objectively disruptive and inconsiderate after kris went to bed. but I like that they're being messy and flawed, because it means this isn't just "my faves are getting closer in the background yippee" but that their relationship is potentially an actual part of the story, and that's how you get The Good Stuff!! we wouldn't have had meaningful character moments like noelle finally standing up to queen if queen hadn't tried to control noelle and just listened to her from the start, or susie comforting ralsei with her bloodied hand if he'd told her and kris every detail of the full prophecy the moment he met them and never kept any secrets. if all the hints towards a flower shop dark world turn out to be true then it's pretty clear the story is building things up to make those future character moments hit, and considering we still don't know what happened with the dreemurr divorce at this point, chapter 5 seems like a perfect opportunity to dive into all of that.

plus, as sweet as susie's bond with toriel is, I honestly think susie seeing this side of toriel needed to happen. a lot of the fandom's complaints about toriel right now boil down to her not being the "perfect mother" they thought she was, and what bothers me about that is toriel was never meant to be that kind of character. toby has said that she's not the classic video game protagonist's mother who sees you off on your journey and you can come home and visit any time, and nothing changes and she never has any substantial character of her own. in undertale she literally handholds frisk through the tutorial, she becomes the first boss in her attempt to protect them when every other human left her care, and once they leave she won't let them come back or even call her phone because she can't face seeing them knowing they'll leave again and likely be killed. she's more than just the mother figure of the game, she's her own person with likes and dislikes, hobbies and flaws, and a past and trauma she can't overcome until the best ending.

we've only seen the tip of the iceberg of her history in deltarune, but that same principle holds true: she isn't the perfect parent you return to after each day's adventure, who gives you butterscotch pancakes every morning and never has any real part in the story because that isn't the intent behind her character. she mentioned her loneliness back in chapter 1, kris has secrets and problems they aren't letting her in on, asgore is being relentlessly inconsiderate of her boundaries, and for all susie's praise of toriel being a good mother, I think that house of cards was going to fall eventually. my hope is that, like her blowing up at ralsei ultimately bringing them closer, susie being able to see toriel as the imperfect adult she is but one who does genuinely care might help them build a stronger bond in the end too.

I think I always knew that if soriel ever inched closer to being canon there'd be discourse about it, and toriel slander is unfortunately nothing new. people are just being annoying about it currently and it sucks when I genuinely love what's being built up here!!

anyway crossing my fingers for a scene where toriel invites sans to the festival before she gets thrown in the bunker/he gets sent to undertale/the roaring happens/all of the above 🤞

#holoska rambles #holoska plays deltarune #deltarune spoilers #soriel #toriel #sans #the second half of this post might be a bit 'I've connected the two dots' 'you didn't connect anything' 'I've connected them'#but it'd make a lot of sense to me if susie losing some of her idolisation of toriel could be a commentary on undertale fans #who think that toriel is nothing more than their perfect goat mum. the exact thing her character is a parody of #and considering how much deltarune is playing off of expectations from undertale I don't think that's beyond the realm of possibility #...likewise I could also be totally wrong about where chapter 5 will go ghdsjfdgh I just think that'd be a neat direction to take #anyway. fun fact before I started chapter 4 I was hoping we might get to see sans and toriel casually interact like in chapter 2 #and maybe just maybe toriel would offer to show sans around the festival since it's all new to him #and then I wrote that off as wishful thinking. too unlikely to happen for real #suffice to say what we actually got hit me like a bus and I am thanking the driver (toby) for it

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fluentmoviequoter · 11 months ago

Text

Find Another Moment

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: Through a trip to find his mom, a series of explosions and executions, and an impromptu dinner date, you realize that you need Jim Street by your side all the time. Almost as much as he needs you.

Warnings: spoilers for 2x23 "Kangaroo" and Cinque story line from s2, angst to fluff, Karen Street being a bad mom, lots of comfort and love!

Word Count: 4.2k+ words

A/N: I shocked myself by making a rewrite that isn't chock-full of verbatim lines from the show! I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!🤍

Masterlist Directory | Jim Street Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List

There are very few people you rush to answer the phone for. When Jim Street calls hours after your shift ends, you nearly trip over your feet to get to the phone and talk to him.

“Street, hey,” you greet when the line connects.

“Hey, sorry for the late call,” he says. “But I, uh, I wanted to ask if maybe you could get another ride to work tomorrow? I know it’s late notice.”

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

Street sighs, and your worry and concern for him grows.

“You can talk to me, Street. You know that. But you don’t have to.”

“No, I want to,” he answers. “It’s my mom. That thing with the credit card information worked out and I got an address. Now that I know where she is, I can do something. I’m going to go check it out in the morning before I head to HQ.”

“No problem. Family comes first. If you want me to come along though, just wait in the car, I can. You shouldn’t have to do this at all, but it’s really messed up that you’re having to do it alone, Jim.”

You don’t often call him by his first name, so you hope he doesn’t take it as trying to force your way into his personal life. He gets enough grief from Hondo about his mom, and the last thing you want to do is make him think you want to interfere and give your opinion, too.

“Your decision,” you add. “But I can definitely call in a favor from someone else. And my car should be back from the shop this week, so I’ll finally stop asking you to chauffeur me.”

“I don’t mind. Just… with my mom, I don’t want to make anything awkward between us if she is there.”

“Street, there’s nothing that could happen that would change how I think of you or our relationship,” you assure him. “I understand if you want to go alone, though.”

“I don’t,” Street says softly. “I really don’t.”

“Then pick me up before you go. What harm can some moral support do?”

“Thank you.”

“What friends are for.”

“No, really. I don’t think you realize just how much you’re doing for me. Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Street.”

Street sits back and sighs. You said nothing could change your relationship, but after moments like this, he wants to be the one to change it. Being friends and teammates is great, but you could be more. And, for once in his life, Street wants to do something for himself, to be happy with you without any care for what others think. If his mother doesn't scare you away, by some miracle or chance of fate, Street will tell you that he has feelings for you. Then, you get to take it from there because Street has been manipulated too many times in his life to find comfort in causing others to rush into big decisions. Especially when his heart and happiness are on the line, too.

The following morning, you wait on the curb of your usual parking spot for Street. He seems nervous as he pulls in, and you hope that the moral support you came to provide eases him. You’ve heard the horror stories about his mom but haven’t talked to her extensively like some of your other teammates. If she is here, you’ll give Street room to do his thing and then navigate the rest as he instructs. Street is special to you, and you refuse to lose him by overstepping or pushing his boundaries. He’s your friend, and you stay there because if you lose Street, you lose everything that matters.

“This is it?” you ask.

Street leans over the steering wheel to look at the old, sinking apartment complex. People wander aimlessly around the building, and clothes and furniture hang from windows. A distinct sense of doom and gloom escapes through all the cracks and crevices, showing the building's age and lack of care.

“Come in with me?” Street requests. “Please?”

You nod as you open the door. As you walk toward Street, you have to step over broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, and empty nos canisters. At his side, you smile, trying to remind Street that you’re with him, no matter what.

Inside, you follow Street up a staircase lined with trash. The hallway at the top is dark and dirty, and the cheap laminate floor is peeling from the corners. No one deserves to live like this, you think as you notice someone sitting at the end of the hall, rocking back and forth.

Street slows beside an open door, and you stop as he pushes it open further. Music plays inside, and Street looks over his shoulder at you and nods once.

“Good luck,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

You watch Street step inside, then turn slightly to see inside the apartment. It’s trashed and nearly unlivable, but Karen Street is sitting on the floor and laughing at an old cartoon. Your eyes move to Street as he tries to get her attention. A sound down the hall draws your attention momentarily, but you turn back quickly when Street asks who someone is.

“Bryce,” the unseen man answers.

“So, you leave the apartment and disappear for weeks without a word and starting using again ‘cause you chose this guy?” Street asks.

“Name ain’t ‘this guy,’ it’s Bryce,” Bryce says. “And you need to go.”

You can see Street, but not Bryce from your position in the hallway. When Street stands quickly, you step inside and watch as he shoves the man against the fridge.

“Okay,” Bryce pants.

“Hey, stop it,” Karen calls as she stands. “Stop it, stop it! Eddie, baby, please.”

While Bryce asks who Eddie is, you debate whether you should walk back into the hallway or try to help Street. When Karen hugs Street while talking to his father, you wait. You step toward him as he shoves his mom back.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Karen says when she realizes it's Street and not her husband. She pulls her robe closed and murmurs, “I’m gonna… straighten things up.”

She moves toward the kitchen, and you follow her, nodding at Street. You gently place your arm before Karen and smile when she turns toward you.

“Hey, Mrs. Street,” you greet softly. “I can straighten up for you, but why don’t we go somewhere else for now?”

“What’s she on?” Jim asks behind you.

“We took a mix,” Bryce answers. “A mix of a lot of things.”

“Maybe we could go get breakfast,” you suggest. “Wouldn’t you like some time with Jim?”

Karen nods and turns toward Street. “I can make waffles,” she offers. “I might have to go to the store though.”

“I don’t want waffles, Ma,” Street answers.

Street grabs a blanket from the table and drapes it over his mom’s shoulders. “I’m taking her home,” he says as he places his hand on her back. “Bryce.”

You follow Jim and Karen for a few steps, then stop. “Bryce,” you call. “If I find out that the mix of a lot of things was your creation, I’ll be back.”

“It wasn’t!” he yells after you.

You wave your hand over your shoulder as you exit, leaving the door open behind you. When you catch up with Street, he’s almost back to his car.

“You take her home, I can call someone,” you offer.

“I’ll drop you off. Tell Hondo I’ll be late?” he replies.

“Sure.” Street closes the car door, and you catch his wrist as you ask, “Are you okay?”

He shrugs, and you nod in understanding. You squeeze his hand gently, then release him to get in the car. Street means more to you than he’ll ever know, and you’ll do everything you can, even covering for him to Hondo, to be here for him.

“Street, it’s me,” you say to the voicemail. “Hondo knows you’re running late, but I didn’t tell him anything specific. I’m going to the courthouse with Cortez. Um… if you need anything, let me know.”

After you hang up, you exit the car and meet Jessica on the sidewalk. She knows who you called, you’re sure of it, but you’re hoping that she won’t try to meddle or give you advice. The walk into the courthouse is a comfortable silence, which you’re grateful for. As you sit, Jessica speaks to the reporter on her other side, but you keep your eyes on the defendants before you. When they stand suddenly and begin chanting, you roll your eyes. They’ve been saying the same thing since they were arrested.

“The time to be good to each other has passed,” they add. “The system will be burned to ashes, starting with this courthouse.”

You look at Jessica as you lean forward.

“That’s new,” she says.

Outside the courthouse, people begin yelling, and you don’t hesitate to stand and walk toward the door. Jessica follows behind you, and when you enter the hallway to see Cinque on the screen, you stop in your tracks.

“Cinque,” Jessica says. “He must have hacked the feed.”

She raises her phone to film the live video, but you listen to Cinque rather than focus on who is with him or where he is. Hondo and the rest of your team will be watching back at HQ, but if you can help, you want to be prepared.

“So,” Cinque continues, “this time we don’t want money and we don’t want to bargain. We’re going to burn the system down and rebuild on its ashes.”

Cinque raises a phone and presses the screen. Several cars outside the courthouse explode, and you duck down as the people around you scream. Jessica pulls her gun and instructs people to move farther into the courthouse. You stay beside her and fight every instinct to run out and help the people closest to the explosion.

“Cortez, this isn’t over,” you say over the chaos behind you.

Jessica holsters her gun and pulls her phone out of her pocket. “He’s going to sentence a politician on live television every hour,” she tells you. “He’s just getting started.”

“That was the 4th Street bridge, but he’ll move. You need my team.”

Your phone rings before Jessica can respond. Street’s name on the screen is the best thing you’ve seen all day, you think as you answer the call.

“Street,” you greet when the call connects.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine. Cortez is good, too. No casualties here. How are things there?”

“Hectic. When are you coming back?”

“When am I coming back?” you repeat, looking at Jessica. She shrugs, it’s your decision. “I’m not. I’m going to stay with Cortez and keep an eye on everything here.”

“Be careful,” Street implores. “Keep me updated.”

“You, too.”

“Councilman Strub’s body, hanging from the 4th Street bridge, it seems familiar.”

“Figure it out, Street, we both know you can.”

“I have to tell Hondo all is good there.”

“I’ll see you later, Street. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Less than an hour later, you’re still at the courthouse when Cinque executes another politician. You don’t watch this time, but you text Street to be careful immediately after the broadcast ends.

Back at HQ, Hicks tells Street, “Get the rest of your team and go grab Cinque!”

“The rest of my team isn’t here,” Street mumbles as he and Deacon exit the situation room.

“I know you’re worried about her,” Deacon says, “but she’s okay. If we want to get her back here safely, we have to stay focused, Street.”

Deacon joins Luca as Street calls for Chris and Tan to visit the location of Cinque’s last IP address. As he works, Street realizes that Deacon is right and wrong at the same time. He doesn’t just want you back to be part of the team, Jim Street wants you by his side all the time. Having you at his side, as a teammate, when things are bad, is great, but that’s not all he wants. He needs more.

After successfully saving Councilman Washington, 20 Squad is surprised to see Jessica back at HQ. Street, however, only looks for you.

“She’s still at the courthouse, waiting for things to settle there,” she tells Street. “Deputies didn’t mind the help.”

Street nods and watches Jessica walk to her office with Hondo. He’s glad you’re okay and safe, but he’d prefer to see you in person. You stepped up this morning to help him with his mom, and now, Street isn’t sure when he’ll see you again.

“We need to find Cinque,” he tells Luca.

“For personal reasons or the public’s safety?” Luca asks knowingly.

“Why not both?”

Your phone rings during a conversation with a bailiff. Jessica’s name on the caller ID makes you answer it before you even excuse yourself.

“Cortez, hey,” you greet. “Everything okay?”

“It will be. Cinque is in custody, and Deacon and Hondo are reviewing all the intel we have to find the last Emancipator. I need you to join me at City Hall, if everything is under control at the courthouse?”

“As under control as it can be. They’re understandably freaked about the explosions and the live broadcasts, but they can spare me. I’ll be there in twenty. Do you think we’ll actually find anything or have to wait for another lead?” you ask as you exit the courthouse.

“I wish I had an answer for you.”

Before you leave for City Hall, you text Street to let him know where you’re going. You hesitate over the ‘Send’ button, then add, I’ll see you soon. It’s a promise.

“Find anything?” Street asks as he enters the situation room.

“There’s a live press conference at City Hall, we think it’s the next Emancipator target,” Hondo answers. “Cinque’s been planning all of this for a while. Was there anything going on at City Hall in the last year?”

“Let me see,” Deacon murmurs. After a quick search, he pulls up a record and photos. “They installed new security cameras four months ago, and the installation crew had to scan IDs to gain access to the building. And that work crew sure looks like our Emancipators on trial.”

“They used the installation job to plant explosives inside City Hall,” Hondo realizes.

Street’s phone buzzes, and he continues listening to Hondo as he reads your message and rereads it.

“Cinque likes an audience. Now he’s got one on live TV,” Hondo adds.

“Tell Cortez,” Deacon urges.

“She’s not the only one there,” Street says, looking up from his phone. “They’re both in a death trap.”

“Call her,” Hondo commands as he raises his phone to his ear. “We need everyone out without raising flags.”

Standing in the crowd at City Hall, you watch as Cortez turns to the side and answers her phone. Your phone begins buzzing immediately after, and you step back to answer the call from Street.

“The Emancipators are planning to blow up City Hall,” Street says, skipping his usual greeting. “Hondo wants everyone out.”

“Got it,” you answer.

“No, hey, listen to me. You get out of there.”

“Street, I will.”

“Don’t wait, just get out of there and come back here. Okay?”

“I’ll be back soon, Street. I promised, didn’t I?”

Now, you just have to keep that promise.

Back at HQ, Hondo preps 20 Squad, and they roll out in Black Betty less than five minutes later. In his seat, Street forces himself to pay attention to Hondo. If he doesn’t focus on his job, his mind will run rampant and make him think of everything that could happen to you.

When people begin exiting City Hall, the final Emancipator detonates one of the explosives hidden inside. You’ve strayed from Hicks and Cortez to make sure everyone gets out safely, and when the building shakes and the first explosion echoes through the halls, you cover your head.

“Go, get out of here!” you yell to a man in the same hall.

The explosion sounded like it was on the two-side of the building. Though you know the sound may have been distributed oddly and you could be wrong, you begin moving that way. Street told you to leave, but you’re this close; you can’t sit back and do nothing.

“Go,” you call as you run past civilians exiting doors off the hallway.

You near the two-side as the explosions continue, ranging in speed and location. Without communications with your team, you have no idea if the bomber is even in the building. Or anyone else, for that matter.

“22-David, Chris got the bomber,” Luca alerts.

“30-David to D-Team. Status,” Deacon requests.

“26-David, clear,” Street answers.

“25-David, clear,” Tan adds.

“20-David, all clear,” Hondo reports after a moment. “And I’ve got Cortez.”

“Just Cortez?” Street asks.

Street doesn’t wait for an answer before he rips his phone from his pocket and calls you. You don't answer, and Street runs toward one of the only standing entrances. As he enters the falling building, he yells your name, screams through the dust, ignores the burning in his eyes and throat, and climbs over the rubble.

“Talk to me!” he yells, feeling ready to collapse. Leaning against a pile of debris, Street yells your name once more.

Each explosion disorients you more. Between the dust, the noise, and how the closer explosions throw off your balance, you lose sight of the exterior wall and your escape. Instead, you focus on moving forward and keeping your hope of finding any door.

Someone yells in the distance, but you can’t decipher where they are. Everything is muffled, and your steps are growing slow and heavy in your oncoming lethargy.

“Street,” you whisper, reaching for your phone before remembering you dropped it while running past a falling pillar.

Your eyes flutter closed as you lean against a wall. Investigators will be inside soon, so you rest amongst the wreckage and consider simply waiting for them. Until someone yells your name, that is.

“Street?” you ask without opening your eyes. You try to imagine the voice in your head again, and the simple thought of Jim Street gives you the strength to stand. “Street!” you yell. You’re interrupted by a cough, but you call for him again and hope you aren’t imagining his presence.

“What can you see?” Street yells.

He sounds closer now, and you smile as you reply, “Dust!”

“Cute,” Street says, his voice quieter but clear.

You turn to the side, and your eyes widen when you see him. Street steps to you and pulls you against his chest, hugging you tightly. He cradles your head against his chest for a moment before he pulls back and lays a hand against your cheek to look at your face.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests. “You feel okay?”

You nod and agree, leaning against Street as he follows Luca’s radioed directions to a clear exit. In the light of day, you can see that you and Street are both covered in dust, but there’s no one else you’d rather have beside you for support. You like having him by your side, you realize, and you wouldn’t mind staying at his side even when you’re off-duty.

“Thank goodness,” Street sighs. “I thought I’d forgotten what you looked like without all the City Hall powder on you.”

“You stare at her enough it should be burned into your mind,” Luca teases as he waves at you. “Have a good one.”

“You too, Luca,” you call.

“You want to come over?” Street offers, pulling his backpack onto his shoulder. “I can make you dinner.”

You smile as you close your locker. “I really want to, Street. But isn’t your mom at your place right now? Don’t you need to spend time with her, before, you know?”

“Is that the only reason you’re saying no?”

“I didn’t say no,” you argue with a smile. “I don’t want to intrude, though.”

“Come with me,” Street repeats, offering his hand.

You lay your palm over his, and you know you are home. Your place has always been by Jim Street, and you’re finally seeing that.

“Go ahead,” you murmur at Street’s door. “I’ll either be here to take you to my place or I’ll come in later.”

Street nods and squeezes your fingers gently. As he enters his apartment, he sighs. “Hey,” he tells his mom.

“How was work?” she asks.

“It was good,” Street lies. You were in danger, it was terrible, but his mom has enough to deal with already. Not that he would have told her the truth anyway. “How you feeling, Mom?”

“My headache’s cleared away, so… Thank you so much for coming and getting me. Uh, thank your friend, too. You okay?”

Street doesn’t answer, his eyes straying to the door, where you’re waiting to be everything he needs and more. Not because you have to or feel some obligation or twisted sense of responsibility for him, but because you want to.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy, that you had to see me like that,” Karen continues. “Sometimes your mom’s just pretty sick.”

The door opens, and Street doesn’t turn around because he knows it isn’t you.

“Mrs. Street,” Karen’s parole officer says, “I have to remand you back into state custody for parole violations. You missed several check-in appointments and were found under the influence or narcotics.”

“You reported me?” Karen asks Street.

“So that you can get treatment, get better,” Street explains.

“I can’t go back to jail. Jimmy, I can’t go back to prison, I can’t. After all I’ve been through and all I’ve done for you, you’re sending me back? What kind of son would do this to his mother?”

“The kind that doesn’t want you to die.”

You watch as Karen is led out of Street’s apartment. With her back to you, she never sees you, but you heard everything. The door is still open, but you knock regardless as you step into Street’s home. His eyes are on the floor until you enter, and then he looks up with sadness evident on his face. Jim Street has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but with you, he’d rip it out of his chest and place it in your loving hands without second-guessing that you’d treat it better than he ever could.

“Jim,” you say softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Street gently grabs your left wrist, closing his fingers around your skin and feeling your pulse thump beneath his touch. With his other hand, he pushes the door closed. When you step closer to him, Street pulls you into his arms and drops his head to your shoulder. Carefully, you move your hands to rub between his shoulders while gently brushing through his short hair.

“You did the right thing,” you promise him. “You love her. Even if she can’t see it, you did the right thing.”

Street’s arms tighten around your waist, and you close your eyes as you hold him.

“What do you want for dinner?” Street asks against your shirt.

You chuckle at his sudden change of subject, but neither you nor Street move. The comfort, the peace, the love you feel at every point of connection you have with Street is better than anything you’ve ever felt or will ever feel in the future.

“What if we order from your favorite place?” you suggest.

“Why?” Street mumbles, his hands clutching the back of your shirt.

“Uh, because you like it.”

“No, I mean, why stay with me, be here for all of this?”

You gently push Street back to look into his eyes. With your hands on either side of his face, you smile and answer, “Because I want to be. Right here is the best place I’ve ever been.”

Street smiles, his dimples appearing beneath your thumbs at your honesty. With his hands at your side, Street leans his forehead against yours and sighs.

“I really am hungry,” he admits.

“I thought we were having a moment,” you tease, brushing your thumbs over his dimples.

As you look into Street’s eyes, you desperately want to kiss him. After everything that’s happened, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable or force him into something he isn’t ready for yet. So, you wait.

“You didn’t listen to me. When I told you to get out of City Hall… you were all I could think about and when we realized what Cinque’s crew was doing, I realized that I need you, all the time,” Street confesses.

“I thought you were hungry,” you whisper.

“You can’t have it both ways,” Street replies happily. “Unless you want it both ways, and then I’ll find a way to make it work.”

“I want you, Street,” you say. “Now and forever, I want nothing but you.”

“Even with all the drama?”

“And the trauma,” you affirm with a nod. “We all have pasts and baggage, Street.”

“Would kissing you immediately after sending my mom back to jail be weird?”

“Now that you’ve pointed it out, yes, it would.” You step back and suggest, “Dinner and then we try to find another moment?”

“Only if you’re in it,” Street answers.

#jim street x fem!reader #jim street x reader #jim street fluff #jim street fic #jim street imagine #jim street #swat cbs #fem!reader #hanna writes✯#swat x reader #swat #the comfort Street deserves

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tackytigerfic · 2 months ago

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mid-story line game

First can i just say that i've loved being tagged in recent posts and how much i appreciate my fandom pals and getting to read little snippets of your work? what an array of treats! Here are their posts, feast on these words: @mourningliliesmorningglories here; @the-forbidden-forest here; @garagepaperback here; @wolfpants here; @yellowfork here; @lemonlimelea here.

rule: drop a mid-story snippet from up to 10 of your fics, posted or wips

👻In the Hallway (Drarry, housemate fic)

Malfoy’s eyes are bright in the sodium streetlight and he looks blissful with his mouth stuffed full, Harry arching up to meet him, and when Harry comes he feels vaporised, like he’s sizzling off into the stars that he can now see behind his screwed-shut eyelids.

🏋️‍♂️Hand on the Key (Drarry, visiting Privet Drive)

It was Dudley, standing half-naked in a corner and looking very pale. He was still holding a set of dumbbells, foolishly, in his big hands, and he was covered in a sheen of sweat.

🐺Howl (Drarry, both werewolves)

It was almost too much, a sensory overload, Draco’s mouth suddenly wet and getting wetter, a prickle of sweat over his top lip, a greying fuzz across his vision before he blinked the colour back into the room.

🩸First Watch (Drarry, multiverse wartime fic)

Draco’s shirt was stuck to his back with the sweat of effort, his hair curling at the ends in the heat, and blood was drying in the cracks of his palms. His eyes were closed, face finally smoothed out and peaceful. “Hmmm?” Draco blinked slowly, like a pointy cat, then ruined the peaceful effect with a huge yawn. “I wasn’t asleep.”

📰The Quiver of a Heartstring (Drarry exes - unhappy ending)

You'll be in the Prophet tomorrow, you know that, and you don't even care. They'll have photos of you and Malfoy, and they'll call it a brawl, or a scuffle, and they'll have some glib headline, but they can't begin to imagine the heat of it. They can't capture the triumphant rush of having Malfoy solid and warm under your hands again.

👨‍🦰Aim For My Heart (Dronarry, jealousy in triad)

Draco presses himself tighter against Ron’s back, and Harry wriggles restlessly in Ron’s grasp. He’s breathless, and jittery with a sort of spiteful need for all of Ron’s attention. Every time he moves, Ron’s hand tightens absent-mindedly, and it’s almost, but not quite, enough.

🚗Standing in the Way (Drarry, magical apocalypse fic)

“It's just…” Potter says off-handedly. He’s concentrating. “You use them so you don’t, you know, get jizz everywhere, or if you want to come inside someone. And then afterwards you just sort of roll it off you and tie it up like a balloon.” He’s not even looking at Draco when he says it, when he’s talking about coming inside someone, as though that someone isn’t going to be Draco himself, hopefully in about the next ten minutes.

🌵Between the Power Lines (Drarry roadtrip)

It was so hot that they didn’t need much, and anyway they spent hours on end driving with the windows down, Malfoy’s curls flattened and dark with sweat behind his ears, his linen trousers crumpled and soft from the humidity, Harry overheated, wearing only his swimming trunks, his seatbelt catching against his chest hair as they drove and drove and drove.

👶The Long Fall (Drarry, Harry up the duff)

Months later, Harry—vaguely horrified at himself—remembers that feeling, and wonders if he had made it all happen. If he had somehow willed it into being, through the sheer force of wanting it so badly.

💦The Beginning and the End (WIP, Dronarry omegaverse A/A/O)

"What, Potter?" Malfoy kicked out, bare foot ineffectual against Harry's leg in Quidditch gear. "We're what?" Malfoy's teeth were showing, wet and gleaming. "You're mine," Harry said, miserably, and Malfoy's mouth was at his neck, teeth scraping over the swell of his Adam's apple.

Tagging everyone! Please do this as it's fun and tag me so I can read.

(And @toomuchplor @sweet-s0rr0w @maesterchill @beloved-child-of-the-house @twnkwlf-writes @skeptiquewrites @letteredlettered @boxboxlewis @sorrybutblog @getawayfox @oknowkiss if you fancy taking part and haven't done this yet - hope these tags work as tumblr is being a fucker this eve)

And if you want to chat reading, writing, and fics, why not join the pit drarry server on discord?

#writer tag game #drarry #drarry fic #rowing and writing

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moonlight-joy · 7 months ago

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Drunken Ramblings

Fandom: Yellowstone

Summary: A late-night drunken phone call from Lee Dutton reveals his unfiltered affection for you, leading to a humorous and heartfelt morning-after conversation that deepens your bond in unexpected ways.

Pairing: Reader/Lee Dutton

The clock on your nightstand read 1:13 a.m. when your phone started buzzing. Groaning, you reached over to grab it, wondering who could possibly be calling at this hour. The screen lit up with Lee Dutton's name.

You frowned, sitting up in bed as you answered. “Lee? What’s going on? It’s late.”

“Ohhh, hi!” Lee’s voice came through the line, slow and slurred. “You picked up! I was hopin’ you’d pick up.”

You blinked, instantly realizing he was drunk. Very drunk. “Lee, are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” he said, dragging out the word as if to convince you. “I’m just sittin’ in my truck. Parked. Don’t worry—I’m not drivin’. I’m responsible, y’know? Very responsible.”

“Uh-huh,” you replied, unable to suppress a small smile at the way his words slurred together. “What are you doing, calling me in the middle of the night?”

“Because!” Lee said, as if the answer were obvious. “I was thinkin’ about you. You’re always so nice to me, and you listen to me, and—and you’re really pretty. Like, stupid pretty.”

You felt your cheeks warm at his words. “Lee, you’re drunk.”

“Drunk and honest,” he countered with a laugh. “You don’t understand. You’re the best person I know. Like, seriously. I don’t even know how you put up with me.”

You shook your head, leaning back against your pillows. “I think you’ve had one too many tonight, cowboy.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “But listen—can I tell you somethin’? It’s really important.”

“Go ahead,” you said, trying to suppress your amusement.

“You’re like…” He trailed off, as if searching for the right words. “You’re like a sunrise. You make everything better. Even when it’s dark, you make it better. You’re like… the only person who makes me feel okay, y’know?”

Your chest tightened at the raw emotion in his voice, even if it was fueled by alcohol. “Lee…”

“No, no, I mean it,” he said, cutting you off. “You’re… you’re amazing. I should tell you that more. Like, every day.”

“You can tell me tomorrow when you’re sober,” you said gently.

“Deal,” he replied, his words slow and heavy. “But you have to promise not to hate me for callin’ you at… what time is it? Midnight? I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t hate you, Lee,” you said, your voice soft. “Just get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice starting to fade. “You’re the best… Don’t forget that…”

The line went quiet, and you realized he must have fallen asleep. Smiling to yourself, you hung up and set your phone back on the nightstand.

---

The next morning, you were in the kitchen when your phone buzzed again. It was Lee, and this time, his voice was groggy and full of embarrassment. “Hey,” he said. “Did I… call you last night?”

“Oh, you did,” you replied, unable to hide the amusement in your voice.

Lee groaned. “What did I say?”

“Just that I’m a sunrise, that I make everything better, and that I smell really good.”

There was a long pause before Lee sighed. “I’m never drinking again.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Don’t worry, Lee. It was cute.”

“Cute?” he echoed, clearly mortified. “Well… I guess that’s better than embarrassing.”

“Much better,” you assured him. “And don’t worry—I’ll let you make it up to me over coffee.”

Lee chuckled softly, the sound filled with relief. “You’re too good to me, y’know that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

“No promises,” he replied, his tone lighter now. “But I’ll try.”

And with that, the awkwardness melted into something softer, the bond between you deepening with each laugh and shared moment.

Please support my work with like and comment

#lee dutton #lee dutton x reader #yellowstone tv #yellowstone x reader

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hocuspocusbabyy · 1 month ago

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HocusPocusBabyy MasterList

(06.06.2025)

"Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)" - Elizabeth Bishop

I’ve done some house keeping (took me four hours) enjoy! Requests are open, you don’t ask you don’t get. Open to write for any series and ship down to my own discretion.

Law and Order: Calex

Calex ‘trailer trash’ series - What if they were neighbours? -

Part 4 - ‘For what it’s Worth’

Part 3 - ‘This Year’s Love’

Part 2 - ‘Long as I can see the light’

Part 1 - ‘Mary Jane’

Calex Knight/Princess AU -

Part 2 - ‘Neon Moon’

Part 1 - ‘Every time the sun comes up’

Calex Ex’s series ‘One more day’ -

Full series on Ao3 ‘One more day’

Chapter 6 - ‘Nothings gonna hurt you baby’

Calex One Shots -

‘Holy’ - Fighter Casey x Reporter Alex

Calex Date Night - Pictures

Calex New Year’s Eve Part - Pictures

‘Cherry wine’ - Ex wives fic

Alex’s phone - Picture

Casey’s phone - Picture

‘Doctor My Eyes’ - Paramedic Casey x Doctor Alex

‘Rosemary’ - Calex Date

‘Planted In My Mind’- Calex’s goodbye

A Whiter Shade of Pale - Calex Wedding?

Law and Order: Cabenson

Cabenson Lovers series - ‘Never enough’

Full series on Ao3 - ‘Never enough’

Part 1

Part 2

Cabenson One Shots -

Cabenson Engagement Party - Pictures

Alex’s Phone - Pictures

Olivia’s phone - Pictures

‘From Both Sides Now’ - Politician Alex x Secret service Olivia.

‘The Giver’- A hot day at the precinct

‘Help me make it through the night’- Cabenson Wedding.

Adhd vs Autism girlfriends - Multiship

Law and Order: Alex Cabot

Boss Alex Cabot Series -

Part 1 - ‘Cherry Blossom’

Part 2 - ‘Killer Queen’

Part 3 - ‘Why’d you only call me when you’re high?’

Part 4 - ‘Hot Blooded’

Part 5 - ‘Her Life’

Part 6 - ‘Bella Donna’

Part 7 - ‘Girl’

Part 8 - ‘What I’m doing here’

Alex Cabot x Reader One shots -

‘Back to Black’ - Ex wife Alex Cabot

‘Oh darling’ - Girlfriend Alex Cabot

Law and Order: Casey Novak

Casey Novak x Reader One shots -

‘Like a Prayer’ - Neighbour Casey Novak

Law and Order: Cabenovak

Cabenovak One Shots -

‘Oh me Oh my’ - What if they were farmers Au

Law and Order: Multiple Couples

‘Nom de plume’ - An assumed name - Full series on Ao3

Title page

Part 1 - ‘Maybe Tomorrow’

Part 2 - ‘How unlucky can one man be’

Sneak Peek

Bridgerton: Eloise Bridgerton

Creloise Affair series -

Part 4 ‘Love grows’

Part 3 ‘Must be a dream’

Part 2 ‘Home’

Part 1 ‘A case of you’

Creloise Lovers series -

‘If I betray you, I betray myself’ - Secret relationship, Modern.

‘To Lady Crane with Love’ - Love letters

‘Learn to speak’ - Secret Relationship, Cannon

Creloise One shots -

Cressida’s Phone - Pictures

‘My swan, My dove’ - insomnia

‘Mirror’ - Ballet Au

‘Oh finally’ - First kiss

‘Together’ - Proposal

Creloise back ground - Pictures

Creloise as parents

‘Between two points’ - Plane crash AU

‘Coffee and Ice cream’ - Divorce AU

‘Growing pains’ - Baby AU

‘Flash Cards’ - Dating with Kids AU

‘Little moon’ - Daring with Kids AU

Adhd vs Autism girlfriends - Multiship

Eloise x Original Female Character -

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Sneak peek

Marvel: WandaNat

WandaNat Affiar series -

‘Red handed’

‘Why won’t you be mine’

WandaNat One Shots -

‘Expansion’ - Proposal

‘One more minute’ - Death AU

Adhd vs Autism girlfriends - Multiship

‘Mommy’ - Kids AU

Marvel: Wanda Maximoff

Wanda Maximoff x Reader One Shots -

‘Two Platforms’ - Meet cute AU

Y/N’s phone - Pictures

‘The unexpected’ - Accidental pregnancy AU

Marvel Agatha Harkness:

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal One shots -

‘Death’ - Rio’s return

Agatha Harkness c Agatha Harkness One Shots -

‘Learn to love it’ - Selfcest

Y/N’s phone - pictures

Marvel: Yelena Belova

Yelena Belova x Reader One shots -

‘Beetlejuice’ - Jealous Yelena

Other Fandom Content:

The chilling adventures of Sabrina: Madam Spellman

Madam Spellman One shots -

Lilith’s phone - Pictures

Abbot Elementary: Melissa Schemmenti

Melissa Schemmenti x Reader One shots -

‘A breath of fresh air’ - First kiss

Y/N’s phone - Pictures

Once upon a time: Swan Queen

Swan Queen One shots -

Emma’s phone - Pictures

Hacks: Ava Daniels x Deborah Vance

Ava x Deb One shots -

‘Strangers’ - One night stand AU

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thetomorrowshow · 5 months ago

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you could always stay this young

Or, 5 times that Ilphas saw Scott as a boy, and 1 time they saw him as far older than he is.

FEBUWHUMP 2025 DAY 2 - holding back tears

fandom: empires smp

TRUST AU BABEY!! cw: descriptions of injuries, perceived major character death, referenced torture

~1~

"Come in," comes the young, wavering voice on the other side of the door.

Ilphas carefully pushes open the door.

There he is.

Prince Scott is sitting behind a desk that seems far too large and mature for him, perching on the edge of the chair. His wings fit awkwardly behind him, and his hair (now cut short, far shorter than Ilphas has ever seen it) is tangled, as if he's been running his hands through it. The button of the high collar of his mourning vestments has been undone, and the cuffs are already trailing threads, a sure sign that the boy has been picking at them.

"The ceremony shall begin soon, my lord," Ilphas tells him, and Prince Scott bites his lip.

"How much longer until I must leave?" he asks quietly, and Ilphas represses a sad sigh.

The prince is not an adult yet, that much is clear.

Prince Scott had his coming-of-age ceremony yesterday, and although he's just reached eighty-two (technically old enough to come of age), he's still a child. He probably won't fully mature to adulthood for another ten years.

And now, forced into adulthood too early, the prince must be ordained king.

"They expect your presence within the hour."

His highness, as Ilphas suspects he's been doing all morning, buries his hands in his hair, staring unseeingly at his desk.

"I don't want to be king," he whispers, and Ilphas feels their heart clench.

The boy is only eighty-two. Queen Isidriel had always referred to him as the princeling, and as inappropriate as that may have been, it is a word that aptly describes the young lord.

And as they're thinking that, Prince Scott's shoulders begin to tremble, as if he is barely holding back tears.

Ilphas surreptitiously pushes the door shut, and finds themself wishing a moment later that they had shut it with themself on the other side. They find emotions difficult at the best of times, especially with one so young. Especially when most of what can be done to comfort children is far above their station.

"With permission, I shall lead you through the schedule of today," Ilphas says after a moment. The prince raises his eyes to meet theirs, redrimmed and exhausted.

"Do you recall the rehearsal that was held last night?"

His highness nods.

"Very good. In one hour, that will occur. Everything will follow according to that, though quite a bit longer."

Once the prince nods again, Ilphas continues.

"Once the crowning has been performed and adjourned, there is very little that will be expected of you for the day. All celebrations will be planned for two years in the future, to allow for the proper mourning period of your parents. You will be needed to sign papers and send out an official decree of kingship, and then there will be a small meal with the traditional breaking of bread. Then you will bid farewell to all those who witnessed the ceremony, before retiring to your quarters for the evening."

"And tomorrow, the funeral," Prince Scott murmurs.

Ilphas nods. "Your days shall be busy, but do not feel anxious. You . . . you are not expected to know how to reign. The death of your father was not anticipated for at least five more centuries, and it is not unreasonable that you have not been adequately instructed."

They don't know how to say that this is absolutely unprecedented. Since the beginning of its life, Rivendell has never had a child ruler. His majesty King Andeloth had only ruled for ninety years, so while many of the palace staff were present for his mother's death and the transition of leadership (Ilphas included), King Andeloth had been five hundred years of age and had essentially already been ruling as the queen's health had declined.

A week ago, King Andeloth and Queen Isidriel had been in full health, as strong as they ever had been, with no threats to the throne and the only marring spot on their rule the death of their younger son three years past. Of course nobody had yet begun to train the prince, when his father would rule for many years to come and he would likely be joined by several siblings, all ready to share the weight of the kingdom should an unexpected death occur.

But five days ago, after a sudden, unknown illness (one of blackened flesh and pulsing red veins, one that the king and queen and many of their ship’s crew had contracted while crossing the ocean, one that had become so dangerous so quickly that the prince found himself quarantined in the summer home in the valley before his parents had even returned), the king and queen had died.

And now, five days after his parents' death, and one day after his coming-of-age, and one day before his parents' funeral, the prince must be crowned king, with no training and barely any preparation.

He's so young. The prince really is just a boy. Everyone knows it—the priest yesterday, while officially declaring his highness an adult, had looked uncomfortable with the words proceeding from his mouth. Those present had seemed unsure. Several elves had glanced around when the priest asked for objections (and objections of a non-serious nature are often brought up by the parents or close friends in a more casual ceremony, but other objections are not unheard of), as if asking for someone to say what they all knew.

But the need for a king was more important than tradition, and no one spoke out.

And as Ilphas examines the prince at his father's desk, they wonder if perhaps it was the wrong choice.

They do not voice such concerns, however. They only wait for the future king to speak.

Finally, his majesty sighs, pushes back the chair, and stands, almost seeming to tremble. "I suppose I have nothing to gain here," he says, casting a glance around the room. "Will I need to meet with anyone beforehand?"

Ilphas's eyes catch on his hair and his sleeves again, then they open the door and usher the prince out.

"There will be an attendant in the anteroom to fix your hair," they say. "And after that, do try not to touch it, or your sleeves."

The prince grimaces, but nods, and the two of them leave the room together.

And Ilphas offers up a silent prayer to Aeor that the boy will take his new role with grace.

~2~

Somehow, Ilphas lost the king.

They had contacted Rivendell to ensure that his majesty arrived safely, only to discover that his majesty had not arrived at all, nor had they requested his return.

And with a sinking feeling, they quickly realized that Lord Smajor had lied about where he was going.

He was gone, with no one the wiser as to his whereabouts.

Under other circumstances, Ilphas likely would have been demoted (or even released) for such a grave error. But as soon as they explain the situation, they can tell that the rest of the council does not blame them whatsoever, and they're fairly certain that Lord Smajor won't insist they step down when he was the one who went and got himself lost in the first place.

Maybe that isn't the correct attitude to have with the king, but he's simply too young.

In Ilphas's eyes, the king is still a boy. It's not even been thirty years since he was crowned, and less than twenty since the point that he likely would have become an adult in a normal situation, and Ilphas cannot see him as anything other than a boy king.

So when Lord Smajor makes contact and informs them that he will be returning after six days of nothing, Ilphas feels more annoyed than relieved. Does he believe that he can just come and go as he likes, sending the palace into a panic over nothing?

Which is quite the attitude that Ilphas brings to the dock when they go to meet his majesty later that afternoon.

The moment Lord Smajor steps off the boat, Ilphas knows something is wrong.

He's holding himself oddly, his shoulders rigid and unmoving, one arm around his waist. His steps are slow and careful, as if expecting to step on a needle at any time. Perhaps most obvious, however, is the simple clothing (certainly his own, though missing layers and embellishments), the sling that holds one of his wings close to his back, and the deep shadows under his eyes.

He looks oddly small, curled in on himself, and Ilphas feels all their irritation melt away as they realize that something very bad has happened to the boy.

Ilphas steps forward—to support the king, perhaps—and freezes when his majesty flinches away.

"We have anxiously awaited your return, my lord," Galidre says uncertainly, bowing.

Lord Smajor waves him off with a quick jerk of his hand. "I'm afraid," he says, and his voice is raspy, damaged— "that I must pay a visit to the infirmary. May we leave now?"

So Ilphas sits across from his majesty in the carriage and watches as the king sits on the edge of his seat and winces with every bump yet holds his head high.

When they arrive in the palace infirmary (and Lord Smajor walks from the carriage into the palace and down the long hall without support, despite his stride growing stiffer with every step), Ilphas quietly sends Galidre away to work on other business and closes the door, glancing around to ensure that the other beds are empty.

When all is done, they stand beside Lord Smajor as he gingerly sits on the bed closest to the door, and they nod to the lead healer (Velien) who approaches.

"Good afternoon, my lord," Velien says, bowing. "How may I assist you?"

Lord Smajor scrunches his eyes shut for a moment, sighs just the slightest bit. "I . . . I sustained a fall from a great height," the king says carefully. "I believe that I broke my wing in this fall."

A fall?

That certainly explains quite a few things—the late return (with a broken wing, he would have had to walk quite a way), the exhaustion, the way he holds himself as he walks—as if he's got several deep bruises that he doesn't wish to agitate.

A fall would make sense, and despite themself, Ilphas feels that irritation poke at them again. Lord Smajor knows how to fly, doesn't he? He's had wings for his entire life, after all. He hasn't fallen in decades.

Velien nods and tugs up xyr sleeves. "It will likely need to be set and immobilized," xe explains, circling around the bed to examine the wing. Lord Smajor's sunken eyes follow every move.

He goes utterly still as xe touches his wing, unwrapping the sling and stretching out the limb. Ilphas watches carefully—the lord doesn't much care for being touched (few elves do), but his face pales beyond its already overly pale complexion and he almost looks ready to bolt, lips trembling and fingers tightly gripping his tunic.

Velien clicks xyr tongue. "There likely is a break, though with your wings, your majesty, it is difficult to tell. I believe it is right here—"

Lord Smajor flinches forward with a noise of pain, and Velien raises xyr eyebrows.

"Yes, right there," xe says. "On a numerical scale from one to ten, how painful would you describe it?"

Lord Smajor takes a slow breath, in and out, and it hurts Ilphas's heart to see him in so much pain, but maybe he oughtn't sneak out like a child and get himself into situations such as this.

"Six, maybe? From the wing?" his majesty offers, looking to Ilphas as though they know the answer.

Velien nods. "All right, then. I believe it is an operation that can be performed while you are awake, but I would recommend imbibing a sleeping draught for our ease."

Again, despite no one touching him, the king flinches forward. "I—if I must," he stutters.

"Very well. Xolineh, would you mind retrieving a sleeping draught for his majesty?"

An elf sitting at a desk near the back of the infirmary nods, turning away to the wall of cupboards.

"Your majesty, if you would please remove your tunic."

Again, Lord Smajor looks to Ilphas.

Does he not wish to undress with others present? It is only themself, Velien, and three other elves in the room. And they will all (save Ilphas) be involved in the operation, so there isn't much point to privacy.

"I don't believe I can," Lord Smajor whispers, and though Ilphas is about to sigh and tell him to get it over with, it isn't an issue, something in the king's face gives them pause.

"My lord?" Ilphas asks after a confused moment. "Is something the matter?"

His majesty swallows. "I believe . . . I am injured in other places, and I . . . I do not think I can raise my arms that high."

Velien looks up sharply at Ilphas.

"Where else are you injured?" asks Ilphas, suddenly fearing the worst. He might have suffered internal damage—there is no one else with royal blood, the king is practically a boy himself so of course he's not had heirs of his own, he snuck out and nearly got himself killed in a childish mistake and how is Ilphas not supposed to be irritated with him while also terrified for the future of Rivendell?

This simply cannot happen again. There is far too much at stake for the only royalty in the empire to go about risking his life.

"My shoulders," the king says, and his voice still sounds so raw. "I have already received medical attention for other injuries."

Medical attention?

Other injuries?

Ilphas finds themself speechless. They can only stand there and watch as Velien takes a knife from xyr pocket and in one slow movement (and the king's flinch away cannot be written off as one of pain this time) slices through the tunic and pulls it down off of his arms.

Oh, dear Aeor.

Ilphas turns away abruptly, pulls the curtains around the bed closed. They aren't even sure what they're looking at, but Lord Smajor's shoulders are covered in bruises and swollen and Ilphas suddenly feels as though maybe some privacy is warranted.

And when they look back, they see just how terrible the king's condition is.

It isn't just his shoulders that are bruised. At least half of his skin is painted purple or brown or yellow, bruises in various stages of healing, particularly dark and plentiful on his stomach. There are some healing cuts as well, cuts that look clean and taken care of, but amidst all the bruises Ilphas can't find it in themself to pay them much attention. Their mind instantly jumps back to internal damage, because those bruises on his majesty's stomach could be indicative of anything.

They look up to catch Velien's eye, see if xe has noticed the danger, and finds xem staring open-mouthed at the lord's back.

Ilphas steps around the king (whose eyes stare at nothing as his mouth moves silently) and looks at whatever it is that has the Head Healer so dismayed.

"Aeor above," whispers Ilphas.

This isn't from a fall.

The king's back is marred with bruises, just as the rest of his body, and lashes, crisscrossing his skin. The lashes, like the other cuts, are partially healed—someone had likely poured a healing potion over them—but still obviously painful judging by the way one has split open, blood dripping from it.

The lashes aren't just on his back, but on his wings as well—in featherless stripes that Ilphas had assumed had been lost in the fall but are clearly matching the marks on his back—and below where his shirt has pooled around his waist the lashes still reach, and Ilphas can barely hope that they don't go down further.

Then Ilphas's gaze catches on his swollen shoulders again, and from there travels down his arms (and that looks like finger-shaped bruises on his forearms) to his wrists, identically red and rubbed raw.

The king did not fall from the heavens.

And if he did, he somehow landed in hell.

"My lord—"

"Tree branches," King Smajor says quickly, turning his head just barely. "I fell in a forest—the branches cut me—"

"My lord," Velien says, voice trembling, "these are not from—"

"Leave us," Ilphas commands, and without another word (but with another glance at the king's back), xe parts the curtains and steps without.

It's quiet for a moment.

And Ilphas notices with a start that Lord Smajor's ribs are so starkly visible that they could count them, and that might explain how small he seems.

Ilphas is reminded of not long ago—half a century, maybe—of when the young lord had ingested a bad plate of food and been committed to the infirmary for a week. For months afterward, Ilphas had watched (without knowing what to do) as the prince had grown thinner and thinner, his face more and more skeletal, as he refused to eat, not trusting the food to be safe for consumption.

They don't remember what it was that helped him to recover, but within a couple of years, he began eating normally again, and Ilphas had breathed a sigh of relief and forgotten it.

His back whipped. His body beaten and starved. Hung by his wrists, possibly, chains dragging them up, putting intense weight on his shoulders and even dislocating them. His voice damaged and raspy, as if he's been screaming. . . .

"My lord," Ilphas says, coming back around to stand before the king. Lord Smajor doesn't look at him, eyes fixed on the floor. "I am afraid that a tree would not be capable of these injuries."

The king doesn't respond, still looking down like a guilty teenager.

He's so young.

Too young to be kidnapped and tortured.

"Who did this to you?"

Lord Smajor shakes his head.

"You've been missing for a week, my lord," Ilphas says. "You may feel . . . unwilling to speak of it, but you must tell someone."

He hasn't stopped shaking his head, his fingers wrapped in the remains of his tunic.

"If we are to bring the villain responsible to—"

"I cannot start a war," the king bursts out, looking up desperately.

Ilphas goes still.

A war?

If he had been kidnapped by a common criminal, identifying them would not be a war-starting issue, no matter the empire that they came from.

But the king's words now not only confirm that he was kidnapped and tortured by someone of another empire, but that it was a prominent member of said empire. Possibly a ruler, or at least approved of by a ruler.

Perhaps Lord Smajor hadn't lied when he'd told Ilphas he was leaving to return to Rivendell, but Ilphas is inclined to believe that he had. The advisors here had never requested his presence, and if he had intended to return directly to Rivendell, he simply would have leapt off the balcony and flown away.

But if someone at the dance had said something, perhaps threatening him or something dear to him if he refused to go with them. . . .

Dear Aeor. The king is hardly more than a child, he doesn't deserve to be kidnapped! He never ought to be placed in situations where he suffers torture, then cannot even persecute the perpetrator for fear of war.

"Is there anywhere else you are injured?" Ilphas asks after a long moment.

Lord Smajor looks away again. "My legs and feet have . . . similar wounds," he says reluctantly. "They should not need more than regular health potion admi—administration. I only need the wing and—and my shoulders examined, I believe."

Ilphas sighs. "There are some offenses that are worth starting a war, sire."

His majesty manages an exhausted, monosyllabic laugh. "There may be one soon enough. I would rather prepare to defend Rivendell from the demon than selfishly go out to war over something so small."

King Smajor has always been wise for his age. A king far more advanced would declare war without a second thought—in fact, if the king's own father had been in this position, Andeloth the Stern would doubtlessly have done so.

Lord Smajor, though essentially a child, has always elected to put the good of others first. When the king had insisted on cutting ties with the Grimlands, Ilphas had barely questioned it, assuming it to be more than a rash decision. And so far, the breaking of the alliance has been fairly beneficial, with the loss of one equaling the gain of four others.

So, though Ilphas disagrees with this decision to withhold the identities of his torturers, they choose to trust that the king knows what he's doing.

So they nod. "You would do well to stay away from trees if they injure you so," they say carefully.

His majesty grimaces. "Believe me, Ilphas, if I could avoid them, I would."

It's someone he interacts with regularly, then. Another ruler, more likely than not.

But Ilphas doesn't ask any more questions. They nod, and call Velien back in, then stand there while Lord Smajor drinks the sleeping draught (which takes him some time, as he seems to be quite upset by the idea despite agreeing to it), and once the king is asleep, Ilphas slips out and informs the rest of the council that his majesty will need ample time to rest in the coming days.

And in the coming days, they watch with pain in their heart as Lord Smajor refuses food again and again and stays up all night, his face growing gaunt and hands shaky, and they pray that someone will help the boy soon before he wastes away.

~3~

This time, everyone knows where his lordship went.

Everyone knows that most, if not all, of the rulers of the lands left this realm for the next. They went to the End, for what purposes Aeor only knows, in the middle of the night and without preparation or warning.

When the king of Rivendell returns that evening, he certainly looks worse for wear. Ilphas follows him all the way to the medical wing, watches on anxious as Velien checks his vitals and patches up some odd tears in his skin (“I fell into the Void,” Lord Smajor confesses, and Ilphas almost gasps at his utter disregard for his own safety). With instructions to keep an eye on how he feels, the king is quickly ushered into meeting after meeting after meeting, each set to discuss the demon and his return, and how they might face the war on the horizon.

He had planned for a war, and he had been right. Hardly more than a child as he is, Lord Smajor has always had impeccable instincts. This is just another example of his youthful wisdom.

His majesty seems distant all day, eyes as far away as the Void he’d fallen into. Which—how on earth does one fall into the Void? His majesty isn’t clumsy, it isn’t like he just . . . stumbled off the edge of the End.

The last time that Lord Smajor claimed to fall, Ilphas had seen through the lie within moments. This time, he doesn’t appear to be hiding anything—he just seems . . . off, as frustratingly vague as such a description is.

He’s tired, as well—it’s fairly obvious. After all, he likely didn’t sleep at all the night before, or not much. He’s been doing better as of late (which Ilphas suspects the Codfather has no small part in), but his majesty still hasn’t been getting as much sleep as he ought to be. Ilphas can’t tear him away from the meetings that last all night—and the meetings are so important that they wouldn’t dare try. Ambassadors from Mezelea, the Undergrove, the Ocean, and Crystal Cliffs all arrive at various points in the night, urgent to meet with the king, and with the looming war there is nothing that Ilphas can do to ensure that his majesty actually gets to close his eyes for a moment.

Then, close to noon the following day, Ilphas glances up and suddenly realizes that Lord Smajor’s face is bare.

How could they not have noticed before now? His majesty has been seen by so many over the past hours, so many who knew of his engagement and now, perhaps, carry the wrong impression of his lordship’s fidelity.

“I—my lord,” they say quickly, interrupting Galidre’s words on labor distribution. “A word?”

Lord Smajor nods to Galidre, who bows and sweeps out of the throne room, taking with him the present attendants. Once alone, Ilphas approaches the throne, keeping their eyes on the floor.

“Your veil,” they say imploringly, clasping their hands in front of them. “My lord—”

“The betrothal is postponed,” Lord Smajor says. “I . . . I should make an announcement. It will continue once the emergency is dealt with.”

Ilphas does not argue, though they very much wish to do so.

Is it wise? Is it wise to end a betrothal, right as the war begins, when alliances and bonds must be made stronger than ever?

“But—”

“My word on this is final,” his majesty says sharply.

So Ilphas bites their tongue and leaves, letting the others re-enter, ready to send out his majesty’s (foolish) announcement of postponement as soon as it comes.

When that’s done, they finally manage to get Lord Smajor to shut himself in his chambers and rest. There’s nothing more that is so pressing it demands his immediate attention, for the moment. He needs to sleep.

If he can manage it.

And Ilphas needs to sleep as well. They clean up their desk with heavy arms, ensuring that the proper papers are in the right places and everything will be relatively easy to locate come the following day, then prepares to leave for their own chambers.

A commotion that echoes up the stairs distracts them as they lock the door to their office, though, and Ilphas allows themself a moment to sigh deeply before heading off down the staircase.

It’s—

It’s the Codfather, though his face is—

Oh, my.

Ilphas has to reassure themself several times that it was not the palace guards who injured the Codfather so, but the trip to the End that so many rulers had embarked upon, only the previous day. That still doesn’t stop them from calling out angrily as the guards stand uncertainly in a semi-circle around the Codfather, preventing him from moving any further into the palace (which he clearly has been trying to do, judging by the anger in his eyes).

“Leave him,” Ilphas calls, nodding sharply to the guards, who looked back in confusion. “A resident of the palace, treated with such disrespect?”

“But—the betrothal. . . .” one of the guards starts uncertainly.

“Postponed, not ended,” Ilphas says icily. “Let him through.”

So they part, and the Codfather, after a moment’s hesitation, nods self-assuredly and strides right past them. “That’s right! You can’t stop me from seeing Scott.”

Internally, Ilphas cringes at the familiarity. Externally, they are emotionless. “His majesty is in his quarters,” they say stiffly to the Codfather.

Though, really, his majesty oughtn’t be disturbed right now. He ought to be resting, not distracted by his youthful little love affair.

There isn’t really anything Ilphas can do about that, though. They’d be better off sleeping now so they can deal with whatever this situation is in the morning.

Aeor help them. They’re going to need it.

~4~

Ilphas hesitates before knocking.

They don't wish to be the one to say this.

But they do knock, and they hear a stuffy "Come in" from the other side.

They push open the door, and there he is at his desk.

He looks devastated already. Must they bring him this news?

Lord Smajor is dressed in black, a simple black robe with a black cloak thrown over the back of his chair. His hair is unbrushed, tangled as if he's been running his hands through it, and the cuffs of his stiff sleeves are trailing threads.

It's a sight so similar to years ago, after the death of the boy prince's parents, that Ilphas can't help but purse their lips and restrain a sad sigh.

"Hello, Ilphas," the king says without looking up, bloodshot eyes fixed on the desk. "How might I be of service on this fine . . . fine day?"

Oh, Aeor.

His lordship isn't in a good state at all.

Which isn't something that Ilphas feels they can blame him for.

Instead of saying what they'd come for, Ilphas steps forward, closes the door behind themself.

"Is there anything I can do, my lord?" they ask gently.

His majesty chews on his bottom lip, squinting his eyes shut.

After a long moment, he sighs.

"I don't want to do this," he whispers.

Ilphas waits.

His majesty sighs again. "My apologies," he says, rubbing his face, before opening his eyes and meeting Ilphas's gaze. "I have been working on the emergency refugee support plan. I should have it finished by tomorrow. My apologies for missing the deadline."

Lord Smajor returns to his work, and, just as they had been those years ago, Ilphas is struck by how unfitting the large desk covered in papers seems to be.

"That is not what I am here to discuss," Ilphas says.

His majesty frowns, glances back up. "What?"

Ilphas truly does not want to bring this up.

The king is only a boy, after all. Too young to experience such heartbreak. Too young to have to lead a war amidst it.

Ilphas steps closer to the desk. "The councils of the court have decided," they say reluctantly. "Your betrothal holds true."

For a moment, Lord Smajor only stares at Ilphas.

Then he blinks rapidly, tears suddenly sparkling on his clumped eyelashes.

"The mourning period will be extended by six months," Ilphas continues. "And you will be expected to adjust your clothing to be as those—"

"I know."

Ilphas falls silent, just watches as the king buries his face in his hands.

They hadn't initially approved of Lord Smajor's betrothal to the Codfather. Their alliance thus far had been short, and their friendship even shorter. The Codfather was hotheaded, rash, and made decisions based on personal opinion rather than measured benefit.

But it had become apparent immediately that his majesty was head-over-heels in love with the Codfather.

It was clear in the way that he spoke about his betrothed, the way he allowed—and even sought out—physical contact from the man, the way he went out of his way to make sure the Codfather had all the comforts that he could.

So Ilphas stopped voicing their objections, and simply let the love blossom. The king was young, after all. He'd lost some of his childhood to sudden responsibility, and though it appeared that a war was soon to start, Ilphas let the king be young.

And perhaps, if this whole ordeal with the Codfather worked out, they wouldn't be out of line for suggesting to the king that he get started on some heirs.

The need for an heir had become even more urgent as Lord Smajor began preparing for this unknown war, which would apparently be waged against the Grimlands and Mythland (though he refused to speak of why, and Ilphas began to have suspicions about the possible perpetrators of the king's recent captivity).

Then, once the demon was released, the war plans (and the wise premonitions of Lord Smajor) all made sense, and Ilphas began to feel quite anxious for an heir.

Not that they anticipated his majesty to perish, but one never knew what would happen. And Ilphas began to wonder if it was perhaps more of the king's divine insight that led to the unexpected betrothal than true love—he had been planning for the war for quite some time, after all. Perhaps the betrothal was part of that planning, beginning the one year process as soon as possible so that he might provide an heir once it was finished.

And now, mere weeks later.

The Codfather is dead, and King Smajor is devastated.

He has a mourning period of a year, and after that he oughtn't rush into anything for propriety's sake, and then another year's worth of betrothal period. . . .

Well. Ilphas isn't exactly hopeful for a bastard child, but perhaps it would be something to think about.

"I don't want to do this," the king whispers again, bringing Ilphas back to the conversation at hand.

How much more can a king so young experience without breaking?

The death of his entire family, forced to rule as a child, suffering torture, the death of his betrothed not long into their betrothal, a war. . . .

"You are not alone," Ilphas says, hoping vaguely that they are not overstepping their station. "I cannot imagine how you feel, sire. However, we are all here to . . . share the burden. If you need . . . anything, do not hesitate to make it known."

His majesty nods slightly, then, with a slight gesture of his hand, dismisses Ilphas.

With a bow, they depart, leaving Lord Smajor in the privacy of his office.

And soon enough, the king emerges, head held high and veil pinned in place.

Perhaps it is only Ilphas who sees it, but the red in his eyes makes the blue shine in ways it hasn't in decades.

~5~

Ilphas can do nothing but watch.

They stand there as Lord fWhip utters vile things and confirms their theories of who might have taken the king captive those months ago.

Yet they stand there and silently urge the king to not rise to the disgusting bait.

And when the light goes dark and the tent flies off and the world is bathed in red (and Ilphas is cast to the ground, the wind blowing ferociously), Ilphas can only watch.

They pick themself up and watch as Lord Smajor fights for his life, as ice bursts from him uncontrollably—and Ilphas had suspected, ever since one week ago when they saw the ice left wherever the king touched, that they might have a legend come to life on their hands.

Did Aeor have to choose the boy?

Then, the unthinkable.

Lord Smajor fails.

He fails, and the demon throws him aside (like he isn't royalty, like he isn't the demon's own brother, like he isn't anything) and declares his reign.

Ilphas will not stand for that. They know for a fact that the elves of Rivendell would rather die than allow such an evil creature rule them.

Ilphas needs to rally the troops (which isn't their job, they aren't the general, they aren't anywhere close to being the leader), but they can only stand there and stare at the crumpled body of their king.

And then that blue hair shifts just the slightest bit, and Lord Smajor lifts his head (for a moment Ilphas has hope, maybe this was part of the plan) to make eye contact with Ilphas.

Ilphas can't restrain the horror that leaps up within them.

The king's face is washed in blood and smeared in grey dirt, his expression twisted in pain, grain-like black grit sticking into a gash on his cheek. His hair is tangled; his mourning clothes are torn and dusty.

But Ilphas meets those surprisingly clear (clear, understanding, pained and despairing and terribly sad but clear) eyes.

The king nods, only slightly.

Oh.

His meaning is obvious. Though willing to fight to the last elf, Ilphas knows with a certainty that such a battle would be fruitless.

Lord Smajor knows so as well.

It is the king's final wish that they surrender, that no unnecessary lives are lost, that the people is not entirely destroyed.

And the king is nothing if not selfless.

So Ilphas blinks back the wetness in their eyes, and nods in return.

The final moment of eye contact that they share with the boy king is long, an eternity of understanding.

Then Ilphas turns away, commands that weapons be lowered, calls for surrender.

And when Xornoth speaks—

"This is your king, and he is dead."

They can do nothing but watch (a tear slips down their cheek) as the boy is killed.

They see the way he doesn't even move with the obvious snap of his wing, he doesn't make a single noise of pain, and they're fairly certain that his soul has departed before he's even thrown from the cliff.

He was so young.

He was only a hundred and nine, expected to save this world and banish the demon in the midst of so much grief and pain.

He was set up for failure from the beginning. How could anyone have expected him to succeed?

Ilphas doesn't dash to the edge of the cliff to try to glimpse the young king's body. They instead kneel in that place, the place where his majesty had first stood his ground, the dirt swept about by his footprints.

There, on the stony ground, is his crown.

Not the one of legend, that had fallen with him, but Lord Smajor's crown, the one of gold with white crystals that had been forged for his crowning. The one that the king had let fall to the ground before the battle began, his shaking hands placing the crown of antlers upon his head.

Ilphas picks up the crown, wipes away a few specks of dirt with their gloved thumb.

The last king of Rivendell, fallen.

And he was only a boy.

~+1~

Ilphas doesn't expect his majesty to be awake, but when they push open the door to the infirmary, he isn't in bed.

He's sitting by the window, staring out into the darkness of night, alone but for the soft noises of an owl somewhere in the distance.

It's been a full day since the king returned. Since he appeared from seemingly nowhere, the also-dead Codfather at his side, and wielded a shining sword against the demon, binding him in an ancient ritual that has likely not been seen on this earth in thousands of years.

Ilphas knows that there will be many songs and stories of the final duel. They had once scoffed at the tales of Alinar's prowess, his larger-than-life stature, his being of fire and command of the heavens.

Now, however, they feel their skepticism drifting apart. After all, Lord Smajor had seemed to literally be engulfed in brilliant white fire as he fought, in some moments seeming as the ancient king himself, miniscule glimmers of change every millisecond.

The moment that Lord Smajor had collapsed to the ground, it was as if the fire went out. The heavenly light illuminating him faded, and everyone had stood still for a long moment—then King Joel of Mezelea had moved forward, gathering Lord Smajor into his arms and carrying him away toward the palace.

Ilphas had followed not far behind, had helped lay out the unconscious king on a bed in the infirmary, had carefully unlaced and removed his worn leather boots and set them on the floor, before allowing a healer to examine him.

The healer hadn't found anything wrong, and eventually Lord Pix of Pixandria had shown up, saying something about magic and ancient bindings and promising that Lord Smajor would wake by the morning.

His majesty had actually woken some time before the morning, and Ilphas saw him not long before dawn, joining the effort of helping the wounded and collecting the bodies.

Somehow, in the darkness of the night, he had still seemed to slightly shine.

Ilphas had been called away from the clean-up as soon as the sun broke over the horizon, to join the council in making decisions about the once-invading armies of the Grimlands. Count fWhip had surrendered immediately after the fall of Xornoth (a little strange, in Ilphas's opinion, seeing as his forces were surely far greater than the ragtag rebellion King Joel had managed to put together), and was now hurriedly departing, leaving it up to the king's council to decide whether to help them or hinder them in their flight.

Discussions of such matters took half the day, and then Ilphas was quickly pulled into another meeting about sending aid to the Codlands (from what they'd heard, though, the Ocean Queen had it well under control), and it's taken until night again to find Lord Smajor and properly speak with him.

He had helped for a good part of the morning, Ilphas was told, in organizing the wounded and setting up extra makeshift infirmaries. Most of the beds had been dragged out under his direction, onto the lawn of the palace so that they might be of easier access for the wounded. It was only when he almost collpased that the healers ushered him back to the nearly-empty-of-furniture infirmary, claiming the last remaining bed as his and commanding him to stay there.

And, as expected (seeing as the infirmary is little more than the king's bedroom at the moment), Lord Smajor is there alone.

He stares out the window, the moon illuminating lines in his face and turning his hair almost silvery.

He looks old. Far older than Ilphas has ever seen him, and far too old to be here, dealing with matters such as the restart of the world.

His left arm is resting on the arm of the chair, not in a sling or missing entirely, as the rumors would have one believe.

Without turning his gaze from the window, Lord Smajor sighs. "Hello, Ilphas," he says, something somber (something ancient) in his tone. "Apologies for not seeking you out earlier. How might I be of service?"

Ilphas doesn't respond, standing by the door, and after a moment, his majesty turns his eyes toward them, his stare piercing and bright. "Have a seat," the king says, nodding toward an extra chair at the side of the room.

Their instinct is to kneel. How can they sit?

Ilphas pulls it over to set it across from the king, then sits there with him.

Lord Smajor smiles, the turn of his lips strained, but Ilphas can't help but feel relieved.

The king has returned.

Once dead, he's here.

He isn't without mark of his apparent death, of course. What had been a gash on his cheek the last time Ilphas saw him (and what a terrible time that was) is now a light brown scar, sure to fade within the year—and there's a pink mark on his chin from the demon kicking him, also likely to fade—and there's a weight to his brow, formed of emotional and physical stress, if Ilphas had to guess.

He's here, though, thin and exhausted but here, and frost curls around his fingertips for a moment then recedes and Ilphas knows at once that his majesty is truly Aeor's Chosen.

"The army of the Grimlands has fled," Ilphas says, realizing that the king has been waiting for him to speak, "and we have a host mobilizing to cast them from the far reaches of the land. Is there anything else you believe should be done?"

The king shrugs. "I have been living in the woods for a month," he says drily. "I'm not sure that I'm aware of our needs."

Living in the woods? In what woods?

Surely wherever the Codfather had been hiding. After all, they had appeared together at the funeral, hadn't they? Perhaps the Codfather had rescued Lord Smajor from his fall, had brought him to a secret location to heal and wait for the moment to return.

Why that moment was the king’s own funeral, Ilphas will never know—though the timing could not have been any later. Only a few minutes more, and the demon would have been crowned king.

Four days after the king's fall (and that's what already elves are calling the cliff, King's Fall), the first day after the armies had returned to Rivendell, Ilphas had hid a dagger in their robe and vowed that if they ever had the opportunity, they would drive it through the heart of Xornoth.

Just a month ago, they had almost wished for Lord Smajor to beget bastard children during his mourning period, as inappropriate as that would be—but they had decided that losing the last remnant of the royal line would be far preferable to allowing the prince-turned-demon to rule.

"Is there anything I ought to be made aware of?" his majesty gently prods, and Ilphas realizes that they've been lost in thought, staring at the king.

"Apologies, sire," they say. "I believe not. Is there anything I may do for you?"

They want to ask how he survived. How he fell, beaten and broken, from the cliff to the rushing river and still survived. They want to ask how long he's known that he was Aeor's Champion. How he managed to return. How he succeeded this time, following such disastrous failure.

But none of those are proper. If the king wishes to explain, he will explain.

He isn't a child, after all.

Lord Smajor turns his gaze back toward the window. "I can no longer use my left arm," he says after a moment. "It was bound to the crystal in the ritual."

So some of the rumors were true, at least. His majesty has essentially lost a limb.

The king is forever changed. Not just because he lost use of his arm, nor because he is Aeor's Chosen.

But war brings grief, and grief takes its toll, and his majesty has had far more than his fair share of grief in his life.

He will never be the same. He will always bear the weight of this war and its consequences. Although the Codfather may yet live, Lord Smajor will never forget how his supposed death felt. He will always remember his own failure.

But Ilphas feels confident that he knows how to move forward. He isn't a child, after all.

There are, however, some things that they can help with.

“Will the betrothal with the Codfather go forward?”

“Yes,” the king says, without hesitation. “As quickly as possible.”

Ilphas nods. “I would advise a week before beginning it again,” they say, and this is exactly what they want. One of his majesty's problems that they can help with. “Time to settle, to ensure that your betrothal wear still serves its purpose. The next item—the church will certainly need construction, however—”

“Ilphas,” the king interrupts quietly, a bit of a smile playing on his lips.

Ilphas pauses, meets his eyes. “Yes, sire?”

“I thought there was nothing I should be made aware of,” he says, and Ilphas once again sees it—the spark of something wise, something ancient in his ice-blue eyes.

“Of course,” says Ilphas, ashamed at their mistake. The king needs rest. “I will—”

“Ilphas.”

“Yes?”

His majesty looks at them for a long moment, and Ilphas refuses to believe that's something fond in his look—

“Go rest,” his majesty says, then, “that's a command. Sleep, at least until morning.”

Ilphas will not argue against the king.

So they stand, and bow—deeper than normal, they haven't bowed so deeply since King Andeloth—and depart, feeling the king's eyes on them all the way out of the infirmary.

Then, just as his majesty commanded, they go to their quarters and rest.

#febuwhump2025 #febuwhumpday2 #empires smp #scott smajor #esmp #empires smp s1 #empires smp fanfic #trust au #mas writes #there's like background flower husbands #i am in so so so so so much pain #chronic pain when i get you....#lmk what you think #love you guys

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spaghettificationandpretzels · 2 years ago

Text

Friendly Encouragement

A/N @darklydeliciousdesires thank you for introducing me to this man. So writing this took like six turns, and it's now become a multi-part childhood best friends-to-lover anthology; this is part one. My confidence is still pretty trash, especially because this is a new fandom/character so I'm not all that happy with this even with the seven rewrites.

Contains: Fluff, supportive Sean, childhood best friends to lover, mild smut.

1.7 K words

After getting some help from Sean, there ends up being some revelations.

The daylight was well and truly gone, and Sean had been pouring over your rejected grant proposal for hours, trying to figure out why it hadn't made the cut.

He lifted his head off his hand, looked away from the paper and shook himself awake before throwing the folder onto the ground and turning to you with his jaw clenched. "I don't get it, love, it's flawless."

You shrugged. "It's also apparently too client focused. Too much about helping people and not enough about the bottom line."

He rolled his eyes, clearly ready to rant about what the heads of charities really got up to, before he stopped himself. "You're going to go back in there tomorrow and demand he reconsider."

You looked at him for a moment, hoping you'd heard him right. "Yeah, that's not going to happen, I don't even know where to start. I'd go to the CEO, but she's travelling, and he'll get ahead of it before I even try."

He was off the couch like a rocket, marching over to you with a determined look set on his face. "Then we'll practice."

He wrapped his strong hand around your upper arm and dragged you to his home office, letting you go a few feet from his desk before sitting down. "Pretend I'm this finance arsehole, we'll work through it together."

You wanted to protest, to tell him he was being silly, but the look on his face told you that you wouldn't be leaving the room until you did what he asked.

You sighed and threw your hands up. "Fine, but I don't see how this is going to help. I am capable of getting things done, it's just him."

He almost looked offended. "I know that, I've known that since you called Mr Bollen a pompous baboon in the fourth grade."

He paused and smiled softly, that disarming smile you had seen him use so many times before. "Think of me as an empty space, I'm not going to do anything other than sit here so you can bounce your ideas around."

You huffed. "Fine."

You left the room and closed the door, taking a deep breath before knocking twice. "Come in."

You walked in, head held high and back straight like you did that morning, and met Sean's eye, his serious look preventing you from laughing. "Mr. Campbell, I think you should reconsider my grant. The numbers page on page six made it clear that it's doable and…"

Your thoughts left you, and you flopped down onto one of the office chairs. "This isn't going to work."

Sean wasn't put off and reached across the table to grab your hand. "He's not the first pig you've had to deal with, he won't be the last. Now what's tripping you up?"

Sean had a knack for getting information out of people, so there was no point in lying, you just had to say it carefully so no one ended up dead.

It wasn't really that hard to relent with the way he was looking at you, his face neutral but his eyes full of twinkling affection that almost looked more than friendly, it made your heart flutter. "I'm pretty sure I lost the grant because I refused to go to the luncheon. I didn't think the money that could be going to the program should be spent on drinks."

You saw the fleeting glimmer of anger in his sea blue eyes, but it was gone in a flash, and you continued. "This isn't the sixties. He gave the grant to one of his drinking buddies, and it's not going to help anyone, and I can't do this because if I'm alone in a room with that prick, I'm going to hit him."

Sean chuckled and patted your hand lovingly. "Ah, love, you might not want to hear this, but you need to sink to his level." Your eyes went wide, and you stuttered about being unable to do that, but he cut you off. "I'm not talking about blackmail, just let him know that all it would take for him to lose his job is an off hand comment in the lift while the CEO is there."

You sighed, he was right, as always. He took in your look of resignation with a smile and waved his hand. "Well then, up you get. Once we can get through this without that bleeding heart of yours balking, I'll order in from your favourite restaurant."

You raised your eyebrows and shook your head. "Bribery, Sean, really?"

He still hadn't let so of your hand, and his thumb rubbed your skin affectionately. "Only the best for my favourite girl."

****

You were still riding the high of how well it all went when you showed up at Sean's. There was no point in knocking; the Wallace house was your second home, and you practically lived there. You waved to Mrs Wallace as you walked by the kitchen, and she gestured towards Sean's room to let you know where he was.

You rapped on the door, and his voice floated through the wood. "Come in." He grinned when he laid eyes on you and popped up from his small desk to greet you. "You're smiling, so it went well. Tell me everything."

It all came out in an excited flurry, going between telling him what had happened and explaining how the head of finance had squirmed like a coward the more you spoke. Sean's grin only grew until he was close to laughing, accepting your thanks graciously as you wrapped your arms around him.

He could feel your excitement as you spoke and he couldn't find it in himself to let you go as you finally slowed down and it became his turn to speak. "I'm very proud of you y/n." He paused, wondering if the tone of the hug was really changing or if he was just imagining it, but he took his chance anyway. "And it is I that should be thanking you, the way you have handled the last year has been admirable."

He didn't know how to put the rest of his thoughts into words, that you were all he thought of when he was away, that despite being back at the top, he felt achingly lonely when you weren't around, that he's loved you since he was sixteen. He tightened his arms around you and buried his nose in your hair. "I love you."

It wasn't a strange thing for him to say; you said it to each other all the time; it was the way he said it that gave you pause, but you replied nevertheless. "I love you too Sean."

"Not like that." He pulled away from the embrace, but only enough to place his hand on your cheek. "I've loved you since you showed up on my doorstep in that bubble gum pink dress the night of that stupid year ten dance."

It felt like a dream, the way he tucked a strand of hair behind your ears as he gazed at you like you were the most precious thing on earth. "Your mother bought me that dress. It was hideous."

The distance between you got smaller as you both leaned in, and he whispered against your lips. "I thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen." His nose brushed yours, and his other hand left your back so he could hold your face in his hands as you moved yours to his shoulders. "You are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

When his lips found yours, it was like you had the last breath on earth between your lips. Your hands wove into his hair, and you moved in step towards his bed, finally stopping when the backs of your knees hit the edge. You pulled away from each other breathless, his hands moving to your shirt as you spoke. "I knew before you."

He chuckled as he pecked your cheek, his beard brushing your skin as he made his way to your neck. "Is that so?"

"It is." You broke contact only long enough for him to pull your shirt over your head, his polo following as you took in the sight of his bare chest. He was all lean muscle wrapped in pale, freckled skin.

He licked his lips as his eyes raked over your bare skin, then his lips were down your neck to your chest as he reached behind you to unclasp your bra. "When?"

It was hard to reply with his plump lips sealing around your nipple, but he looked at you through his red eyelashes in a way that let you know that silence wasn't an option. "Two weeks before the dance when that Harrison freak ruined my science project after I turned him down and you punched him."

He smiled against your skin before nipping you, the bite of his teeth sending a shiver up your spine. His lips found yours again as your hands moved to his belt, your fingers played with the buckle for a moment, but it was your turn to smile as you moved your hand down to palm his rapidly hardening cock through his black trousers.

It seemed to be tit for tat with him because he slid his hand down from your rib cage to use his long and dexterous fingers to pop open your pants, dispensing with any teasing so he could graze his fingertips over your bare flesh. Your breath caught in your chest as he slid his fingers through your slit, stopping for a moment to rub your clit before they continued with their nonsense patterns.

He parted from you briefly, his face flushed with lust as you managed to get his pants off and pushed them down enough to get your hand on his cock. He gathered himself enough to look at you like he wanted to swallow you whole and kissed his way to your ear to speak. "We have some catching up to do." With that, his hand left your pants, and he brought his fingers up to his lips to lick you off of them.

The sight was enough to make your knees buckle. "Yes, we do."

His lips were restless as you moved onto the bed to lie on your back, and then he was ripping your bottoms off, underpants and all, before shedding his own. "You're not leaving this bed until midday tomorrow."

His fingers were back on your centre, and the look in his eyes was positively heartstopping, a mix of lust and love that made it feel like your skin was on fire. "That's fine with me."

Fin

@daydreaming-belle

#sean wallace #sean wallace/reader #gangs of london fanfiction #sean wallace fanfiction #sean wallace smut #sean wallace x reader #gangs of london #joe cole #sean wallace/you #sean wallace fanfic #sean wallace fic #gangs of london fanfic #gangs of london fic #sean wallace x you

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fandom-imagines · 2 years ago

Text

Price taking care of future s/o (headcanons)

Fandom: Call of Duty

Pairing: John Price x Reader

Words: 1.2k

Warnings: Abusive relationship (readers ex), crying

Anyone interested in a full one shot of this premise?

Price knows your boyfriend isn’t good enough for you, you’re way too good for him and Price can’t stand seeing you waste your time on a man like your boyfriend, but he with himself that he’s simply jealous that you’re not with him.

He almost feels bad for wishing that you would come and be with him rather than your boyfriend, almost. He used to feel bad until he met your partner and saw just how bad he treats you.

You don’t see it, nobody would unless they were really good at reading people and relationships like Price is, especially those close to him, and you were close to him.

So, when you show up at his house in the pouring rain, tears staining your cheeks, one bruised with an obvious handprint, he immediately knows what has happened.

He’s raging internally, but he knows you need to be comforted first, and with gritted teeth and a frown, he opens his door to you and, in turn, his heart; not that you would know it yet, of course.

He asks what happened, despite already knowing, and lets you just vent to him. He knows you need to get it all off your chest and he doesn’t interrupt once.

Throughout it all, he’s listening to every word, squeezing your shoulder in a comforting manner, passing you tissues, and hugging you once you’re done and wiping your tears, apologies falling from your lips.

“Don’t be silly, love. You’re part of my team, you’re always welcome here. Just don’t let Laswell know, all right?” Whilst the last part is an attempt to make you laugh, it is partially true; she was already beginning to notice how he favoured you.

“Thanks, Cap.”

“No need to thank me, love.”

He’s glad you trusted him enough to come to him just as much as he’s glad you’re starting to smile. Oh, how he loves your smile.

A comfortable silence falls over you two and he just stares at you.

He sits there, admiring your beauty, both inside and out and it just clicks: he loves you.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters, so quiet that you don’t hear.

This isn’t good, he thinks to himself, but brushes it off for now; he needs to take care of you.

“I don’t know where to go, John.” You sniffle and he’s enjoying the way his name sounds on your tongue the same way he always does, and immediately offers you a place in his home until you’re back on his feet. He’ll even go pick you some things up tomorrow, so you don’t have to face him.

You’re hesitant, not wanting to disturb his peace and intrude on his home but one look from your captain has you agreeing; you could never be a burden to him.

He tells you to take a bath and gives you one of his biggest shirts and some shorts that he didn’t even know he owned and for the first time in a while, you felt good.

The night is spent with you two watching crappy telly and talking about anything and everything. You’re both on leave for the next month so it was oddly enough good timing, and you didn’t have to sleep in the uncomfortable bed on base.

Eventually, your words becoming slurred and slower and before either of you realise, you had fallen asleep on John’s shoulder.

His heart rate quickens, and he can’t stop the light blush on his face, but his main focus is making sure you were comfortable.

He does his best to relax, and once he was 100% certain you were asleep, he carefully adjusts you to lay on his lap, hand playing with your hair, enjoying the content sighs you let out, despite being asleep.

The mark on your cheek pains him to look at but he can’t help himself gently running a finger across the mark.

“I’ll never let him hurt you again,” he mumbles quietly, doing his best to not disturb you from your peaceful slumber.

After about an hour, he also ends up falling asleep, soft snores falling from his lips.

You’re the first to wake, eyes wide and cheeks hot, cursing yourself for falling asleep.

Price is still fast asleep, clearly having the best sleep he had in a while, despite not being in his own bed and you can’t help but remain in his lap, snuggling into his thighs.

The safe feeling that your captain always gave you was one you had tried to fight, but now, you never wanted it to fade; he would look after you.

“Morning, love,” the morning voice of the man you had fallen asleep on makes your cheeks even hotter. “Sleep well?”

You’re unsure what to say, so you simply nod. He smiles and tells you he’s glad.

He cooks you both breakfast and sneaks glances at you in his clothes every chance he gets without the risk of you noticing; you just look so good that he can’t help but admire you.

You’re unsure why your chest feels so warm as you look at him flipping pancakes at 8 in the morning, but you’re not against it, it’s just strange. You had never felt that with your ex.

Over the weeks that you’re staying at his house, you grow closer than you were before.

Your days are spent together and anybody you saw in public simply assumed you were a couple.

Price, however, was finding it difficult to hide his feelings for you as they grew even stronger, and you were the same.

You had realised why you felt the way you did for all those months now, why you were nervous around him and why he made you so happy: you loved him.

One day, as the two of you rushed inside, away from the harsh rain outside, the feelings overwhelmed you both.

As you leaned against the front door, both of you laughing, Price’s arms pressed on the wall either side of you, both of your laughter having calmed down and changed to a happy smile.

His eyes stared into yours, and yours his.

As he leaned in loser, you spoke.

“We shouldn’t do this,”

He didn’t know what to say, so he simply said what he was thinking, dropping one arm from beside you so you’d have room to leave if you wanted. You didn’t move.

“I know, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to.”

“John…”

“Yes, doll?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he did, every emotion that he had kept bottled up pouring into the kiss.

Your arms wrapped around his neck and one of his arms snaked around your waist, the other cupping your cheek.

As he pulled away, both of you panting, you couldn’t help but smile.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispers.

“I think I do now…” You giggled, hugging him, both of you smiling as he hugs you back.

Neither of you knew where you were going to go from here, but all you wanted was to be together; it’s all you guys had ever wanted.

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fluentmoviequoter · 1 year ago

Text

Self-Sacrificial

Requested Here!

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: You like Street as more than a friend, but think he will never feel the same. When you nearly lose him, you accuse him of not caring about you or anyone else because you can't see the truth.

Warnings: quick joke about being dead, angst to fluff, arguments, Street gets hit by a car, fluffy comfort

Word Count: 2.7k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Jim Street Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List

“What are you doing?” Street asks from above you. He taps your leg with his foot as he continues, “You dead or something? You’ll be hard to replace.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you answer. “You’re late.”

As you open your eyes, Street shakes his head and offers a hand. You accept his help and allow him to pull you from the concrete beside the S.W.A.T. HQ entrance. Street leads you inside, but before you can greet the rest of your team, Lynch calls you into her office.

“If I get fired for waiting for you, I’ll be very mad,” you mumble as you pass Street.

“I need to talk to you as a woman, not as a lieutenant,” Lynch explains as you close her office door.

“Okay,” you murmur slowly. “As long as I’m not in trouble.”

“No,” she assures with a smile. “It’s about your relationship with Street.”

“Relationship?” you repeat. “We’re not-“

Lynch raises her hand to stop you. “I know, I’ve heard it. You’re friends, that’s all. If that’s what you’re sticking with, fine. But… you and Street are special.”

“You’re still talking as my accidental mother figure, right?”

Lynch rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue with your terminology. From the moment you began working with her, she took an unexpected role in your career and in your life.

“Just be careful, okay. Lie to yourself if you need to, but don’t let the blinders you keep on get in the way of everything else,” she concludes. “And if you decide to take those blinders off, let me know and we’ll get ahead of IA.”

“Blinders,” you whisper. “Sure thing. Thanks for the talk.”

Hondo knocks before he opens Lynch’s door. “We’re rolling.”

You nod at Lynch and then rush out after Hondo to join your team. Those blinders she mentioned are a topic you’d rather ignore. They’re important to you because the moment you look at Street the way you want to – as more than a teammate and friend – you’ll be exposed to the harsh truth that Street will never see you the same way. The only mirror image in this situation is the heartbreak you’ll see looking back at you.

As you climb into Black Betty, Tan and Luca are discussing a new restaurant opening this weekend. You should be used to their oddly timed topics by now, you think.

“I’d be happy to test it out for you,” Street offers. “Give me a few hours to get a date and then you can have a full review by tomorrow.”

Your jaw clenches. Street is your best friend, but that doesn’t make this any easier. Whenever he says or does something that reminds you of his ability and desire to date women who aren’t you, you take a step back. The teasing, the competition, and incredible bond you have with him strains when you do this, and he suffers because of your buried feelings, but losing him may be better than learning you can never have him.

“What do you think?” Street asks you.

You shrug and keep your attention on your helmet.

“C’mon,” he presses. “Everybody has an opinion on good restaurants.”

“You certainly do,” you mumble.

“What does that mean?”

Deacon and Hondo share a look that goes unnoticed by both you and Street. With your eyes down, and Street’s locked on you, it’s incredible to the rest of your team that you can’t actually see what is right in front of you.

“I’m sure it’s a great place for dates,” you agree.

“And?” Street questions.

“And what?”

“What is wrong with you?”

You shrug again and Hondo cuts Street off to explain the plan for the raid. He puts you and Street on opposite sides of the house, which is probably in your best interest.

“You can’t just ignore me,” Street whispers harshly as you exit Black Betty.

“We’re working,” you remind him.

“If you can keep working without getting exhausted from the back and forth of being my friend and ignoring me because you’re jealous about my date or something, I can do my job and ask a question.”

You take a deep breath, willing yourself not to respond to his low jab. “Let’s just finish the raid, Street, and if you want to make up more stupid ideas about why I don’t want to talk to you sometimes later, I’ll try my best to listen.”

Street reaches for your arm, but you step away quickly to join Deacon.

“You’re not just hurting him, you know?” Deacon murmurs.

You don’t answer, but as you follow Deacon to the west side of the house, you find yourself thinking about Street again. The feelings that stir within you every time you see Street hurt you far worse than they will ever hurt him. If you can survive his lack of feelings, he can deal with you getting some space.

“22-David, in position on 3 side,” Luca radios.

“30-David, ready on 4,” Deacon adds.

“26-David, go for 2,” Street says.

“20-David, breach on my mark,” Hondo commands. “3, 2, go, go, go.”

You follow Deacon into a side door and through a tight hallway. As you enter the kitchen in the back corner of the house, there’s no sign of the resident.

“Eyes on one suspect,” Street alerts. “He’s running east; 26-David in pursuit.”

“One in custody,” Luca calls.

Deacon gestures back toward the door you entered and tells your team that you’re assisting Street. As you run back into the yard, you navigate around the house and toward the road quickly.

“LAPD!” Street yells ahead of you. “Stop!”

The suspect turns off of the sidewalk suddenly and sprints across the road. You speed up as Street turns to follow him. A car engine rumbles around the curve, and you know they won’t be able to see anyone in the path until it’s too late.

“Street!” you yell.

The engine grows louder, and your lungs seem to constrict as you watch the driver round the corner. They appear to be going the speed limit, but that doesn’t make what happens next any less painful. As the suspect reaches the sidewalk on the other side, you only watch Street. The approaching car slides to a stop, but it’s not fast enough.

“Street!” you yell again.

The bumper knocks his legs out from under him, and his helmet dents the hood before he rolls back onto the asphalt. As you reach him, you rip your helmet off to see him better.

“Go get him,” Street implores, holding his stomach.

“No, Street,” you argue.

“Get him. I’m fine.”

Street groans and you know he isn’t fine, but you need that suspect in custody today. You leave your helmet beside Street and run faster than you ever have before. Without thinking, you tackle the suspect to the concrete and cuff him as he moans in pain.

“Hondo, Street’s down. Suspect in custody,” you radio.

“R/A’s en route,” Hondo replies.

Luca runs toward you as Deacon and Hondo approach Street. The driver is standing by his door and rubbing his hand over his face nervously. Everything in you wants to run back to Street and help him, tell him that he’s special to you and you need him, but that’s not your job right now. Maybe Lynch was right about those blinders, you think. Then, as you remember what Deacon said, you realize that the burning in your chest has nothing to do with how hard you ran, and everything to do with the fact that you may lose Street anyway, and he will never know that you see him as so much more than your best friend.

“Let’s go,” Luca says as he pulls the suspect to his feet. “You alright?” he asks you.

You swallow quickly and nod. The ambulance arrives as you and Luca meet the responding patrol officers, and you miss your chance to go with Street.

“He’s going to St. Stephen’s,” Deacon tells you after everything silences. “He was still conscious, so that’s a good sign.”

“Deacon,” you begin. “I can’t- I can’t lose him.”

“He needs you,” Deacon adds. “Luca’s gonna drop you off on the way back to HQ.”

You nod. Everything numbs as you follow Deacon to Black Betty. There’s nothing you can think of or say that will make this go away, not without telling Street everything. As Luca drives to the hospital and your team talks – it’s nothing more than muffled background noise as you stare at the empty seat before you – your emotions shift. You almost lost Street because he didn’t listen, because he got caught up in the chase and didn’t think about how his decision would affect him or anyone else.

“Thanks, Luca,” you mumble as you exit the double doors.

The rest of your team pulls away as you walk into the hospital. With your uniform still on, you don’t even have to ask anyone for help before you’re led to Street’s side.

“Hey!” he calls when he sees you. “Oh, ow,” he mumbles as he lays back.

Your plan to tell him the truth disappears when you see the smile on his face. He still doesn’t realize just how stupid he was.

“Glad you’re okay,” you say. “Though I’m sure that’s just luck. You- Street, that was so reckless. If you want to throw away your safety, do it on your time!”

“I-“

“No; whatever excuse you’re coming up with, just save it. You’re self-sacrificial and today proved why. You don’t care about anyone else, and you don’t seem to realize or care that I- that people care about you! When you pull that hero act, you’re showing how blind and how stupid you are.”

You release a breath as you finish. Part of you whispers that you’re being a hypocrite; Street isn’t the only blind and stupid one in this hospital room. He’s not the only one sacrificing parts of himself because he thinks being selfish and secretive is the only way to stay happy and avoid rejection. So, you decide to listen to the part that is mad at Street for risking his life and not caring how it affected you. And the rest of your team, of course.

Street’s brows furrow as you rant. After you fall silent, he asks, “Are you done?”

“Yeah,” you answer.

“I’m fine,” Street argues. “You seem very upset, and I’m sorry about that, but it’s a minor injury, and I-“

You weren’t expecting Street to argue with you, to find a way to make you seem wrong for caring about him. And when he says minor injury as if he wasn’t hit by a car, you know you can’t stay. Without a word, you turn and exit his room as you ignore his calls for you.

“Hey,” Hicks calls.

You look up and see him walking through the hall, likely to see Street.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s… he’s still Street,” you say.

“And you?”

You shrug and answer, “I didn’t get hit by a car. I’m heading back to HQ.”

Hicks nods and taps your shoulder kindly as you leave. You need to blow off some steam and get Street off your mind for a while, and HQ is the perfect place to do that.

As you call Deacon to come get you, Hicks enters Street’s room and closes the door.

“How you managed to not break your leg is a mystery for the ages,” Hicks says.

“Well, apparently I’m just lucky,” Street murmurs. “And blind, and stupid.”

Hicks nods as he takes a seat. “What’d you do to make her so angry?”

“Nothing! She’s mad because I’m ‘self-sacrificial’ and it was a misguided ‘hero act.’ Her words.”

“You think she’s wrong? No self-sacrificial motivations?”

Street looks away from Hicks as he considers why he ran after that suspect without looking and why he ignored you when you yelled his name.

“We got into an argument before we got there,” Street admits.

“I didn’t realize you two were already together.”

“We’re not. She, uh, she’d never.”

“Right,” Hicks agrees sarcastically. “Because that woman who just came in here and yelled at you for getting hurt doesn’t feel anything for you. Surely you can see, despite your track record, that she cares that you got hurt. She’s mad because she could have lost you.”

“She can’t lose something she doesn’t want.”

“Street, open your eyes. No one yells at someone they’re indifferent to. But someone you’re scared to lose? They’re worth getting mad about.”

Street replays your words in his mind. You don’t care about anyone else, and you don’t seem to realize or care that I- that people care about you! You almost said it, Street realizes. You almost admitted the very thing Street has thought for longer than he remembers.

“When can I leave?” Street asks.

“Easy,” Hicks answers. “They’ve got to observe you for a while and make sure you don’t have any internal damage.”

“Is the driver okay?”

Hicks stands and buttons his jacket as he says, “You’re not that strong, kid.”

As Street gets advice from Hicks, you try to avoid Lynch. It doesn’t go well, however, because the moment your fist makes impact with the punching bag, she appears.

“We need to talk,” she says.

“Can it wait?” you ask between a jab and a cross.

“No. I know you’re worried about Street, where that anger is coming from. But the question I have is, do you know why you’re so upset?”

“Because he could’ve gotten himself killed and he doesn’t care!” you exclaim.

“He doesn’t care that he could have died, or he doesn’t care that he would’ve been taken away from you?” Lynch challenges.

You drop your hands and exhale. “What does that mean?”

“You tell me. Is the anger because you care about him and need him or because he went against protocol? For me, I would be mad about the paperwork I had to do, but you…”

“So, what you’re telling me is that I got angry with him because I don’t want to lose him. The one man in the world that I have absolutely no chance of ever having. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe not. Or it could be that the idea you can’t have him is just that – your idea. If you never give him the chance to answer, you’ll never know.”

“But I could lose him anyway,” you say softly.

“Or you could lose the chance to have him. Just… think about it, figure out why it bothers you so much, and then do something about it. Whether that’s telling him the truth or just being a supportive team member.”

You watch Lynch leave, then turn away from the bag.

“Ready?” Deacon asks.

“What?” you reply.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask for a ride back to Street.”

“You don’t have to rub it in, Mr. I-know-my-teammates-well-and-have-scary-good-intuition.”

“It’s a wonder I even have a license to drive you with a last name like that,” Deacon teases as he leads you to the parking area.

Outside Street’s room, you stop and take a deep breath. After you knock, you step through the open door and stop at the foot of his bed.

“I’m sorry,” you begin. “I thought-“

“I care about you,” Street interrupts. “I like you. I’ve liked you for so long that I don’t remember life without you.”

Your eyes widen with Street’s confession. Even if he’s exaggerating, hearing that you’ve had an effect like that on Jim Street gives you hope. He’s everything you want and more, but you never expected to hear anything like this from him.

“I like you, too,” you confess. “That’s why I got so mad. I didn’t want to lose you, but I shouldn’t have said all of that about you. I’m sorry.”

“I was self-sacrificial. I couldn’t see that you cared, so I didn’t think it would matter.”

“Of course it matters, Street. You matter,” you insist as you walk to his side.

You take Street’s hand, and he smiles at you. There’s still a pain in you, a sympathetic, emotional hurt for Street and what you both went through.

“I guess it’s a good thing I was stupid and blind enough to get run over by an innocent bystander,” Street jokes.

“You’re insufferable,” you respond.

Your smile betrays you, and Street knows you don’t mean that. You meant everything before. Though you think it’s too early for him to be joking about his accident and the injuries he’ll certainly feel tomorrow, you appreciate his sense of humor and the way he holds your hand. He can be insufferable, but now that you’re finally accepting the truth that Jim Street likes you too, it’s different and it always will be.

#jim street x fem!reader #jim street x reader #jim street fic #jim street imagine #jim street #swat x reader #swat cbs #fem!reader #requests #hanna writes✯

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queen-haq · 1 year ago

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Fic: Never You (Polin) - Part 6

Fandom: Bridgerton (TV show)

Spoilers: S3 released scenes.

Summary: They may have been friends once but his callous words decimated their relationship. Determined not to have anything to do with him, Penelope is ready to move on. But Colin isn’t giving up, not at all. Friends or not, they are connected for life - and he intends to remind her of that.

Excerpt:

“You would hate me for not wanting to court you. You would be that selfish?”

“Of course you would think that.”

“What else is this if not punishment?”

Masterlist (contains links to previous parts and my other stories)

Chapter 6

Dearest Penny,

I hope this letter finds you well.

My journey home was perilous and took far too long. However, I did receive good news upon my arrival. Mother was awake in bed, the worst of her illness having passed recently. It will still take a few weeks but the doctor is confident she will recover fully. I have told her a lot about you. As I predicted, she is excited to meet you.

I miss you. I remind myself it’s only a matter of time before we can start our new life together, full of adventure and laughter, but it still feels too long.

Once my affairs are settled, I will be traveling to London to see you. I know your Mama will not take kindly to me but I hope to win her over with my intelligence and wit (I’m envisioning the mocking smile on your lips as I write this). If all else fails, I shall win her approval through jewelry, as you suggested. Hopefully that will alleviate her concerns about an untitled son-in-law.

Love,

Arthur.

Penelope read the letter again, smiling to herself. While she and Arthur could converse for hours, his letters tended to be short and to the point. And though they lacked a writer’s flair, his letters still felt distinctly like him and she appreciated that.

With other men she was shy and tongue-tied, and they were never interested in her anyway, but Arthur Debling had been different. At a dinner gathering in Ayleshire, it was he who had approached her, and once she got over her initial shyness the conversation flowed between them. Perhaps it was because he was a merchant and not a member of nobility, but from the very beginning he treated her with respect and a matter-of-fact stance rarely displayed by others. To him she wasn’t some woman in desperate hunt for a husband or an awkward, shy wallflower to be avoided at all times. She was Penelope Featherington and she was enough.

For the first few weeks there had been no romantic intentions, they simply talked of art and poetry. Over time she came to see he possessed a brilliant scientific mind that he went out of his way to hide. Only when she questioned him did he finally admit he was embarrassed of his intelligence and felt the need to dampen his curious mind from others. That was the first night she started to see him in a different light.

“Penelope!”

The sound of Mama's voice brought Penelope out of her reverie. After hiding the letter, she made her way toward her mother’s chamber in the opposite corner of the hallway. Portia was already dressed for bed and brushing her hair when Penelope entered the room. “Yes, Mama?”

The older woman cast her a quick glance in the mirror. “Lady Violet has invited us for tea tomorrow afternoon.”

Pen paused. Tea at the Bridgertons meant seeing Eloise and perhaps even Colin. “I will be in-”

“And before you come down with a sudden case of illness, I will remind you that personal invitations of this nature have been rare of late. We can not afford to turn down any, let alone the Bridgertons.”

Between the Marina scandal and then Cousin Jack, there were many who no longer wished to associate with the Featheringtons. While that was a relief for Pen, she knew the slow exclusion really hurt Portia even if she did hide the pain behind a mask of angry condescension.

“Yes, Mama. I understand.”

“Good. Now get some sleep, child. I will not have you looking haggard tomorrow.”

Penelope sauntered back to her chamber, her mind still reeling. No doubt Eloise would be present and angry with her. Would she at least pretend to be polite? Pen didn’t know. So far they had mostly avoided each other, except for the ball last week when Eloise had warned her to stay away from Colin.

After entering the chamber, she was busy locking the door when a noise startled her.

“Pen.”

Colin’s throaty growl made her gasp, her body suddenly taut.

Hesitant, she turned around.

It had been two days since she last saw him at the park. And now he was here in her chamber, shamelessly sitting at the edge of her bed. Hair tousled, clothes messy and disheveled, he stared at her intently. His face was unshaven, revealing a stubble growth of a day or two. Instead of taking away from his looks, however, it only emphasized his handsomeness more.

Her heart started pounding in her chest, both from the anger that flooded through her veins and the knowledge that his hold upon her was still so potent. “How did you get in here?” she asked, keeping her voice steady so he couldn’t sense how much his presence unnerved her.

“I climbed up the tree and through the window.”

As if violating her privacy was a daily occurrence for him.

“You’re so very determined to ruin me, aren’t you?”

“I was careful. No one saw me.”

“Well, that makes it alright then.”

“I didn’t take you as the sarcastic sort, Pen.”

“Add it to the growing list of things you don’t know about me.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes locked with hers.

The silence between them grew more tense by the second while they held still, as if a single movement could ignite a fire that would burn them both.

And then he stood up. “Do you know why I’m here, Pen?”

There was a button missing from his waistcoat, dirt on his breeches, and he had never looked more beautiful than he did at that moment. Her heart flipflopped in her chest. “I don’t care. I simply want you to leave.”

A bitter smile shadowed his lips. “Because it’s that easy for you, isn’t it? You’ve moved on already.”

“Yes.” The strength in her voice surprised even her when all she felt was anxiety twisting up her insides. “It��s time you do the same.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? That I’ve been trying?” Anger laced his words, hurt etched onto his face. “You don’t want to have anything to do with me yet I can’t imagine a single moment of my life without you. Why is that, Pen?”

With a slow and deliberate gait, he swaggered forward.

“Why can’t I stop thinking about you? Your voice, your smile, your taunts...” He tapped the side of his temple erratically, eyes heavy with emotion. “Always in my fucking mind, refusing to give me even one moment of peace. You’ve been torturing me!"

With every step that drew him closer, waves of madness surged through her body. She didn’t want to feel like this, like her mind and body were completely out of her control.

“Why is this happening to me, Pen?” His voice cracked. “Why do I feel this way?” He clutched his heart, his long, lean fingers rubbing the spot over his waistcoat repeatedly. “It didn’t used to be like this, I was fine before! But now I think about you leaving me and it’s like I can’t breathe. Like a part of me will be lost forever.”

Her eyes softened. The man standing in front of her wasn’t the one who broke her heart. In his place was her dear friend, the boy she had known her entire life and loved for as long, and he was pleading for her help. “That empty feeling will go away, Colin. I promise.” She took a furtive step toward him. “You’ve only just returned, your life probably feels untethered with everything changing around you. But give it time, let yourself settle in, and things will be better.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Nothing will ever be the same without you.”

“It will, I promise.” She sent him a sad smile. “You will meet someone beautiful and kind, and she will be everything you ever wanted. The true love of your life. And this sadness that you feel right now will become a distant memory.”

A beat of silence followed as he contemplated her words.

Would the agonizing pain that coursed through her at the thought of him with another woman ever lessen? She didn’t know. Maybe with time and distance she would be free of this curse, but for now he was still very much embedded in her soul and the eventual reality of him falling in love made her want to retch.

“Is that what you think will happen for you, Pen? You’ll marry this Arthur and make me a distant memory?”

There was no outward change in him yet she immediately sensed the shift within.

He cocked his eyebrow. “Do you think I will let that happen?”

She stared at him defiantly as he approached her. “You have no say in my life.”

“But I do, Pen.” The glint in his gaze sharpened, making his blue eyes appear even darker. “Because it’s me you’re in love with. It’s me you swore never to forsake.” He came to a stop in front of her, forcing her to look up at him. “I intend to hold you to that.”

Her anger returned. “And I intend to fight you. Because I will not sacrifice my future to appease your selfishness.”

“I know,” he sighed, regret looming over his face. “I should never have asked you to do that. But that’s why I’m here, Pen. I want to make things right between us.”

Her demand to know how died on her lips as soon as he retrieved something out of the pocket of his waistcoat. Stunned, she stood frozen as he held out an emerald ring, one she recognized right away from having seen Lady Violet wear it occasionally.

“My father gifted this to my mother on their tenth anniversary.” There was reverence in his voice as he spoke. “I think he chose it especially for the colour. It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”

She swallowed, nodding. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

“This has always been my favourite of mother’s jewelry. I knew one day I would gift it to my wife.”

Her mind went blank.

“And maybe now is that time.” He bent down on one knee in front of her, holding up the ring. “Will you marry me, Penelope Featherington?”

Time stopped.

For so long all she wanted was to be Colin’s wife. In her mind marrying him meant she would finally be happy and fulfilled. He would be the perfect husband, and she would be a member of the happy and loving Bridgerton family at last. All her dreams would finally be realized.

Except she wasn’t happy or even excited. The man she loved was on his knees, proposing to her, and all she could think about was how wrong it all felt. The proposal didn’t come from a place of love. No. Instead it was borne out of fear and a stubborn refusal to grow up. A last resort so he didn’t have to face losing their friendship.

Then there was Arthur. With him she didn’t have to hide, she could be who she truly was and not have to apologize for it. And she could continue to write, whether that be as Lady Whistledown, someone new or even herself, and do so without shame or regret.

Colin may have been her lifelong dream but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have new ones. And with Arthur, the life she wanted was within her grasp. A true possibility rather than simple fantasy.

Immediately she felt a sense of peace, knowing she was doing the right thing for herself. “I’ve already said this to you before. I’m betrothed to another.”

In one fluid motion he slid the ring back into his pocket before rising to his full height. He had always towered over her but that had never intimidated her before. For the first time she felt a small twinge of fear percolating in her stomach, realizing the stark darkness on his face was also new.

He was quiet, too quiet, stalking her every move with his eyes, slowly pushing forward. A predator enjoying the rituals of the hunt, preparing his prey for the kill. Instinctively she retreated, moving back until the door lodged against her spine. He continued to move in, slowly but ferociously, invading every inch of her space until he was standing directly in front of her. She craned her neck to meet his stare, refusing to bow down.

“Is that a no, Penelope?”

She couldn’t think with him so close but she held strong. "Yes."

“Even though you’re in love with me and not fucking Arthur.”

Maybe he thought throwing her love back in her face would embarrass her into submission but it had the opposite effect. Infuriated, she stood on her tiptoes to glare up at him. "So what? You think you can use my feelings to manipulate me?" She shook her head no. "I have dreams that matter to me far more than my love for you. And I will not jeopardize my chance to achieve them just for scraps of your attention."

Her words were meant to provoke his temper so he would withdraw. Instead his eyes softened as he hunched lower to look at her, his gaze roaming languidly over her face, a gentleness to them that made her insides dance with anticipation. She trembled when his hands cupped her cheeks while he studied every inch of her features, as if marking her in his memory. And then his thumb gently brushed over her pout, his dark blue eyes following the tremor of her lips, and all she could do was breathe slowly, tentatively, her heart drumming in her chest.

“I used to think you were the sweetest person I knew. Always so kind and agreeable,” he murmured, more to himself than her. “And easily forgotten.”

It hurt. Even though she had always known that that’s how people viewed her, if they bothered to see her at all - but to have him admit it was a different kind of pain. “Then forget me. Leave.”

He didn’t move, his gaze concentrated on her lips, thumb stroking left to right, right to left. “And now I can’t get this impertinent mouth of yours out of my head.”

It came as a shock when she realized Colin was hard, his erection pressed against her body. "You're aroused."

He met her eyes. “I’m aware.”

She swallowed audibly. “Why?”

Irritation surged through him. “You’re here, dressed in a robe with your beautiful hair down, talking to me, arguing with me, breathing around me, and you ask me why I’m aroused?” His hands slid down her body until they were at her waist, fingers curving into her sides as he pressed her tightly against him.

A faint gasp escaped her lips feeling his hardness.

“I want you, Pen,” was his raw, throaty plea. “I can’t stop.”

“Show me.” Her voice was firm, determined. “Show me how much you want me.”

To be contined...

A/N - Thank you for the support on this fic. Hope you're still enjoying it!

#polin #colin x penelope #penelope x colin #bridgerton #my fics

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scoldingdarjeeling · 1 month ago

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Instinct: Chapter Two is ✨LIVE✨

Rating: Explicit (mdni 18+) Relationships: Halsin x Tempest (OC) Fandom: Baldurs Gate 3 (post game) Additional tags: POV Halsin, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language. Fluff and Smut, Polyamorous Character, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Dark Past, Sleepwalking, Reithwin, Age Difference, Friends to Lovers, Demisexuality, POC, Healing, Magic scar/tattoo.

Excerpt from chapter two: With the Presence of a Bear

Three weeks later, in Wyrm’s Rock’s Audience Chamber...

Tempest stood in the cascading light of the stained-glass window, placing a hand on a catering stand for support, trying to ease the tension in her temples. Her newly braided hair didn’t help matters either, leaving her scalp sensitive. Hair up, leaving a section of tresses draping down her bare back, carved silver cuffs fastened to each one. What had started as a dull headache had grown in increments, persistent and sharp. The source of it stood further down the hall. Tempest had retreated to the liquor table, a hasty reprieve, but one that wouldn't last long.

After spending nearly five hours locked in with her estranged family members, questioning the authenticity of a will written by her brother and stamped with an unbroken seal, her patience was worn down to a nub. Increasing the likelihood of her lashing out when she needed to keep her cool the most, vindicating her dissenters.

What shocked her, however, were the accusations levied against her, incited by none other than her uncle, Alastair. Gaslighting everyone, including herself, making scathing comments, and twisting her words. Insinuating she’d tipped off the enemy of Damien's location. Even after all of the evidence had been put forward and even witness testimonials—Wyll’s and Halsin’s to name but a few—proving him wrong, it wasn’t enough. He had interrogated her on the events leading up to Damien’s fall in battle, narrowly escaping death’s clutches. Nearly succeeding in swaying the public's opinion on this matter, too. But luckily for Tempest, she had something her uncle couldn't buy for all the golden lions in the world—true friends and loyal companions.

But the lowest of blows was when her uncle called her bond with her flesh and blood into question. Worse still, he spoke of Damien as if he were dying. The family physician had given a diagnosis: coma induced by head trauma. His condition was stable but unchanged. He could wake up tomorrow, next week, or twenty years from now.

Or never...a small voice said.

Tempest was accused of attempted fratricide, even though her uncle didn't say it outright, knowing full well that the Duchess—Tempest’s mother and his oldest sister, Lady Kallisto—was listening.

The feud had started shortly after her father and Kallisto’s husband, Lord Reginald, had passed away. Tempest knew her uncle was angling for her inheritance, believing himself entitled to it. It was of no matter to him to see her deposed if there was something to be gained. Even if it meant soliciting a smear campaign against her. There was enough truth and circumstance to use as ammunition, chiefest and foremost: a 300-year-old curse.

That son of a bitch...Tempest thought, simmering.

She knew her uncle was a vain man and a complete narcissist, but this was a new level of scumminess, even for him.

You timed it well, big brother...Tempest thought with a wry smile. She knew well that even after achieving a high rank within the Flaming Fist, it had done little to cure Damien of his mischievous nature.

Tempest was grateful that her brother didn’t have to be here to witness his family tearing at each other’s throats.

His fate rested in Helm’s hands.

Tempest unstopped a crystal decanter with what she hoped to be lethally strong brandy—the kind the Hellrider preferred after a long day of drilling his troops. She filled a snifter, threw back its contents, swallowing the vile stuff quickly.

“Whoa! That’s straight up dragon fire!” Tempest wheezed, slamming the glass down on the table. The burn in her nostrils made her eyes water, threatening to ruin her eyeliner.

She had arrived in Baldur’s Gate by carriage, in the wee hours of the morning, together with Karlach and Halsin.

Karlach had taken everyone by surprise, accepting payment to show off the latest of Figaro Pennygood’s creations. Creating a bit of a stir on arrival—seeing a ‘hero’ in such refinement. It was shocking because it worked; a black ivory taffeta gown—a dramatic blend of romance and edgy elegance. Complete with a corset bodice, full skirt, and asymmetrical draping. Matching the bold personality of its wearer.

Even Halsin had bothered to visit Figaro to come up with something tailored to his tastes and preferences. The finished product had enhanced Halsin’s physique in a way that drew the observer’s gaze to his arms, chest, and—as Tempest had to vexedly remind herself—not to ogle his extremely well-developed posterior. The raffish and rich ensemble in chestnut and emerald with gold clasps made Halsin look unusually...disreputable...in an alluring way.

Really, Tempest? Really?

She, however, had arrived in her mage chain, as was her habit.

Thinking it a simple matter to just march right into the grand halls of Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, smelling of iron and ionized air. But it had only taken one long, unimpressed look from Counselor Florrick to learn that that had been the wrong thing to do entirely. Resulting in Tempest having to take a detour, foisted into a changing room in one of the guest chambers, hopping into one of Florrick’s rich dresses. ‘As befitting a highborn lady,’ she had sniffed at Tempest, crossing her arms and waiting outside the modesty screen. It was an incredibly tight fit, made for a willowy body type—the very opposite of her athletic build—and an awkwardly long thing, revealing far too much for Tempest’s liking. How the councilor could call this decent and refined was beyond her. The front was a latticework of fine thread and see-through at that! The cleavage delved deep, with the most ridiculous slits she’d ever clapped her eyes on. Her open back made her feel exposed, too.

Karlach had howled with laughter upon return. Tempest knew to take it on the chin, but Halsin...something about the way he stood there brooding in silence made Tempest’s stomach flutter.

That was... weird.

Few men had the honor of unnerving her with their open regard. But somehow, Halsin had. His presence filled the hall—unspoken but undeniable—with hands in his pockets. His eyes were dark and roving, like a predator sizing up prey. The browns and blues in his irises seemed to brighten just a touch, with a slight curve to the corners of his mouth. She was surprised she hadn't gone up in flames from embarrassment by the time he was done. Gazing intently into her eyes, conveying something that seemed to go right over her head. Tempest was the one to break eye contact first.

More? AO3 Link Here

Shout-out to my awesome moots: this story only exists because of you! <3 @thoughts-of-bear, @amorgansgal, @hippotooth, @rambling-tam, @serenaoffaerun, & @optimisticgrey 💫

#The Tea (Writing)#halsin x oc #halsin silverbough #bg3 fandom #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 #oak father preserve me #bg3 halsin #archdruid halsin #wyll ravengard #karlach cliffgate #halsin wildshape #ao3 fanfic #banners by cafekitsune #dividers by thecutestgrotto

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breyito · 11 months ago

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Fear your sins, not your monsters: Part Three: Paths Converging

Continuation of Day 1 and 2 of @painlandweek

Part 1 Part 2 Chapters: 3/5 Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne & Charles Rowland, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne & Crystal Palace Characters: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland (DCU) Additional Tags: Protective Edwin Paine | Edwin PayneUnhinged Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Violence, Torture, Hurt Charles Rowland (DCU), Sickfic, love language: acts of service, painlandweek, BAMF Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Angst with a Happy Ending

Here on AO3

A/N: Hello! I'm so, so sorry about the delay! My ADHD has been kicking my ass for the last couple of weeks and istg i feel like i can't do anything. Anyways. I had to split this chapter in half, cause it was getting ridiculously long again, and I wasnt going to finish the rest of it today. (I have this new app on my phone that is voice-to-text and it changed my life! All the dialogues i keep forgetting bc of lack of energy to write i can just *dictate* and it feels so good lol. It also lenghtened this quite a bit, tho.) No moodboard for this one either, not yet. I'll try to make one tomorrow (or in a few hours, as it is, once again, 5am). No beta and English is not my native language, so any mistakes please point them out. I hope you enjoy this one! I'm very curious about what you'll think of this one ;P Oh, WARNING:This contains violence, threats of rape towards Charles and other children's souls, etc.

Part Three: Paths Converging

They headed back to the office. On the way, Crystal with her phone in her ear, Edwin had explained the general gist of things to her. Mainly that the other ghost hadn’t known the location of the lair of the witch, but had visited a few times. To allow him to travel there via mirror, she had given him a token attuned to him and his energy. They could use the token, but not to travel with it more than once; and definitely not to escape the place. (Not to mention that Crystal would have never let Edwin go on his own alone, without even the possibility of helping him. She was glad, still, that the ghost boy had not even suggested that.)

“So how can we use it?” she asked, looking right at him, as she plopped down on the couch. They were inside the office now and nosy taxi drivers couldn’t watch her suspiciously anymore. Also, she was exhausted and couldn’t bother with more acting for a couple of hours.

Edwin had gone straight to the massive pile of books on top of every single flat surface, including boxes full of files. He had looked at the books covering the desk for a full thirty seconds and then sent a wave of the black smoke at them, and they actually began moving on their own towards the floor. Crystal was…ignoring that for now, for the sake of her sanity. (How many things was she already ignoring?)

“I think I can combine a couple of rituals to create a sort of…tether, between Charles and myself.” he replied to her, as he removed his outer layers. “This would, basically, allow us to communicate with him and follow his energy to the place where the witch has absconded him.”

“Don’t tethers usually need something more physical to work?” she questioned, curious. At least that’s what the book she had been reading before their last case went wildly off course had said. Maybe the black smoke allowed him to tweak the limits?

“I have something more physical of his.” Edwin said, touching Charles’ necklace still around his neck. ”And for me, well, some blood or the ghost equivalent should work.” His eyes showed his mind went far, far away for a couple of moments. She said nothing, remembering the sudden rush of cold, dark, wet she had felt the last time she touched it. Edwin eventually shook off the melancholy and straightened his posture.

“I will need to compile the different arrays and rites I need to build this ritual. It will take me at least a few hours, so I suggest you rest up.”

“Are you sure I can’t help you…?” she asked, despite knowing he probably wouldn’t let her. Building rituals from scratch was a whole new area and she had exactly zero experience with that.

“Crystal.” He sighed, already spreading an alarming amount of books on the now clean desk. “I don’t mean to be rude, but unless you have a working knowledge of any of the Celtic languages, Aramaic, Latin or Fuþorc Runes I’ll ask you to keep out of it.”

“Okay, okay.” she rolled her eyes. Kicking her shoes off, she got comfortable on the couch and covered herself with the blanket. “But wake me up if you need to leave, alright?” she mumbled, half asleep already. “I don’t wanna panic if you’re not there when I wake up…”

Several hours later, Edwin shook her awake. Still woozy from sleep, she understood he needed a specific kind of knife he didn’t have but knew where to get. And that he had to travel by mirror to the place. She mumbled her understanding to him, and he left.

It was only when she was about to drop back into a deep sleep that her brain actually zoned in to the important part. She sat up on the couch so suddenly she felt dizzy.

“ Esther Finch’s fucking house!?” she yelled at the flat mirror, frustrated beyond belief. “Are you shitting me , Edwin!?” she cursed at the empty office. She creamed into the pillow a bit more, then got up. At least this should give her time to shower.

—-- —-- —--

Edwin really doesn’t want to go back to Port Townsend. The place was bleak, damp and filled with memories of suffering. Whether it is mental, emotional or physical; he’d experienced more pain in that little town in a single month than in the rest of the world in the last fifteen years.

But Charles was missing. Taken by another witch with a penchant for sick, twisted games and children’s pain. The ritual he came up with was novel and needed every single element to work. The dagger was fundamental. Edwin could not risk wasting more time looking for another knife with the same qualities when he already knew the location of one.

So he travelled to Port Townsend via mirror. He landed in Crystal’s old room above Jenny’s shop, and walked up to the house in a disguise. It was better than trying to travel directly inside Finch’s house, which surely had enchantments against ghosts using her mirrors that way.

As soon as his feet landed inside a ten metre radius, he could feel the repellent wards telling him to go away. This magic felt different than Finch’s. Probably the Cat King, then. Or maybe Tragic Mick? He ignored the compulsion, and kept walking up the path into the porch.

He took off his glasses before reaching the stairs, and became his true self again. A loud caw immediately greeted him. He paused and looked back, and saw Monty in his true form on a tree branch. The pause allowed the crow to land in the handrail of the porch, exuding an air of disapproval. Edwin sighed.

“I need to get something from inside this house.” he said, focusing on one of the crows’ eyes. “I’m not going to-” he paused before he promised something he couldn’t keep. Because he couldn’t promise not to hurt someone with what he took from inside. “I’m going to get something from inside this house.” He said instead. “And you are not going to stop me.”

Monty lifted into the air, agitated, cowing. His wings produced so much wind that Edwin took a step back, but then straightened up and pulled his notebook and held it open with one hand.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Monty.” he stated. “But I will if you try to stop me.” His other hand opened and a bright orange flame erupted, tinged with wisps of black. An alarmed cry made Edwin feel like garbage, but he held the flame on his palm. In control, but ready to attack.

The crow flew off then, shrill caws on his way. Edwin took a deep breath and extinguished the fire, wiping his hand on his coat. He pocketed his notebook and climbed the stairs. Fortunately, he went in as easily as he had done for Becky.

By the time Edwin had found the dagger, and snatched a book that looked like it had been involved in the creation of the ghastly machine that so much pain it had caused him; it was already too late. He felt a pulse of energy from outside, and cursed under his breath. He could try to undo the spells on the mirrors of the house, but that would take too long. So he sighed and marched outside.

“Edwin, Edwin, Edwin. You don't write, you don't call…” the Cat King said with a fake moue. Edwin looked up and saw Monty flying in circles above their heads. Little snitch , he thought, resentful.

“Cat King.” he said, nodding in respect, trying to walk around him. “I'm just leaving.” But diplomacy never worked on him.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” The other man clicked his tongue, stepping in Edwin’s path. The ghost boy stopped where he was, not willing to get closer.

“What do you think you are doing, entering the house of the Wicked Witch of the West?” The shapeshifter asked, sauntering around him. He was wearing heeled boots, and it added a little height difference that irked Edwin.

“I already have what I came here looking for. Now, if you please, I'm in a hurry.” Edwin tried to give another step, but the Cat King walked closer again, forcing him to step back. He was not putting himself in reach again. Monty cowed, flying faster, agitated.

“No. I don't think I please.” he tilted his head. “Knowledge like Esther's is dangerous. And I just can't let you leave with something dangerous.” The trickster’s tone was still playful, and it was grating on Edwin’s nerves.

“Knowledge is just knowledge.” the detective said, exasperated. “And I'm not asking you for permission.” he countered, snappish, head held high. “You're��wasting my time .” The Cat King’s eyes shone.

“You should always have time for me, dear.” he said, smile cutting. “I can always just trap you here again, Edwin.” He offered, the smile still on.

“...And I can always start killing your subjects until you let me leave. But we are not doing that, are we, Thomas? ” he smirked back, biting. There was something cold in those green eyes that made the shifter want to shiver. The faint wisps of black coming up from the ground were certainly unnerving. Monty screeched in alarm and abruptly landed on a branch several metres down.

“You know my name.” the Cat King realised, stepping back.

“I do. I know a lot of things about you now.” the ghost added, taking a step forward. “You like to play games . But I already knew that, from last time.” Edwin took another step closer. “The difference is, Charles is not with me right now. And I don't have a lot of patience for games when he is in danger.” he snarled.

“So that is why you're doing this? For him? You came all the way to America, to the house where you were tortured in, just for him ?” Thomas asked, indignant.

“I would do many more things for him.” Edwin stated, staring right into those yellow eyes, daring. The shifter scoffed, leaning closer, looking down at the ghost.

“Like threatening me?” The man asked, incredulous.

“I'm not threatening you. I'm warning you.” Edwin said, looking up, teeth bared. It looked more like a show of aggression from a cornered animal than a smile. “You're either on my side, or standing in my fucking way. And I'll get through anything standing in my way to get to him.” Their faces were only a few centimetres apart now, noses almost touching.

Thomas knew, in that moment, that Edwin was being completely honest. He seemed not to care a single bit what could happen to him as long as he could leave to go help his little friend. Nor what enemies he could leave behind. The Cat King felt a bit peeved about it, quite hot under the collar, and a lot jealous. That kind of loyalty to another person, to the point of detriment to yourself? He’d never felt it nor had he had it. It was alluring , damn it.

“Deathly little thing, aren’t you?” he whispered to this mysterious boy, unwillingly feeling more attracted to him still. The tension between them finally broke when Edwin’s lips formed a teasing smile and his eyes softened a little.

“Only when I have to.” he whispered back, before breaking his gaze and pressing the faintest of kisses on Thomas’ jaw, surprising him. He then sidestepped him and walked out of the yard.

By the time the Cat King turned around, Edwin was already jumping into a puddle, travelling to where he needed to be. Monty cowed twice and Thomas felt the hidden amusement.

“Oh, shut it, bird-boy. Like you didn’t defy your witch for him, even after he rejected you.” he snapped.

—-- —-- —--

Charles woke up all at once, gasping. He was sopping wet and chained to the ceiling. The metal of the chains was iron, and they were burning every part of his body that touched them. He was still only wearing his trousers, felt his extremities numb with cold and some of his curls had crusted over with ice.

When his eyes got used to the dim room, he could see it was the same basement he had been trapped in since the beginning. The only real difference was that he wasn’t alone this time. There was a woman on the corner, deep in the shadows. For what he could see, she was pretty fit. Charles might have looked twice if he had seen her on the street. But with her wild blonde hair, tight red dress and tall boots; she looked like she was wearing a halloween costume that couldn’t decide if it was vampire or witch. A large white spider, with its eyes closed, peacefully placed inside her hair didn’t help matters. He had almost missed it.

“You’re finally awake!” she cheered, getting closer. “Now we can finally get started .” her grin was dangerous and the boy felt a shiver go down his spine.

Taking advantage of the fact that his feet barely touch the ground, she spun him around, making him lose balance. His knee buckled under him and his whole weight was left suspended from his shoulders until he managed to find his footing again. He was trembling even worse after that, and tears of frustration began leaking from his eyes.

“Are you crying? How cute .” she cooed, grabbing his face and licking the trail the drop had left on his cheek. ”I’d give you a comfort kiss, but I don’t snog anyone that’s not my man.”

“You. Are. Crazy.” Charles said, leaning away from her. The spider opened its eyes and winked with half of them, waving two of its legs. The shivers got worse.

“Don’t be like that, poppet. Everything I’m doing is for love.”

“ Love ?” he repeated, sceptical.

“Yes! I’m gonna get the love of my life back, and you’re gonna help me.”

“I don’t know anything about love potions or spells; we don’t mess with that shite.” Charles explained, weary. The witch snorted, the spider wiggled, like it was laughing too. (Was this her familiar? Did it share the same amount of sentience as Monty? Somehow, that thought was terrifying).

“Pffff, I don’t mean like that . My boo and I were tragically separated when he was killed by the police and then he got dragged to Hell! ” she huffed. “Like, what even? I just want him back .”

Usually, Charles was willing to give everyone a chance to explain themselves. It’s not like the system was flawless. Good souls could be sent to Hell, like it had happened with Edwin.

However, since he was still shivering from the literal torture this woman had put him through (torture she implied her ‘boo’ would enjoy); he would go out on a limb an bet the bloke completely deserved his tenure in Hell.

“And why was he killed by the police?” he asked anyway, already tired of dealing with this. The chat was a step up from the freezing water, but the talk itself so far was three steps down from the earlier solitude.

“Because his stupid best friend and he decided to rob a bank!” she exclaimed, clearly miffed. This time, when she grabbed him to spin him around, her nails left deep scratches, burning and bleeding. This bitch had iron in her nail polish, apparently. “They were caught doing that. I mean, you have to give it to the pigs. They really messed up on that one.”she laughed. “They were caught and got done in as fucking robbers. They didn't even search their flat! They just killed them and left them at the morgue. They never found out that we were the ones dropping the mangled bodies everywhere.”

“You're sick.” Charles said, swallowing, as he found his rooting again.

“Oh, baby, of course I am. Didn't I tell you already? I love making people break, playing with them.” She licked her lips, seductive. The ghost boy just felt nauseous. “What I love even more is watching my man do it for me. And that's why you're going to help me bring him back.”

“From Hell ?” He asked, incredulous. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn't help you. Edwin is the one with the knowledge of Hell and its paths, not me. You chose the wrong one of us to kidnap.”

“I don’t think I did. Word is, you are the one that I saved him from hell this time.” she smiled. She put her extended arm on his shoulder and placed her weight on the claw-like nails sinking in the muscle there. He felt blood dripping down his back. The spider began walking down her shoulder and onto her arm. Leaning in until their faces almost touched, she looked him dead in the eyes, despite his efforts to keep the blasted thing in his line of sight.

“I did, yeah.” He admitted. “But I had help. I had someone else, much more powerful than I or you ever could be. They opened a portal down to Hell and they kept it open until we got back. You can't do that.” He swallowed. “Can you?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking, now looking at the spider.

Cursing, she pushed him back and started roaming the room, hands wildly gesturing. The spider had quickly climbed up to her head again. Charles had lost his balance and was spinning again, but at least that beast was not near him. He took her cursing as a negative to his question. Charles wanted to believe this was good news (he dreaded the thought of that man anywhere but Hell), but you never knew how others were going to react when you didn’t give them the information they wanted. This woman? Completely bonkers. Hopefully she would just let him in here, until Edwin rescued him. Suddenly, she stopped in the middle of the basement.

“Hmm, maybe I can't open up a portal. But I can make a deal with a demon so that I can get into hell.” She was smiling again. “And you will help me find my way out.”

“A deal with a demon is a terrible idea. Besides, lady, even if I tell you all I know about hell, which I won’t do. The level Edwin was at? It was terrible, but it wasn't that deep. The level your boo must be in… it has to be one of the deepest and darkest ones, just based on what you describe me you two did, to people.”

“I can think of a few things I can offer the demon so that he helps me.” she countered, now pensive instead of agitated.

“Like what?”

“Like you, your soul. Essence, whatever. Or one of the others’.” Charles was almost afraid to ask.

“Others?”

“Oh, yeah. I've been collecting little souls as gifts for my boyfriend when he comes back. Since, you know, he won't be able to interact with the living now he is dead and will become a ghost.”

“... Little souls?” he asked again, disgusted. He tried leaning away, but she plunged her nails into his face to keep his eyes on her.

“Yeah, the souls of little ones!” she smiled, and it was a terrible smile. A wild hunger seemed to seep from her feverish eyes. “He's not that much into kids. He prefers young people, teenagers, you know.” she winked at him, suggestive.

“So he's a paedophile, but not that much of a paedophile?” Charles mocked, deciding to ignore the implications.

She let go of his face only to slap him hard, hard enough to leave deep gouges from the iron on the nails she wore.

“He hates that word!” she screamed, offended. “He just… really loves young people.” The sheer incredulity must have shown on his face, because she just continued. “Anyways, I was collecting these souls so he could play with them when he comes back, you know? I bet he will be in a foul mood, and I just thought 'well what better way to cheer him up than letting him blow off some steam on a couple souls he will find pleasing?’ ' I took great care in ensuring they were innocent, as well. The responses to all the pain and the bit of little pleasure here and there that we can teach them are always the best .” she sighed, dreamy. “And ghosts are so much more resilient! We can play with you and play with you and play with you until you break.” She said, eyes evaluating him up and down. “And then we can start all over again!” she laughed.

Charles puked all over the floor.

"You truly are," he said in disgusted awe " the most despicable person I've ever met. And a few months ago I was at the mercy of a witch that cannibalised little girls. "

“Oh, cannibalism.” she hummed. “That sounds fun, doesn’t it, Ari?” she cooed at her familiar, reaching for the thing. “You have to get me her number.” she said to him.

Charles spat at her. It barely touched her face before she shrieked and sent him crashing to the back of the room. The chains had fallen from the ceiling and onto his torso, burning him terribly.

“And you need to learn some manners." She said as he screamed from the sudden agony. Then she turned her back on him and walked towards the door. "I guess I will just leave you to repeat the cycle until you have had enough."

Charles’ last coherent thought before he was dropped under the thick frozen layer of water of the lake instead of through the ice as always, was that Edwin and he would absolutely need to save those poor spirits.

—-- —-- —--

“That took longer than you said it would.” Crystal said as soon as he stepped through the mirror into the office. “Did the house not let you in?” she asked, remembering how they had just phased through the walls last time.

“The house gave me no problem at all.” Edwin answered, placing the knife on the desk. “It was Monty, actually.” he explained, with a grimace. “I had an encounter with the Cat king,” Crystal’s eyebrow went up “but not much came out of it. He was very insistent about not letting any kind of knowledge leave that witch's house.” He took off his coat and his gloves and, uncharacteristically, threw them onto the couch. It was the only free surface, she supposed. “Which would normally be a good thing, but in these circumstances, I could not abide by it.”

“And did he give you any trouble?” she questioned, sceptical.

“He tried to threaten me, so I just…threatened him back.” Edwin said, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, trying to play it off as unimpressive. Yeah, Crystal was not gonna let that one slide.

“ You threatened the Cat King?” she said, incredulous. “He left you trapped in Port Townsend for weeks!”

“Ah, but I didn't know anything about him back then.” He countered. “And I wasn't dabbling in anything more dangerous than usual. And perhaps the most important thing of all…” Edwin started, leafing through his notes.

“...It was you in danger, not Charles.” Crystal interrupted, finishing the idea.

“Exactly.” He said, pleased that she understood this about him by now.

As they began prepping the materials for this massive ritual, she managed to corroborate that it was far beyond anything they had shown her so far. The ritual seemed so complicated. Beyond the dagger that he had to pick up from the other side of the world, it required them to move every single piece of furniture against the walls, then grabbing the bathroom mirror for a later use.

After that, they placed a bedsheet on the floor, drawing a big circle on it with black chalk, and drew a set of runes inside it, near the centre. Then Edwin grabbed Charles' backpack, and took out a bottle full of a viscous dark liquid. He then lit a dozen candles inside the marked circle, each one in its specific place. A wave of different smells assaulted Crystal’s nose. She supposed that ghosts weren’t bothered by it since they couldn't smell much. She tried very hard not to sneeze.

Edwin retrieved two different cups from a cupboard, one made from silver and one from crystal, and poured the liquid from the bottle inside the silver one. For the other, he took out Esther’s knife from his pocket and sliced his forearm with it. Blood tinted with ectoplasm began to pour inside the empty cup, and once it was three quarters full he removed the wound from it to avoid overspilling. He slid two fingers over the wound and the black smoke that was becoming familiar to Crystal ate up the blood and sealed the wound. Then, he reached for Charles' chain around his neck and took it off. Gently, he let it fall inside the cup that had his blood. He took a big piece of parchment paper, those old ones that you see only in movies, yellowed with age, thick, and coarse to the touch.

With a grimace, he sank his fingers into the first cup. A low hum came from his throat, sounding almost like words but not really. He began writing symbols with the blood onto the parchment. With the other hand, he began tracing the same symbols again, on another blank sheet of parchment, on top of the first one. These symbols were mirrored, and written with his own blood from the second cup. Once he was done, a string of Latin came out of his lips, and the second set of symbols lifted up in the air, glowing golden light, and fused into the first set, on the first sheet of parchment. The other parchment disintegrated as soon as the last trace of blood left the paper.

Edwin let out a breath Crystal hadn't noticed he was holding. Done, he took the parchment, and began ripping it in pieces, keeping each symbol inside its own square of paper, and placed the symbols inside the circle according to the instructions written down by his own hand. The bloody symbols then sank through the paper and sealed themselves to the linen fabric. Edwin waved his hand and all the blank pieces of paper flew from the array. Then he took the necklace from inside the second cup and put it into the first cup.

He took the bathroom mirror, and placed it in the middle of the circle array spell, then took the necklace out of the cup and flicked it in the air where it remained still, frozen in place at about two metres high. The symbols on the bedsheet and the blood on the necklace pulsed with golden energy every couple of heartbeats.

“I need you,” he started to say, very clearly, “to not, for any reason, enter the circle.”

“All right” she said, heart beating like crazy.

“Whatever I ask you to bring me, you will put it inside the circle without touching inside it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Edwin repeated, breathing deep. He knelt beside the foggy mirror on the floor and began writing on it with his finger. At the same time, he spoke up, to keep her in the loop. “Charles? Are you there?”

Charles

are you there?

#fear your sins not your monsters #payneland #painland week #edwin payne #charles rowland #edwin x charles #dead boy detectives #dbda

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basilone · 1 year ago

Note

I want to hear your thoughts on fandom and the recent influx of the term content creation!

Well, anon, you are in luck! (Or not, depending on your definition of luck. 😉) I just so happen to have many Thoughts & Opinions™ about this. I will get wordy, this will get lengthy, and I will be social and put most of my thoughts under a readmore cut.

I personally try to avoid the terms ‘content’ and ‘content creation’ when talking about fandom works and a fandom’s creative pursuits nowadays. Occasionally, sure, it happens that it slips out anyway – it’s a term we’re all really used to using! – but I want to be as mindful about its use as possible. This is a personal decision on my account and I won’t get uppity about other people’s use of these terms, though.

But, Killy, you might say... why would you avoid using these terms? For me, here’s why:

Content is not synonymous with art;

Content creation indicates something different than art creation;

Fandom should not be subject to consumerism;

Fandom is about connection.

If all a fandom puts out is classified as content, that fandom is going to die.

Yeah. I know. Melodramatic much? I’m on my fainting couch here, folks. 😂 But let’s dig in, shall we?

You know, maybe it’s just the archivist in me that balks at the term ‘content’. Content is a data entry field in the archival system we use at my real-life job: literally speaking, this data entry field is where we put a brief summary of the document attached to that specific archival file. It contains information that tells you the key takeaways of what the document is about, but it will not contain the full text of the document itself. Content is one of the points of access for our archival search: I know what I’m looking for, so I put a few keywords into our search and it pulls up the relevant file. But what do I need, really need, in my line of work? It’s the document itself, not the data entry field. The document tells me the whole story that I need to be able to truly do my job well. The content-field is a cliffnotes edition of that story.

It’s the same way with the art we create in fandom. I’m gonna take myself as an example here, because I create a fair bit! (Shocking, I know. Local Tumblr cryptid sighting, more at 11. 😎) I spend hours writing fic. I spend hours sorting through screencaps before screeching at Photoshop for a lengthy amount of time. I spend days pouring over quotes, books, documents, photographs, tutorials, and other things that will help me create something cool. I apply color theory, art framing/perspective, narrative focus, and many other theories and techniques to my writing and my giffing. If I were to put my finished work or any of my WIPs in that same archive system, it would be the document within the archival file. The tags I use on my posts? Those are markers similar to the content-field. They tell you who my gifset depicts and from which show it is. They tell you which OC of mine my fic is about. My work contains these things I tagged.

But my creative work is not content itself.

Content is marketable, easy access, blurb-y stuff. Content is something you absorb within one minute flat. Content is the highlight reel. It’s what fills a page, something you’ll scroll past in a heartbeat, something that barely stands out in a long long long list of stuff. Content is what you consume on a lazy Sunday afternoon without ever being forced to read lengthy pieces, take in the details of what you see, pause mid-scroll to ponder the meaning of life, whatever else have you. Create content and you create a flash in the pan, a quick laugh maybe, before it fizzles back out again. Create content and it’s here today and gone tomorrow without anyone mourning its absence for too long.

Art should last longer than that, don’t you think? 😉

So when I see people put a fic request in an askbox and it’s phrased like “Speirs x spy!reader fluff” and that very same request makes its way into about ten more askboxes before the fandom starts comparing asks? I might be inclined to classify us all as slot machines. Put an ask in and out rolls a fic. Who cares which slot machine it came from? As long as you’ve got your painstakingly crafted fics that you consume the same way you do actual content, right? We, its writers, are just lucky if we get a pat of acknowledgement on our little slot machine head for our troubles, aren’t we?

When I see an overly detailed summary of what sounds like a full-fledged fic in an askbox and the demand is “write this for me”, I recoil from the screen and go “child, who the hell birthed you, were you raised in a barn?” out loud. If you can tell a story in the space of an askbox, consider asking for help to let that story – a story you own, a story that is more yours that it could ever be mine – grow into what it has the potential to be.

When I see fics and gifsets and other creations get likes but not reblogs, I mutter something about the state of fandom economy these days. We exist in a little fandom bubble. Our bubble can’t expand or blow from place to place without a little help from our friends. And you’re my friends, right? I know the follow-button says follow, guys, believe me, I’m not that far gone, but for me ‘follow’ means ‘friend’. 💚 You’re my buddy now. Suck it up. We’ll share a can of peaches. 🍑

When I see fics and other creations get reblogged without tags or comments attached, I die a little on the inside. I feel like a little Victorian orphan child going “please, reblogger, a little penny of thought for its creator, if it pleases?”. I feel like commentless and/or tagless reblogging is giving me nothing, nothing at all, about who you are.

And I want to get to know you! I want to know who’s in my notes. I want to know who’s scrambling through my MotA gifsets like a fat little raccoon inhaling its third helping of a box of jelly-filled donuts. I want to know who is adopting which character and why. I want to know that it’s your birthday, or that you had a bad day and needed a pick-me-up, or that you are locked in an Ikea at three in the morning reading my blog by the bright lights of countless Solhetta bulbs. I want to know that you love my OC Darlene but that you ain’t sure what the hell my OC Lottie’s got to do with anything. I want to know what tickles you – a turn of phrase I used, a color in a gifset, a little detail I captured that made me go !!!!!! on the inside while I was creating too – and I want to know what moves you.

What reaches into the soil of your being and nourishes you enough to blossom into whichever lovely self you can grow to be? What is precious to you? What comforts you in the dark nights of your soul, when all light feels like it’s faded out? What do you love, truly love? What feeling and thought and idea and love love LOVE do you consume – truly consume, head to tail, no takebacks – and what are you consumed by in turn?

Let me connect with you. Let me know the little internet scraps of you that tell me you’re a DeMarco girlie, or that you’re here for Hoosier only, or that you’re as feral and batty about Speirs as I am, or that you actually really can’t stand the one dude everyone else raves about. Let me know that you like angsty quotes on gifsets – feel free to yell at me for making you schedule an impromptu therapy session – or let me know you saw what I did in my fic there and you’ll be demanding compensation from me while you lie down and wail about it. Let me know you’re very into those lovely blues on a gifset (I know, SO good, right??) or that you are side-eyeing me because that close-up of your fave turned you into a little puddle.

Let me know what moves you, because I created these things with love. I created them because they moved me, too. I created them because I have a story to tell, somehow. I created them because the whole world is a string of stories and I want to pass the heart of them on to you. I created them not because I want to jump on a hypetrain that races past all the episodes and all the alternate universes and all the stories without stopping, but because I want to soak up the sun and point at something and tell you “look, isn’t this beautiful?”. I created them not because I am looking for a quick fix or a distraction or an escape, but because I want to give you something that nourishes you as it has nourished me.

That’s so much more than that quick flash in the pan, yeah? That’s so much more than what content could ever hope to be. That’s something that lasts beyond the clicks and gives you an ever-expanding horizon that leaves you wondering just what in the world is next.

Let me repeat point five: if all a fandom puts out is classified as content, that fandom is going to die. Because content doesn’t sustain you. Connection does. And connection? That happens with meaningful interaction. That happens when you stop getting followers and start getting friends. That happens when you treat all forms of art as something unique that can be precious to someone, rather than something to like today and forget about tomorrow.

Can I do a lil mic drop? Yeah. I think I’m gonna. Just this once. 🎤

#fandom things #yeah so this got long but in my defense I have never pontificated about this in public much before #sometimes I reveal myself as the crochety little fandom old I am #creative asks

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