#and this just. stepped in. and healed a big heap of it.

[sseanettles]

I am fine i am fine i am fine i am not fine i am the finest i have ever been and this is whatever the emotional and psychological opposite of nov 5 destiel day was happy spirk canon day?????

mrs. nimoy i owe you my life thank you (bill, you get a rare w if you do not try to no homo ruin this)

[synity]

pleaaaase write about woozi having a partner who is soft and sweet…and they tend to get into trouble or accidents because they are too kind and good for this world?

am i even making sense? 😭 (i personally think the longer the better (like it doesn’t have to be just one scenario haha)…but please do write it how long or short you want it to be)

ps I love your writing and I love fluff💗

Thanks!

Sunshine & Sunshine protector

(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)

*Slice of life, fluff, Romance, Soft, Comfort, Gentle Intimacy Emotional support, vunerability, Emotional Drama, Healing, Intimate Domestic*

The first time Woozi met his partner, he already knew they were different. Not in a flashy or striking way but in the quiet, unshakeable gentleness that surrounded them like a soft glow.

They had a heart too big for this world.

It was a Sunday morning, sunlight slipping softly through the thin curtains, dappling the small apartment in warm gold. Woozi stirred, blinking awake, and immediately felt the familiar weight of his partner curled against him, breath soft and steady on his chest.

her fingers lazily twined, a silent communication that said more than words could. Slowly, his partner’s eyes opened, still heavy with sleep, and she smiled at Woozi, sleepy and sweet.

“Good morning,” Woozi whispered, voice thick with affection.

“Morning,” she replied softly, voice like a lullaby.

she shifted closer, wrapping an arm around Woozi’s waist as if they never wanted to let go. Woozi breathed in their scent something fresh, like morning rain and lavender and smiled.

“How did you sleep?” he asked, brushing a stray lock of hair behind their ear.

“Better now,” she murmured, resting their head on his shoulder.

For a while, they just stayed like that a tangled heap of limbs and warmth letting the quiet fill the room. The small things mattered most here: the gentle squeeze of a hand, the brush of a nose, the peacefulness of shared silence.

His partner’s kindness wasn’t just a trait; it was a force of nature. And sometimes, that force pulled them into trouble.

One afternoon, Woozi was in the studio, scribbling down melodies, when his phone buzzed insistently.

It was a message from her: “Please come home. Emergency.”

His heart immediately tightened. He grabbed his jacket and rushed home.

When he arrived, he found his partner sitting on the porch steps, clothes smudged with dirt, a scrape on their elbow, and a small, frightened kitten clutched in their arms.

“I found her stuck under the dumpster,” she said quietly, eyes shining with concern. “I couldn’t leave her there.”

Woozi sighed, half exasperated, half amused.

“You’re going to wear yourself out with these rescue missions,” he said gently.

“I can’t help it,” she whispered. “How could I leave her?”

He knelt beside them, taking the kitten into his hands to check it. “You have a heart too big for your own good.”

she smiled weakly.

“And that’s why I have you,” they said.

Their mornings were rarely dull, especially when they cooked together.

One rainy Saturday, the two of them decided to bake cookies, the smell of rain tapping against the windows and the warm scent of vanilla filling the kitchen.

But true to form, their partner’s sweet nature caused the usual chaos.

They insisted on sharing cookies with every delivery person who passed by their door.

Woozi chuckled, watching as their partner bundled up a small bag of treats, waving goodbye to the courier outside.

Inside, flour was everywhere on counters, on their noses, even in their hair. Their partner giggled as Woozi tried to catch flying dough balls, slipping and almost falling.

“Be careful!” Woozi warned, laughing.

“Where’s the fun in being careful all the time?” they teased, nudging him with a flour-covered elbow.

Despite the mess, Woozi loved these moments the way her laughter bounced around the small space, how her eyes lit up with joy at the simplest pleasures.

But beneath her bright smile and boundless kindness lay a vulnerability Woozi rarely saw.

One night, as the city’s lights flickered below their balcony, Woozi found his partner sitting alone, knees drawn to their chest, gaze distant.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked softly, sitting beside them.

They hesitated before whispering, “Sometimes I wonder if I’m too much. If my kindness just makes me weak.”

Woozi’s heart clenched.

“You’re not weak,” he said firmly, turning to face them. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

“But I keep getting hurt… and I’m afraid I’ll break.”

He reached out, taking her hand gently. “Then let me be your strength. You don’t have to carry the world alone.”

Tears shimmered in their eyes, and Woozi pulled them close, holding them until the fear faded.

Woozi’s love was in the details the way he always made sure his partner had a warm cup of tea after a long day, the soft hand on their back when they needed comfort, the quiet presence beside them during sleepless nights.

One evening, when his partner was exhausted from helping a friend in need, Woozi noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the tremble in their voice.

He cooked her favorite soup, carrying the bowl to the couch where she sat, wrapped in a blanket.

“Eat,” he urged, spooning the warm broth into their mouth.

she smiled gratefully. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

“I just want to take care of you,” Woozi replied.

Not every moment was tender; sometimes they teased each other mercilessly.

One afternoon, Woozi found his partner attempting to fix the sink with absolutely no plumbing knowledge.

Water sprayed everywhere, soaking Woozi’s shirt.

“Seriously?” he groaned.

she laughed, water dripping from their hair. “I’m trying!”

Woozi shook his head, grabbing the wrench. “Leave it to the professional.”

she pouted, but the sparkle in her eyes was unmistakable.

“You’ll always have to rescue me, won’t you?”

“Every time,” Woozi said, pulling her into a playful hug.

After a small concert, Woozi surprised everyone including his partner by publicly acknowledging their relationship.

Taking the microphone, he spoke softly but clearly.

“This is my partner. The kindest person I know, who teaches me every day what love really means.”

His partner blushed deeply, hiding in his side, while the audience cheered.

Later, Woozi teased, “See? I’m not so shy when it comes to you.”

she laughed, squeezing his hand.

Sometimes, when the world was quiet, they shared their deepest thoughts.

One night, wrapped in blankets on the balcony, Woozi asked, “What scares you most?”

his partner hesitated.

“Losing myself. Or losing the people I love.”

Woozi kissed their forehead.

“You’ll never lose me.”

“And I’ll never stop trying to be better, for us.”

He smiled, heart full.

One lazy Sunday, as they lounged in bed, Woozi asked, “Where do you see us in five years?”

she thought carefully.

“A home filled with laughter, music, maybe a few cats.”

Woozi grinned. “Cats, huh?”

“Yes, definitely cats.”

He laughed, pulling her closer.

“We’ll build that life. Together.”

Their life wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. But it was real, filled with love, tenderness, and the kind of kindness that changed everything.

And through it all, Woozi promised to be the steady hand, the safe place, the unwavering love that their partner deserved.

Because sometimes, being too kind for this world just means needing someone who will never let you fall.

It was a sunny afternoon, and Woozi's partner, Y/N, decided to take a leisurely stroll through the bustling city park. The laughter of children and the chirping of birds created a harmonious backdrop. As Y/N walked, she noticed a small boy, no older than four, standing alone near the fountain, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Y/N approached gently, kneeling to meet his gaze. "Hey there, are you okay? Where's your mommy?"

The boy sniffled, "I can't find her."

Concerned, Y/N took his hand. "Let's find her together, okay?"

They began walking through the park, Y/N asking nearby adults if they recognized the child. After several minutes, a frantic woman spotted them and rushed over, her face a mix of relief and fury.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, pulling the boy into her arms. Then, turning to Y/N, her expression darkened. "What were you doing with my son? Were you trying to kidnap him?"

Y/N's eyes widened in shock. "No! He was lost, and I was helping him find you."

But the mother wasn't convinced. She called the police, accusing Y/N of attempting to abduct her child

Within minutes, police officers arrived, separating Y/N and the mother to hear both sides. Y/N explained the situation calmly, emphasizing their concern for the child's safety. Witnesses corroborated Y/N's account, noting their efforts to find the boy's mother.

After reviewing the evidence and speaking with all parties, the officers concluded it was a misunderstanding. They advised the mother to be more vigilant and apologized to Y/N for the distress caused.

Later that evening, Y/N recounted the incident to Woozi, tears welling up in her eyes. "I was just trying to help, but she thought I was a kidnapper."

Woozi pulled them into a comforting embrace. "I'm so sorry you went through that. Your heart is pure, and you did the right thing. Don't let this change who you are."

He held them close, offering solace and understanding, reinforcing his unwavering support.

In the days that followed, Y/N grappled with the incident's emotional aftermath. Woozi remained by their side, encouraging her to continue being kind but also to be cautious.

"Your compassion is one of the things I love most about you," he said. "But it's okay to set boundaries and protect yourself too."

Together, they navigated the complexities of kindness in a world that sometimes misunderstood it, emerging stronger and more connected than ever.

The sun was shining softly through the wide city streets, casting warm golden hues on everything it touched. Y/N loved days like these quiet moments when the world felt calm, and even in the chaos of everyday life, there were little chances to help others. She wandered through the park, her heart always open to the small things: a stray cat needing water, an elderly person struggling with their bags, a lost child looking for comfort.

As she walked past a bench near the flower garden, Yn noticed an elderly woman shuffling slowly, a knitted bag hanging loosely from her arm. The woman’s steps faltered, and in the bustling movement of a passing crowd, the wallet she clutched slipped from her grasp and tumbled onto the sidewalk, landing with a soft thud on the concrete.

Yn’s heart immediately leapt. She crouched down quickly and picked it up, holding it carefully in both hands. “Excuse me, ma’am! You dropped this,” she called out, her voice gentle and warm.

The old woman turned sharply, eyes narrowing as she saw Yn holding the wallet. “What are you doing with my wallet?” she snapped, the tone icy and suspicious.

Yn smiled softly, trying to calm her. “I picked it up right away. I wanted to make sure you got it back.”

But the woman’s expression didn’t soften. Instead, it twisted into a scowl. “I don’t know who you are, girl, but you best not be trying anything funny.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She could feel the sting of distrust, something she rarely encountered, especially when all she meant was to help. “I’m not trying anything,” she said quietly, stepping closer and extending the wallet toward the woman.

But the woman waved her off with a sharp motion. “Keep your hands to yourself,” she growled. “I don’t need some meddling young girl making my day worse.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed in confusion, but she kept her composure. “I just want to give this back. You dropped it.”

“Don’t ‘just want’ me, don’t ‘just want’ me, don’t come near me!” the woman spat suddenly, her voice rising and attracting the attention of nearby pedestrians.

Y/N’s heart sank. “Please, I’m only trying to help,” she said, taking a small step back, trying not to escalate the situation.

But the woman’s face was twisted with anger. “You think you’re better than me? Coming here with your fancy attitude, trying to play the hero? You’re nothing but a nosy troublemaker,” she hissed. “You don’t belong here, and I want you gone.”

Y/N blinked, shocked by the harsh words. The woman’s voice cracked as she continued, bitterness and frustration bubbling to the surface. “Who do you think you are, trying to fix everything? You’re just a foolish girl who thinks the world owes her something. But let me tell you nobody wants your help. Nobody needs you.”

Tears pricked Y/N’s eyes, but she swallowed them down. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like this especially by someone she tried so hard to care for. But the woman wasn’t done.

“You’re just another spoiled kid with your bright eyes and soft heart, thinking you can save everyone but yourself,” the woman sneered. “Maybe if you spent less time interfering and more time minding your own business, you’d get somewhere in life.”

The crowd around them grew uneasy. A few people glanced over, but no one stepped forward to stop the verbal attack.

Y/N’s hands trembled as she clutched the wallet tighter. Her throat felt dry, and a quiet ache settled deep in her chest. She had never wanted anything more than to be kind, to make a small difference in someone’s day, but here she was facing sharp words and cold rejection.

“I... I just wanted to help,” she whispered, voice barely audible, fragile like a glass ready to shatter.

The woman sneered one last time and turned away, muttering curses under her breath as she shuffled off down the street.

Yn stood there for a moment, stunned and hollow. The weight of those words pressed on her like a stone, heavy and cruel. Yet, somewhere deep inside, the part of her that always saw the good the hope still flickered quietly.

She looked down at the wallet in her hands, still hers to return, and sighed softly.

Helping sometimes came with pain, but it never stopped being worth it.

Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of the insult sinking deep inside her. “I only wanted to help,” she said again, voice breaking.

The woman turned abruptly and began to walk away, muttering curses under her breath, leaving Y/N standing alone with the wallet in her hands.

For a moment, Yn just stood there, numb. The bright sunshine felt too harsh, the crowd’s eyes too heavy. She looked down at the wallet and then out into the street, wondering why kindness so often felt like a burden.

One man in the crowd a middle-aged passerby shook his head sadly and muttered to his companion, “That poor girl. Just trying to do the right thing.”

A young woman nearby clenched her fists, clearly upset by the scene. “Some people just don’t deserve kindness,” she said softly, tears in her own eyes.

Y/N heard their whispers but felt distant from them, like she was underwater. The sting of the woman’s words echoed louder than any voice around her.

As she walked slowly away, the wallet still clutched in her hand, Y/N’s mind replayed every moment, every harsh word, every glance.

She remembered how much she had always believed that a small act of kindness could change someone’s day, even their life. But now she wondered if some hearts were too closed, too bruised to ever see the light she wanted to share.

Yet, beneath the ache, a quiet resolve began to bloom.

She would keep being kind.

She would keep trying.

Because maybe one day, someone else would need her and she hoped someone would be there for her, too.

With one last glance at the wallet, Y/N took a deep breath, wiped her tears away, and stepped forward into the afternoon sun.

The morning light seeped softly through the curtains as Yn sat curled up on the couch, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sweater. The memory of the old woman’s harsh words lingered like a storm cloud above her heart. She had only tried to help only tried to do what felt right yet all she’d gotten was anger and humiliation. Her cheeks still stung from the cruel insults, and her spirit felt bruised.

Woozi’s footsteps echoed softly through the apartment, and before she could say anything, he was kneeling beside her, his warm hand covering hers like a silent promise that she wasn’t alone. His eyes searched hers, calm and steady.

“Talk to me,” he said quietly, voice gentle but insistent.

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, then exhaled slowly. “I just… I wanted to help. She dropped her wallet, and I tried to pick it up and give it back to her. But she looked at me like I was a thief. She yelled, insulted me… said things I never thought someone would say.”

Woozi’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a soothing hug.

“Sometimes,” he murmured, “people lash out not because of who you are, but because of their own fears and pain. That doesn’t make it okay, but it doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”

Yn closed her eyes against the sting of tears. “But what if I’m just… too kind for this world? What if my kindness just invites trouble?”

He smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Your kindness is your strength, even when it feels like a burden. And I’m here, always, to keep you safe from the trouble that comes your way.”

She leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart and the unspoken promise in his presence. “I don’t want to stop being kind, even if it hurts sometimes.”

“You won’t have to,” he said, voice full of conviction. “Because I’ll be by your side your protector, your partner. No matter what storms come, we’ll face them together.”

For a long moment, silence wrapped around them, comforting and warm. Y/N let the tears fall freely now, the weight in her chest easing just a little.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He kissed her forehead, soft and tender. “Always.”

Later that afternoon, the sunlight poured through the kitchen window as Woozi stood behind Y/N, his arms wrapped gently around her waist. She was focused on chopping vegetables for dinner, humming a soft tune, but his presence made her smile without looking.

“You know,” Woozi whispered, brushing his lips against her temple, “you’re probably the only person I know who gets into trouble just by being nice.”

Y/N chuckled, glancing up at him with sparkling eyes. “Well, trouble seems to follow me like a shadow.”

He tightened his hold, pressing a gentle kiss to her neck. “Maybe that’s because the world doesn’t deserve someone as kind as you.”

“Or maybe I’m just too much of a softie,” she teased, pretending to be annoyed.

“Softie or not, I’m lucky to have you,” Woozi murmured, his voice thick with affection. “Let’s make tonight a promise no trouble, just us.”

Y/N nodded, leaning back into him. “Deal.”

They cooked together in perfect harmony her chopping and his stirring, occasional laughter bubbling up as they playfully bumped into each other. The kitchen filled with warmth and the scent of home.

Later, seated at the table, their hands found each other’s across the surface. In that quiet moment, no harsh words or accusations could reach them. There was only love steady, comforting, and true.

The next morning, the gentle hum of the city seeped through the slightly cracked window as sunlight draped the room in a soft glow. Yn was sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a worn-out book while Woozi brewed their morning tea in the kitchen. The faint clink of the teapot on the stove was a comforting background to their quiet start.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Woozi said as he brought over two steaming cups, settling beside her.

Y/N glanced up, her eyes shimmering with a mix of amusement and something tender. “Just thinking. You know, after everything that happened yesterday…I’m glad you’re here.”

Woozi smiled softly, his hand finding hers. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not while I’m around.”

Yn squeezed his hand, feeling that familiar warmth wash over her. “You’re always so protective.”

“I’m just being honest. You’re too precious to me.”

Her cheeks flushed as she shifted closer, resting her head on his shoulder. “I don’t say it enough, but thank you for sticking by me.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Always.”

Later that day, they decided to take a stroll in the park, wanting nothing more than simple moments away from the crowded chaos of everyday life. Y/N’s hand nestled perfectly in Woozi’s as they walked beneath towering trees, the leaves rustling softly with the breeze.

“Remember when you first told me you liked me?” Y/N asked, a teasing smile playing on her lips.

Woozi chuckled quietly. “I was such a nervous mess. Could barely look at you.”

“Yeah, I remember. You kept hiding behind your notebook.”

He laughed at the memory, eyes sparkling. “Well, I still get a little shy around you.”

Y/N stopped walking and tugged him gently until he faced her. “You don’t have to be shy. I like you just the way you are.”

His smile deepened, and before she could blink, Woozi’s hands cupped her face. “I love you.”

Her heart skipped. “I love you too.”

They stayed like that for a moment, wrapped up in the world they had built a world where kindness could exist alongside imperfections, where love was patient and steadfast.

One evening, while cooking dinner, Y/N accidentally knocked over a jar of spices, the pungent scent filling the kitchen. Frustrated, she sighed and started cleaning it up, but Woozi wasn’t having any of it.

“Hey, hey,” he said softly, setting down the cutting board and coming over to wrap his arms around her waist from behind. “It’s just a little spill.”

Yn leaned back into him, letting out a shaky laugh. “I’m just so clumsy sometimes.”

“Not clumsy,” he said, turning her gently to face him. “Perfectly human. And perfectly mine.”

She smiled, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “You make me feel like I’m enough.”

“That’s because you are.”

Days like these were the quiet anchors in their lives small moments stitched together to remind them both of what really mattered. The world could throw all the trouble and misunderstandings it wanted, but here, in each other’s arms, they found peace.

The room was dim, bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Yn lay curled up under the blanket, her mind swirling with worry and exhaustion from the day’s events. Woozi watched her quietly, his heart aching to see her so tired yet still pushing herself nonstop.

He reached out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Y/N,” he whispered softly, his voice a balm in the stillness.

She blinked up at him, eyes heavy but attentive.

“Please,” he said, his hand brushing over her cheek with the lightest touch. “Put yourself first…Please?”

Yn opened her mouth to protest, but Woozi silenced her with a tender kiss slow and sweet, a promise more than just words. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close until their bodies fit perfectly together.

“You don’t always have to carry the world,” he murmured against her hair. “Let me carry you for a while.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered with tears she refused to shed. She nodded, resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Goodnight, my love,” Woozi whispered.

Goodnight,” she breathed, feeling safe and cherished, ready to let go if only for a moment.

And with that, they fell asleep wrapped in each other’s warmth, the quiet hum of their love filling the night.

[unfgvien]

healing touch

pairing - natasha x reader

summary - In a quiet apartment, Natasha brings comfort and warmth, hugs, and offers to help with daily tasks. She comforts and reassures, and you kiss her, leaving a trail of kisses.

word count - 3k

The apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against your chest, heavy and suffocating. The curtains are drawn, filtering the afternoon sun into soft, golden slivers that dance across the floor. You sit on the couch, your body slumped, your eyes fixed on the coffee table where a half-empty glass of whiskey sits, the ice long since melted. The silence is broken only by the occasional tick of the wall clock, a relentless reminder that time marches on, even when your heart feels frozen.

The breakup with Wanda still stings, raw and jagged, like a wound that refuses to heal. Her words echo in your mind—“I can’t do this anymore”—and the way she walked away without looking back. You’ve been replaying it over and over, dissecting every moment, every word, every silence. The apartment feels too big now, the walls closing in, the memories of her laughter, her touch, her scent lingering like ghosts you can’t exorcise.

The front door clicks open, and Natasha steps inside, her presence a sudden jolt of warmth in the cold air. She pauses, taking in the scene—you on the couch, the whiskey glass, the darkness that seems to cling to you like a second skin. Her expression softens, her eyes darkening with a mix of concern and something else, something deeper, more primal. She closes the door behind her, the sound echoing in the stillness, and walks toward you, her steps deliberate, purposeful.

“Hey,” she says, her voice low and gentle, like a whisper against your skin. She kneels in front of you, her hands reaching out to cup your face, her thumbs brushing away the stubble on your jaw. “You’ve been sitting here all day, haven’t you?”

You don’t answer, can’t answer. The words feel stuck in your throat, thick and heavy. Natasha doesn’t press you. Instead, she pulls you into her, her arms wrapping around you like a cocoon, her body warm and solid against yours. You breathe her in—the scent of lavender and vanilla, the faint trace of her perfume—and for a moment, the weight on your chest eases, just a little.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your temple. “You don’t have to be strong right now. Let me take care of you.”

Her words are a balm, soothing and tender, and you find yourself leaning into her, your hands clutching at the back of her shirt as if she’s the only anchor keeping you from drifting away. Natasha holds you tighter, her fingers stroking your back in slow, rhythmic circles, her touch grounding you, pulling you back to the present.

“Come on,” she says after a long moment, her voice steady but insistent. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You look like you’ve been through a war.”

She helps you to your feet, her arm slung around your waist for support. You’re unsteady, your legs wobbling like they’ve forgotten how to work, but Natasha is there, guiding you, her strength a silent promise that she won’t let you fall. She leads you to the bathroom, the tiles cool under your bare feet, and turns on the shower, adjusting the water until it’s warm and steamy.

“Go ahead,” she says, her hand on your shoulder, her touch firm but gentle. “I’ll be right here.”

You hesitate, the thought of undressing in front of her making your heart race, but Natasha’s gaze is steady, reassuring. She steps back, giving you space, and you strip off your clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a heap. The shower calls to you, the promise of warmth and cleanliness a temptation you can’t resist. You step in, the water cascading over your skin, washing away the sweat, the tears, the heaviness that’s been clinging to you.

Natasha doesn’t leave. She leans against the sink, watching you, her eyes tracing the lines of your body, the tension in your shoulders, the way you flinch when the water hits a particularly sensitive spot. She waits, patient and unhurried, until you finally turn off the shower and step out, the steam swirling around you like a cloud.

She’s already prepared a towel, holding it out for you with a small smile. “Here,” she says, her voice soft. “Let me.”

You take the towel, but she doesn’t let go, her hands guiding yours as she helps you dry off. Her touch is deliberate, her fingers brushing against your skin in a way that’s both practical and intimate. She dries your back, your arms, your chest, her movements slow and methodical, as if she’s mapping every inch of you, memorizing the contours of your body.

When she’s done, she steps closer, her hands resting on your hips, her gaze meeting yours in the mirror. “You’re still here,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re still you. And I’m here for you, no matter what.”

Her words are a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge of the abyss. You reach out, your hand tangling in her hair, pulling her close, and kiss her, desperate and needy. Natasha responds without hesitation, her lips pressing against yours with a hunger that matches your own. Her hands slide up your chest, her fingers digging into your shoulders, her body pressing against yours with a urgency that leaves no room for doubt.

She breaks the kiss, her breath coming in short gasps, her eyes dark and intense. “Bedroom,” she says, her voice hoarse. “Now.”

She takes your hand, leading you out of the bathroom and down the hall to the bedroom. The room is dim, the curtains drawn, the air thick with anticipation. Natasha pushes you back onto the bed, her hands never leaving your skin, her touch a constant reminder of her presence.

She straddles you, her knees on either side of your hips, her hands resting on your chest as she looks down at you, her expression a mix of tenderness and raw desire. “You’re not alone,” she says, her voice a low rumble. “I’m here. Let me show you.”

Her lips find yours again, her kiss deep and demanding, her tongue tangling with yours as her hands roam over your body, tracing the lines of your muscles, the planes of your skin. She kisses her way down your neck, her teeth grazing your skin, her breath hot against your throat, her hands sliding lower, teasing the waistband of your boxers.

You groan, your hands clutching at her shirt, pulling it over her head and tossing it aside. Her bra follows, her breasts full and heavy, her nipples tight and aching. You reach up, cupping them in your hands, your thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she arches into your touch, her head falling back, her breath hitching in her throat.

“Touch me,” she whispers, her voice a command. “Remind me that I’m real. Remind me that you’re real.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hands roam over her body, your fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the dip of her navel. She moans, her hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer as you kiss your way down her body, your lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Her skin is soft under your mouth, her taste sweet and intoxicating. You kiss the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breast, your tongue circling her nipple before sucking it into your mouth, teasing it with your teeth. She gasps, her hands tightening in your hair, her body arching off the bed as she presses closer, seeking more.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, her voice thick with need. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. Your mouth moves lower, your hands sliding down her body, your fingers teasing the waistband of her panties. She lifts her hips, helping you pull them off, and you toss them aside, your eyes drinking in the sight of her, spread out before you, her body open and wanting.

Her pussy is wet, her lips glistening with her arousal, her scent musky and inviting. You groan, your mouth watering as you kiss your way down her stomach, your tongue dipping into her navel before moving lower, your breath ghosting over her clit. She shudders, her hands gripping the sheets, her body tense with anticipation.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice a plea. “I need you.”

You don’t make her wait. Your tongue presses against her clit, your mouth sucking it gently as your fingers slide into her wetness, teasing her entrance before pushing inside. She cries out, her hips bucking against your touch, her body responding to your every movement.

You take your time, your tongue and fingers working in tandem, your mouth sucking and licking, your fingers thrusting in and out, your touch relentless and unhurried. Her moans fill the room, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as her orgasm builds, a tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter.

“Close,” she pants, her voice strained. “So close.”

You don’t stop. You press harder, your tongue flicking against her clit, your fingers curling inside her, hitting that spot that makes her see stars. Her body arches off the bed, her hands gripping your hair, her heels digging into the mattress as she cries out, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave.

“Fuck,” she screams, her voice raw and unfiltered. “Oh fuck, yes!”

Her pussy clenches around your fingers, her juices flooding your mouth, her body shaking as she rides out her orgasm, her breath coming in ragged gasps. You stay with her, your mouth and hands never stopping, your touch gentle now, soothing, as you bring her down slowly, tenderly.

When she finally collapses back onto the bed, her body boneless and sated, you kiss your way back up her body, your lips brushing against her skin, your hands stroking her hair, her arms, her sides. She smiles, her eyes half-lidded, her expression soft and content.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper. “For reminding me what it feels like to be alive.”

You kiss her, your lips pressing against hers with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “I’m here,” you say, your voice hoarse. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She smiles, her hand resting on your cheek, her thumb brushing away the stubble on your jaw. “I know,” she says, her voice steady. “And I’m here for you, too.”

The moment stretches between you, the air thick with unspoken words, unspoken promises. Natasha rolls onto her side, her body pressing against yours, her hand resting on your chest as she looks up at you, her eyes searching, her expression open and vulnerable.

“Talk to me,” she says, her voice gentle. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

You hesitate, the words stuck in your throat, but Natasha waits, her gaze steady, her hand stroking your chest in slow, soothing circles. You take a deep breath, the weight of your emotions threatening to overwhelm you, but you push through, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“I feel… lost,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like I don’t know who I am without her. Like I’m just… drifting.”

Natasha nods, her expression softening. “It’s okay to feel that way,” she says, her voice a balm. “Grief is a process. It takes time. But you’re not alone in this. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words are a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge. You reach out, your hand tangling in her hair, pulling her close, and kiss her, your lips pressing against hers with a desperation that leaves no room for doubt. Natasha responds without hesitation, her lips moving against yours with a hunger that matches your own, her body pressing against yours with a urgency that’s both comforting and intoxicating.

She rolls on top of you, her knees straddling your hips, her hands resting on your chest as she looks down at you, her expression intense, her eyes dark with desire. “Let me take care of you,” she says, her voice a low rumble. “Let me remind you what it feels like to be wanted.”

Her lips find yours again, her kiss deep and demanding, her tongue tangling with yours as her hands roam over your body, tracing the lines of your muscles, the planes of your skin. She kisses her way down your neck, her teeth grazing your skin, her breath hot against your throat, her hands sliding lower, teasing the waistband of your boxers.

You groan, your hands clutching at her hips, pulling her closer as she grinds against you, her pussy pressing against your cock, her movements slow and deliberate. She moans, her head falling back, her breath hitching in her throat as she rocks against you, her body moving in a rhythm that’s both teasing and torturous.

“Fuck,” you mutter, your voice thick with need. “I need you.”

Natasha smiles, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Patience,” she says, her voice a whisper. “I’m not done yet.”

She continues to grind against you, her movements slow and deliberate, her body pressing against yours with a urgency that leaves you breathless. Her hands slide down your chest, her fingers teasing the waistband of your boxers before slipping inside, her touch light and teasing as she strokes your cock, her fingers wrapping around your shaft, her thumb brushing against the head.

You hiss, your body arching off the bed, your hands gripping her hips as she strokes you, her touch firm but gentle, her movements slow and unhurried. She leans down, her lips brushing against your ear, her breath hot against your skin.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispers, her voice a command. “Tell me what you need.”

You don’t hesitate. “You,” you groan, your voice raw and unfiltered. “I need you. I need to feel you around me, tight and wet and hot.”

Natasha smiles, her eyes darkening with desire. “Then take me,” she says, her voice a challenge. “Show me how much you want me.”

She rolls off you, her body moving gracefully as she positions herself at the edge of the bed, her knees drawn up, her pussy open and inviting. You don’t need to be told twice. You push yourself up, your body moving on autopilot as you kneel between her legs, your hands resting on her hips as you look down at her, your expression intense, your eyes locked on hers.

“Are you sure?” you ask, your voice a whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Natasha smiles, her hand reaching up to cup your face, her thumb brushing against your lips. “I’m sure,” she says, her voice steady. “I want this. I want you.”

You don’t need any more encouragement. You lean down, your lips pressing against hers in a kiss that’s both tender and desperate, your hands sliding down her body, your fingers teasing her entrance before pushing inside. She gasps, her hands tangling in your hair, her body arching off the bed as she presses closer, seeking more.

You take your time, your lips moving against hers, your hands stroking her body, your fingers thrusting in and out, your touch relentless and unhurried. Her moans fill the room, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as her arousal builds, a tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter.

“Close,” she pants, her voice strained. “So close.”

You don’t stop. You press harder, your lips sucking at her neck, your fingers curling inside her, hitting that spot that makes her see stars. Her body arches off the bed, her hands gripping your shoulders, her heels digging into the mattress as she cries out, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave.

“Fuck,” she screams, her voice raw and unfiltered. “Oh fuck, yes!”

Her pussy clenches around your fingers, her juices flooding your hand, her body shaking as she rides out her orgasm, her breath coming in ragged gasps. You stay with her, your lips and hands never stopping, your touch gentle now, soothing, as you bring her down slowly, tenderly.

When she finally collapses back onto the bed, her body boneless and sated, you kiss your way up her body, your lips brushing against her skin, your hands stroking her hair, her arms, her sides. She smiles, her eyes half-lidded, her expression soft and content.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper. “For reminding me what it feels like to be alive.”

You kiss her, your lips pressing against hers with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “I’m here,” you say, your voice hoarse. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She smiles, her hand resting on your cheek, her thumb brushing away the stubble on your jaw. “I know,” she says, her voice steady. “And I’m here for you, too.”

The moment stretches between you, the air thick with unspoken words, unspoken promises. Natasha rolls onto her back, her body relaxed, her eyes closed as she takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with each exhale. You watch her, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions—gratitude, desire, something deeper that you can’t quite name.

“Stay with me,” she says, her voice soft, her eyes still closed. “Just for tonight. Hold me.”

You don’t need to be asked twice. You lie down beside her, your body pressing against hers, your arm wrapping around her waist as you pull her close, your lips brushing against her temple. She sighs, her body molding to yours, her hand resting on your chest as she snuggles into you, her breath evening out as she drifts off to sleep.

You stay awake for a while longer, your eyes tracing the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulder, the rise and fall of her chest. The apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that’s no longer suffocating but soothing, a gentle lullaby that rocks you both to sleep.

For the first time in weeks, you feel a sense of peace, a sense of belonging. Natasha’s presence is a balm to your shattered heart, her touch a reminder that you’re still alive, still wanted, still capable of feeling. And as you finally drift off to sleep, her body warm and solid against yours, you know that you’re not alone. You’re not lost. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

DO NOT TRANSLATE, COPY PUBLISH OR EDIT MY WORKS, I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORKS BEING PUBLISHED ON ANY 3RD PARTY WEBSITE. © bunbun 2025 - 2027🖇️ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

[diejager]

Okay so this is a character I have in the works but I'd love your interpretation.

What about a BunnyDragon!reader being introduced into the monster!141? Long drooping ears, a friendly temperament, spewing green flames that bring life and heal things rather than destroying them. But their claws and teeth just as sharp and deadly as any other dragon.

Rabid Cw: reader being a menace, fire, pyromaniac, tell me if I missed any.

Laughing, you dashed off, away from the mess you four created out of sheer boredom, green flames sparking and lingering on the corner of your lips were the only proof people had to link you to the few burning heaps around the base. Your ears flopped as you ran and hopped away, a skip in your feet and a bright smile splitting your face, flashing sharper than usual teeth at people who stood in your way. They all parted, little chuckles leaving their lips when they saw you, all used to your little pranks, the sly and mischievous gleam in your eyes when you got bored and the loud steps that followed you closely, either Price, Laswell or another superior chasing after you to scold you.

“Spread out!”

You separated from the others, taking your own path from the fork. Spreading out meant that it’d take more time to catch each and every one of you to bring to Price’s office, wasted time meant that you stalled your punishment and burned through Price’s anger and disappointment. You would rendezvous back on the roof or the airfield once you’d waited out long enough, or Price would hound you back to his office for a verbal lesson on behaving and not giving him and Laswell paperwork.

Which seemed to be your situation after he sent the others to find you, Soap brought back by the scruff by Ghost, Gaz by a stalking Horangi, Rudy by a snickering Alejandro and you by a touchy König. You sat on the armrest of the worn couch, giving space for your wings to breathe and flutter behind you, occasionally moving to soothe the small ache; and your tail to sway, moving back and forth on the floor like a dog wagging it’s tail. There was a slight excitement in your body, to see how Price would react to this stunt you pulled, bigger in scale and more obnoxious with the bright flowers and lively faun that bloomed after your flames died down.

“Want to explain it to me before we start?”

You all shared a look, seconds spent staring to convey a silent message that you all agreed on and that left you to work your magic. You gave him a cheeky grin, watching his eyes narrow and his arms cross before you stared your little explanation, going onto the blandness of the base, the sheer boredom you all felt and having to find something to occupy yourself with. You could feel disappointment ooze off Price in waves, his furrowed brows and shaking head to the small snickers and laughs from the men who caught you.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Price sighed, stepping away from his desk and moving towards you with big and quick strides.

You only smiled up at him, gazing at him through squinted and amused eyes, head perked up to his bowed figure, face nearing yours with a stoic expression.

“But you love me,” you let slip out, feeling especially cheeky and proud of your work, bringing life to a grey area.

“But I love you,” he agreed with a small smile, hitting your horns with his, a display of love and affection for dragons, “Doesn’t mean you’re not getting punished, any of you.”

Taglist : @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 16 "Destroyer of Worlds"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

A/N: We're really getting there now 🥹🥹🥹 I'm so excited. And I'm very pleased with this chapter 🤭 I can't wait to hear what you think!

Reposted from my Ao3💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

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Day 100

No guards frame the door that is tall and glinting back, just like Feyd had assured her. When she had approached it and passed through it several weeks prior, she thought it may as well lead to hell, but today she is certain of it. Except it won't be Feyd's hell or hers, it will be his.

And he will have no time for tricks.

With her gun of clear, shiny plastic raised in front of her chest, the relic enters Baron Vladimir Harkonnen's bath chambers.

The scented, herbal fog hasn't grown as dense and thick yet and the white, fleshy heap at the center of the tub fills out her sight at once. And unexpectedly, there is movement to the right, not a guard or a servant but Glugo who quivers in a damp basket near the wall.

While the woman's eyes are briefly averted, the Baron's shield flares up around his misshapen form at a flick against the massive, silver band at his middle finger. The smallest and priciest model on the market, Ixian technology.

"I expected my nephew," he drones, voice amplified by the vaulted ceiling but distorted by the shield.

"Hands on the pool edge," the woman demands, voice as cold as cryogenic vapor. Vladimir acquiesces, unable to reach for the transponder behind his ear. An invisible muscle ticks at his fleshy jaw.

"I hold audiences every Freitak," he attempts to jest, arms spread out in mockery as he adjusts them on the slippery edge. "No need to assault me in my own bath chambers."

A blunder, he realizes quickly as her face hardens with rancor. Not a molecule would fit between her clenched teeth.

"You're troubled because of what you saw," he concludes. "It was a mistake." Vladimir concedes all too quickly. His finesse seems to have evaporated along with the curling steam and he realizes he knows nothing substantial about the woman.

"Quite," she confirms curtly, closing in with slow, deliberate steps. The crosshair projected by her interface, only for her eyes to see, dances over the Baron's face, but she won't take any risks. At the center of the vaulted chamber, a generous distance separates them still, but she feels more confident in her aim.

Pulling a trigger is as easy as dropping a bomb. She should have it in her. Her kin have dropped bombs like rainfall back in the slaughterhouse warfare for oil and soil and rare earths.

The Baron gawks at the muzzle, an unassuming hole among glossy, alien plastic. His old eyes might be deceiving him, but he thinks he can see the inner cogs and channels shimmering through the surface, and a metallic component that doesn't belong.

A lasgun! She's either a maniac or an idiot! Or truly a relic of long-forgotten ages, like the sisterhood had said.

He could either deactivate his shield and die certainly, saving the palace and the capital from nuclear fallout, or he could take them down with him, his nephew included.

"You don't want to fire a lasgun at me, kid."

His voice booms and the Tleilaxu creature leaps out of its basket, hand-feet splatting across the damp tiles. Thank God, it flees out the door, the relic thinks. That tiny moment of inattentiveness is enough for Vladimir to flick the switch at the ring on his pointer, a special gift that was given to him just a few days ago, and just in time. Already, he feels safer.

"That's not a normal lasgun." Her attention is back on the Baron and she smiles knowingly. Vladimir despises the self-assured look of it.

"We can find a civilized solution for this," he declares with renewed confidence. Pretending to think, he sways his fatty neck from side to side. "I know my nephew has plenty to offer, so I don't see why we shouldn't be able to share."

She laughs out brightly, a sound like a whiplash across the Baron's heaving chest. "Where I'm from, there's the death penalty for abusers like you. I couldn't build an electric chair, so I brought something else."

"And what have you got there?" Get her talking, he thinks, beady eyes greedily darting for the door.

"Feyd's wedding gift."

"Feyd's wedding—?"

Thumb slipping over the back of the gun, she cocks the hammer.

"Did I understand that correctly? If you miscalculated, this test will cause an atomic explosion?" The memory of a few days prior fills out her mind, easing the terrible anxiety that now dampens her palms. "Yes, but I did not miscalculate." "Then why test it?" Feyd-Rautha had paced anxiously behind her and sized up the heap of towels stacked in the corner of her room, their outline blue and blurred by a softly humming Holtzman shield. "Better to be safe than sorry." "I'd feel sorry if you blew up my planet." "I wouldn't," she had responded with hardness and pulled the trigger. Doing so fires the bullet first, then a fine tuned laser beam from a smaller second muzzle, as light travels faster than matter and the bullet needs more time to reach its target. The double muzzle is calibrated to take the bullet's weight and distance from the target into consideration. Light may have no inherent mass, but photons do transmit impulse. And so the photons that comprise the laser beam collide with the Holtzman shield's nuclei and propel them into motion towards the body they are meant to protect. The beam's impact isn't hard enough to trigger a nuclear chain reaction, but just right to accelerate the nuclei. And by the time the bullet arrives at the crime scene too, its relative velocity to the shield is that of a slow blade. With a thump, the bullet had sunken into the stack of towels.

The door moves at her back and the only reason why she doesn't jump in fright is because she recognizes his footsteps.

"Wait, my darling."

The Baron could weep with joy at the sight of his dear nephew. Not who he had called, but an even more welcome sight. It was he who had given the boy everything; schooling for his cunning mind, planets to govern, blades to play with, toys to warm his heart and his cock with. Everything in exchange for a measly bit of affection!

Feyd-Rautha, dressed from neck to toe with not an inch of skin showing aside from his face and hands, loops his arms around his betrothed's waist, chin tilted and leaning against her temple.

"Let me do it." 

Vladimir pales, shuffling in the sloshing bath water as his nephew gently takes the gun from the cursed woman's hand and closes in like a starved viper. His chest rises beneath the full coverage of his suit.

Desperately, the Baron looks at the door.

"My dear nephew, you're falling for a hoax! Do you want to blow up the city?"

Feyd-Rautha stops, still several meters away from the tub. Vladimir seethes.

Anxiously, the relic observes the jittering path of the digital crosshair, weapon out of her hands and out of her control. As Feyd halts, the red mark settles on the Baron's pasty forehead. His aim is perfect.

"You want me dead, then come closer, at least! Look me in the eyes when you do it, my boy." The Baron's tongue flicks out, grey-pinkish flesh, to wet his bottom lip. He wants him so close that he can see the whites in his nephew's eyes before the city blows up. Stripped naked and unarmed aside from the poison needle in the signet ring on his pinkie, he feels more than ever like a heap of flesh, defenseless and abandoned and to his own surprise, it is the latter that hurts most.

Feyd-Rautha doesn't speak.

"Say something, boy! You've had more than enough chances to do this, but you didn't, and I'll tell you why." The Baron raises himself slightly, bulging chest emerging from the inky water. "You don't want to kill your own un—"

The echo of a bang ricochets off the vaulted ceiling and the Baron finds his head knocked back, vision filled with fractured red, his shield dissolved.

With his head rolled on the tub's edge, he can only see the ceiling, and something wet slips over his brow, into his blurry eye. Vladimir had always thought, when Feyd finally manages to kill him, he would ravage his body with blades, take him apart to the last organ, gorge on his flesh while it is still warm. It had almost aroused him.

But his nephew's final touch — denied. 

How cruel.

"You did it!" His betrothed's arms loop around his waist from behind, the embrace hard and stormy, her face against his spine. Feyd still stares in awe at the corpse of his uncle, massive, white flesh afloat obscenely in the tub.

"I did," he confirms, his voice hard, with tremors around the edges.

Feyd feels like he should perhaps burst into tears or yell, but none of the like wants to come out of his heart. The accomplishment might take a few days to feel real. What is entirely real, however, is the face of his darling as she slides to his front and cups his cheeks, overjoyed. The tears that his eyes are missing in his, shimmer distinctly in hers and before he knows it, she has tilted his face down to hers and pressed her lips on his, comforting and needy.

Anxiety melts under soft kisses and tears track down her cheeks, coloring their lips with salt.

"I see you've done us all a favor."

Feyd and his woman snap apart, staring in horror to the ajar door. A few steps into the chamber stands a figure swathed in black like a bad omen on the battlefield. The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam looks appreciatively at the corpse of Baron Harkonnen.

Even through the mesh of her veil, her sharp eyes perceive the wicked twitch of the na-Baron's hands around the gun.

"Hold still!" She commands and Feyd-Rautha's finger freezes at the trigger.

A pop-up blinks in the corner of the relic's interface, signaling the detection of the soundwave pattern she had picked apart a few weeks ago.

"What are you doing here?" The relic hisses, fingers screwed around Feyd's dangling wrist. She looks a tad haggard compared to when the Reverend Mother had last seen her, with a touch of madness in the eyes.

"My presence was requested by the late Baron and he was right to do so."

"Your presence?" Feyd's voice rings out in distaste, aiming for mockery but rage oozes from every strained muscle. The Reverend Mother sees in him a toddler on the verge of a tantrum.

"I wasn't any less surprised than you are, Baron Feyd-Rautha." She tilts her head and with her moves the crass shadow thrown by her oblong headpiece. "That's how I knew the gravity of the situation. Your uncle was beginning to feel a bit uneasy. He had a feeling you were plotting something, so he requested my help, thinking I was the only one who could."

"But you are too late," Feyd barks, fingers clenching helplessly around the gun. "He's dead!"

"He is. And yet, I arrived perfectly on time." The Reverend Mother calmly crosses her hands in front of her body.

"You could have intervened and didn't?" Horror much bigger than when she had the Baron at gunpoint rises to the relic's chest.

"I must confess, I was… curious." Gaius Helen Mohiam waits but the younger woman remains silent. "How did you do it?"

The engineer laughs out, a sound that's shrill and unpleasant from her clamoring heartbeat. "Sure, I'll tell you and give away the single most valuable piece of information in the universe."

The Reverend Mother purses her lips. The truth is, she had made her decision the second the bullet had passed through the Baron's shield. That knowledge must die and not even reach the ears of her own sisters. Temptation brings out the worst in humans and careful plans are traded all too easily for short-lived power.

Perhaps Feyd-Rautha knows too, but he is a force they can control. The wildcard however has no place among them.

"This must not come out," the Reverend Mother declares, her tone a whiplash.

The glint in the wayward woman's eyes tells her everything she needs to know. The terrible relic is not horrified by the idea of throwing the world off balance. She embraces the potential of destruction like a tumor the flesh it feasts on. Thousands of years of selective breeding are at risk at the whims of one wicked catalyst.

"I think maybe it should," the relic snarks. 

"You're an abomination!" Mother Mohiam snaps. "You should have stayed in the ice like the fossil you are."

"You shouldn't have thawed me then. This is your doing!"

And this is why the Reverend Mother must undo it. "There is no place for you here," she coldly proclaims.

"Then watch me make one! I'll carve, dig and shoot a mold for myself and if I end up destroying something on the way, I'm not sorry."

"That I can see, and that is precisely why there is no place for you in this world."

Feyd-Rautha stands at his betrothed's side, a shackled guard dog watching the heated exchange between witch and scientist, between the present and the past which might become the future once more.

"It is a pity," the Reverend Mother continues. "But there will be more opportunities to continue this bloodline." She tilts her head, sharp eyes locked onto the relic through the shroud of her veil. "Kill yourself."

Her interface flashes red, a warning at the center of her vision. For a brief moment, all joy fades from her eyes, all hope, and to end her own life seems to be the only logical consequence — until the code sequence she had programmed weeks prior is triggered into action, playing an opposing sound pattern directly into her skull.

Sound waves meet in destructive interference and only a dull, sad ache behind her sternum remains.

Mother Mohiam grows cold with terror when the abomination remains unmoving and smiles.

"You're full of surprises." The Reverend Mother's tone carries a hint of begrudging admiration. Underestimating her is a mistake she won't make again. The woman whose only ability of notable importance seemed to have been prescient dreams had somehow bested her command. But it doesn't matter. There is never only one way to the goal.

Feyd-Rautha realizes that too, but a second too late.

"Kill her."

The na-Baron slackens and turns, soulless eyes holding no recognition. She releases his wrist. Terror devours her when Feyd-Rautha points the gun at her forehead. And just like before, his aim is perfect. A red glow, visible only to her, bleeds into her vision from between her eyes and she remembers.

He aims with the gun that is linked to her brain. The trigger clicks only half a second after she jams it via remote control.

No bullet breaches her skull and the relic stumbles away from her love who stares at the handgun in confusion, pulling the trigger three more times before discarding the weapon with a dissonant clatter. A muscle tics at his jaw, cat like eyes narrowing into slits and he reaches for his belt. Glinting steel emerges from its sheath, a hissing purr. Her betrothed prowls.

"Feyd, don't—" She pleads, backing away with quickening steps. There is nowhere to go, only the tub where she could hide herself behind the Baron's floating corpse. "It's me, you don't want to kill me. You love me!"

"He doesn't know that," Mother Mohiam coldly reminds her and the relic glares hatefully.

"You're destroying his life!" She sobs, stumbling over the steps that lead up to the bathtub and falling on her bum. "How can you live like this? You're the abomination! He will kill you in revenge, he'll blow up your whole planet!"

Her beloved towers right over her, head crowned by a corona of glowglobe shine, his chiseled features entirely calm, innocent.

"Do it!"

"I'm sorry," she cries. "I love you."

Feyd grabs her by the front of her shirt as she tries to roll away. She squirms and sobs pathetically, helpless with no further tricks up her sleeve, no hidden blade or gun, no voice of her own to wield against him or her.

The Reverend Mother raises her chin in triumph, but all of a sudden, there is movement at the door, at the unsuspecting witch's back.

Mikhail Kyelug comes flying through the door, sword flung out in a wide arch. Right after him sprints Lilia, with Glugo clutching her hand.

The Reverend Mother spins in surprise, lips open, but her words are severed along with her head, terrible voice silenced forever as Mikhail's blade cleaves through her neck and spine with an awful crack. The world spins together with her head. The headpiece comes off, giving away thinning, grey hair. Voicelessly, she curses that her last ever sight is Baron Vladimir's Harkonnen's bloated face, dead eyes locked with dead eyes.

Feyd-Rautha whips around from the racket, blade quivering in his clenched fist. The relic's nails have dug inky crescents into his wrist. For a moment, no one moves and three humans and one humanoid wait with bated breath for Feyd to drop the blade.

But the voice is no link to be severed by the wielder's death, it is a temporary alteration of the brain, and so Feyd's face remains empty, shark eyes glaring at the intruders. Mikhail sees it too.

"Back! Back I say!" He roars and barges like a bull. Feyd-Rautha releases the woman's shirt, facing the threat that is bound to crash into him with hissing metal.

Blades collide.

Lilia jumps over the Reverend Mother's corpse and dashes past the fighting pair to  collect her weeping Lady from the steps. Glugo's hand-feet splatter after her with haste and it picks up the discarded gun, cradling the devious, shiny thing protectively against its misshapen chest.

Glugo had known right away, when it scuttled past the tall, old witch in the hallway and she had commanded it in that terrible voice to leave, that she meant harm. So, it had ran as fast as it could and pulled at Lilia's hands and skirt, because Lilia would know what to do. 

The three of them huddle down in the corner, the relic crying into Lilia's chest. Glugo slips a quivering hand-foot into her palm but its milky eyes are aimed at the center of the room where its friend and Mikhail are grappling and grunting.

By the Sun, the na-Baron fights like a demon! His pupils are shrunken into pinpricks and his mouth is pulled apart into a gashing grin. Mikhail's armor is torn at the shoulder and black blood weeps down his armpit. Every next parry burns as if his muscles were about to tear apart and with the rush of pain comes a rush of clarity.

Fists, not blades. 

Mikhail drops his blood-slick sword and catches the na-Baron's wrist, stopping the tip of the blade centimeters away from his neck. Roaring, he shoves the na-Baron backwards until he collides into the wall and slams the taller man's wrist against the tiles, once, twice. Feyd's blade slips out of his twitching fingers and clatters to the ground as his lips skin back from glinting, black teeth in anger.

Mikhail doesn't hesitate. He drives his thick-knuckled fist into the na-Baron's guts like a battering ram. Wearing no armor, Feyd doubles up, spitting saliva across his own chest. Ringed hands grasp at Mikhail's chest plate, attempting to hurl the guard to the ground, but Mikhail's boot crashes into Feyd's pelvis and scarred knuckles find Feyd's soft cheek. Skin splits open and his molars sink into the soft flesh inside his mouth.

"Stop, stop, stop!" Feyd blurts out, choking on spit and blood, hands raised in the air as Mikhail's final blow cracks across his jaw. He lurches to the ground and rolls on his back in defeat, his eyes clear and wide in terror.

"My Lord," Mikhail pants, raising his bloodied fists in a shaky salute.

"I— I didn't—" Feyd's head turns to the corner where both women are huddled up, Glugo in front of them, clutching the handgun in one of its oily-black hands.

"My darling," Feyd rasps, spluttering blood. "I nearly killed you."

"It's not your fault," she sobs immediately and frees herself from Lilia's embrace. The pair meet in the middle and her arms whip around his neck, his around her waist and he squeezes her until he feels her very heartbeat against his own, convincing himself that she's still alive.

Their foreheads fall against each other and she gently cradles his aching jaw, thumb stroking under the bleeding cut on his cheek. Feyd-Rautha's long, lowered lashes cast shadows across his eyes and something dark and bitter flashes in them.

"No," she insists immediately and her tone forces his eyes back on hers. She won't allow him to hate himself for something he almost did. "We're alive and they're dead. This is our victory."

Next to Feyd-Rautha and his Lady, Lilia has rushed over to her husband, making an endearing fuss over the wound on his shoulder and his bruised hands. Deft fingers have unclipped the shoulder piece and tugged the cut fabric apart to inspect length and depth of the laceration.

"S'fine, my darlin'," Mikhail rasps with exhaustion and slings his good arm around her middle, pulling her into him to place mindless kisses atop of her head.

The relic peeks over Feyd's shoulder and unlatches one hand from her beloved, beckoning for the pair to come closer. "Thank you," she sighs with tear-thick voice.

Lilia confidently seizes the offered hand, thumb brushing comfortingly over her Lady's knuckles. Mikhail stands awkwardly behind her, one hand on Lilia's waist, not daring to touch the woman of higher standing so affectionately. "My Lady."

Feyd-Rautha releases his woman after all and turns to face his saviors. At once, the guard and the handmaid drop to one knee before him and lower their heads in devotion.

"Baron Harkonnen," they mumble in unison and a muscle twitches across Feyd-Rautha's cheek.

"No," he interrupts with grating tone. "Stand up!"

The pair obey, glancing up with confusion as they raise themselves. Feyd-Rautha regards them with a long glance and exhales deeply, then slowly kneels in front of them, pale head rolling forwards until his eyes are trained on the ground.

"Thank you," he says. "You saved her life, and mine."

"My Lord," Mikhail mutters, overwhelmed and looks to the Lady for help while squeezing Lilia's waist. "It was only our duty, eh?" He insists but that is hardly true. Not duty but friendship had hastened their steps and fueled his fists when they barged into the room.

Glugo can no longer contain itself and scuttles over on hasty hand-feet, mewling with worry as it flings four of its eight limbs at Feyd's chest, tugging on the thick fabric while pressing its misshapen pug face against his sternum.

Feyd winces when shiny plastic is waved about right next to his face and he tries to capture the gun out of Glugo's innocent, little hand-foot while cradling the creature's head with one big, pale hand.

"It's jammed," his betrothed reassures him. "Come here, give that to me, hm?" Gently, she grasps the weapon and places it back in its holster.

"Hush, hush," Feyd mumbles and allows himself in a moment of vulnerability to rest his bruised cheek atop Glugo's head while his darling softly squeezes his shoulder.

"It is actually Glugo who deserves your gratitude, my Lord," Lilia reveals and Feyd holds the glugging creature a bit tighter. "It came to me crying and begging and I knew you needed us."

Glugo doesn't know exactly why everyone smells so much of tears and joy, but it knows it did something right and that it is surrounded by the kindest beings it has ever known.

"I wouldn't go near," the relic remarks, stopping Feyd whose prowling footsteps have carried him closer to the round tub in which the fleshy, white mountain of his uncle's corpse still floats, unmoving. "He's radioactive."

"I won't," Feyd grates out, plush lips skinned back from his teeth in distaste. He feels none of the morbid fascination he had always assumed he would feel when his uncle is finally dead by his hands, only a grim, long-awaited sense of accomplishment. Turning his head, he finds Glugo tugging curiously on the dead Reverend Mother's dress. The poor thing does have a penchant for liver after all. Feyd clicks his tongue. "Don't touch that!" 

Glugo scuttles away and back to Lilia's outstretched hand. It will receive a proper victor's feast later, something more worthy of its bravery than an old witch's, rotting corpse.

"I want the bodies completely eradicated, both of them," Feyd demands. Lest they return as Gholas, a voice of paranoia whispers to him, but he is all too happy to listen.

"How?" His woman curls her arm around his middle and Feyd pulls her to his chest, inhaling the scent of her hair before he makes a decision.

"Burn it down," he rasps. "Burn down the whole wing."

In the afternoon hours, the citizens, guards and slaves of Barony are left gawking and gasping, faces turned in shock towards the colossal palace pyramid where vicious smoke curls from the very top, black claws against the crass, white sky. At the na-Baron's behest, no one is to extinguish the wrathful flames. 

Proudly, he watches it burn, the place that holds two decades worth of abuse. The biting smoke soars towards the stars, like the herald of a new age.

I am Time (Death), cause of destruction of the worlds, matured And set out to gather in the worlds here. Even without thee (thy action), all shall cease to exist, The warriors that are drawn up in the opposing ranks.

- Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita

A/N: Killed the baddies with the power of friendship and science 🥹 (2 more chapter to come)

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[jadeylovesmarvelxo]

Just Friends?

Eddie is your older, sexy next door neighbour. You're instantly smitten with him but with the countless women that you see leave his trailer dreamy eyed and lovestruck, you don't have a chance with him? You're just his friend right?

Warnings; Older Eddie, minors shoo, fluff, jealous Eddie. Friends to lovers, Comfort, Pet loss (anon who sent me the request to write about this, I'm sending you all the hugs and positive vibes in the world ❤️)

💌🎀❤️

Eddie Munson is your older, gorgeous neighbour and you're pretty sure he could never be interested in you. He dated beautiful women all the time, you saw when they left his trailer dreamy eyed and already hooked on him.

You'd hear the giggles and their moans every night while you sat on your patio and tried to ignore the noises, ignoring the tightness coiling in your gut and the envy you felt.

How you wished that it was you that held Eddie's attention. The two of you did talk a lot and you had been over to his for a beer quite a few times but he wasn't interested in you romantically.

He had been such a good friend to you since the two of you met. When you first moved here, about six months into your stay your sweet kitty had passed away.

She had hidden herself away in a corner of the room, wouldn't come out no matter how much you tried and it devastated you.

Eddie had seen you in tears one day and you had poured your heart out to him about Missy, he was kind and so sweet with you. For a little bit he just listened as you cried, then he pulled you into a big hug and told you everything would be okay.

"It will be okay sweetheart, I promise you. Every day the hurt will get a little bit better. You'll still miss her but she's here with you always, in your heart and in your memories" you managed to nod through tears and the words had given you hope.

Eddie helped locate Missy who had sadly passed, he was there for you as you through every step, from taking Missy to the vet, to receiving her ashes in a little wooden box that you kept on your nightstand with a picture of your sweet kitty.

Every day Eddie helped you smile even if it was just for a little while, gave you hugs when you needed them and had even drawn a portrait of Missy from one of your photos of her. Something you could remember her by.

The drawing was beside Missy's picture and her ashes and you treasured it. One small act of kindness but it had helped you heal a little bit of your heartache.

Through all of that it was then you realised you had fallen for Eddie.

Eddie who only saw you as a friend.

Eddie who pops his head around your door as you cook some dinner that night, he smiles warmly at you and it flusters you.

"Something smells good princess, can I join you?"

Fuck, he was sexy. His hair was in a bun, he just came home from work and he's in his overalls, there's a smudge of grease on his cheek that you'd love to wipe off.

You fight the urge and heap the pasta into a bowl for him, add the homemade garlic bread and some salad. He lets out a small contented sigh as he settles down and begins to eat.

"I picked a movie when I was coming home from work, want to watch it with me sweetheart?" he suggests to you and you nod. He always picked the best movies.

Once food is consumed you follow Eddie into his trailer and wonder if he had a date tonight? Wouldn't he rather be with them then hanging with you?

Then again he wouldn't have invited you if he thought that. "Don't you have a date Eddie?" You ask curiously and hope you're not prying too much.

"Nah, thought I'd rather hang out with you princess, see some friends" you nod. Of course, friends. That's all the two of you were. At least you definitely know where he stands now.

Maybe it was time for you to have some fun. You deserved to have some fun and it's not like Eddie was ever without attention from women. Maybe he would be protective if you dated someone as a friend.

You watch as Eddie laughs at a certain part of the movie, his dimples on show and his eyes lighting up. He was so perfect it hurt but if he only saw you as a friend then you'd be the best friend he ever had.

💌🎀

Due to your decision you find yourself going to a party that your friends invited you to. It wasn't often that you left the comfort of your home to go to a party nowadays but you figured if anything would help you get over Eddie it would be getting yourself out there.

You're dressed up for the first time in ages and feel really good. Eddie is relaxing with a beer and talking to his friends when you head out of your home.

He chokes on his beer a bit and it flustered you, "Do I look okay?" You ask anxiously and Eddie's big brown eyes are wide as he takes in your appearance.

"Okay" he chokes out and Steve rolls his eyes and smiles at you. "You look beautiful honey" thanking Steve you wave goodbye to Eddie and you're pretty sure his eyes are on you all the way.

💌💞

You wake in the morning with a slight hangover and the hot guy from last night just leaving the shower. His name was Jerry and he was exactly what you needed at the time, just one night where you didn't think of your god of a neighbour and who he was with.

Jerry doesn't stick around and to be honest you don't want him to. Last night was fun but you weren't looking for a repeat performance. You follow Jerry to the door, saying goodbye but startle when you see Eddie outside your door and looking pissed.

His eyes narrow as he looks at Jerry, his big brown eyes flash with something you can't place. You can't help noticing how unbelievably gorgeous he looks but then he opens his mouth and ruins everything.

"You know I couldn't sleep last night because of you and the lover boy here" you frown confused and your heart skips a beat. Was he jealous?

"Um..." You don't get to say much more because Jerry hastily makes an exit and Eddie's vicious gaze follows him.

"Pussy" he mutters and you scowl. What was wrong with him? He speaks again before you can question him and it sends annoyance pulsing through you, once you hear what he has to say.

"All night I heard you and that idiot all over each other, people do have work and shit you know" you reel back from Eddie stunned. The two of you had never traded cross words and now he was giving you shit for doing something he did most nights?

No fucking way.

"Are you serious Eddie? I hear countless women and their moans and giggles all through the night and I've never said shit about that...yet you have the gall to bitch to me when I bring a guy home?"

His pissed looks melts away just a tiny bit and you walk towards him seriously annoyed at this point, "Let me be clear Eddie. You don't get to give me shit when you've driven me nuts for weeks" he blinks startled then grins. He actually grins.

"You're beautiful when you're angry you know, I mean you're always beautiful but I like seeing you all fiery" this disarms you for a second but you soon wave it off.

"Don't you try and charm your way out of this Munson, your pretty eyes and sweet talk don't work on me" well the pretty eyes did but you wouldn't tell him that.

"I was telling the truth" he replies seriously and you hide your smile. Damn him.

"The only woman I've ever wanted to notice me was you princess" he finishes that sentence and then tugs you to him and kisses you deeply. Your brain short circuits for a few seconds before you kiss him back.

Then you pull away and shake your head. Nope, no way were you being some notch on his bedpost.

"I'm not doing this Eddie. I'm not being another woman that you just conveniently forget about after you get what you want" he looks exasperated and gently tilts your head up to look at him.

"You aren't listening to me sweetheart. I'm totally fucking crazy about you. I don't want anyone else, just you" oh.

Despite the joy you feel you can't help but be a bit frustrated. "You have a funny way of showing it Eddie" he nods and his eyes soften as he squeezes your hand.

"Didn't think you felt the same. I should have asked I know, I'm an idiot". Fuck, you thought that Eddie didn't feel the same about you. Both of you were idiots.

"Well, maybe you can make it up to me later? Your famous Mac and cheese and maybe..." You trail off and find the courage to kiss him this time. He responds eagerly, pulls away to kiss your forehead and beams.

"It's a date princess"

💞

Tag list @whysodelirious08 @ali-r3n @lilrubles @yourdailymemedelivery @marvelcasey05 @melodymunson @josephquinnsfreckles @sadbitchfangirl @mylovelycrazyworld @exploding-bonbon @deamours @costellation-hunter

[tragedybunny]

Blue Solstice

༺Summary༻

A century after saving Baldur's Gate, Astarion's family and his friends' families have grown around him. Every year they celebrate the solstice together - but this year Astarion's beloved wife Serafina is gone. Their daughter Estelle is determined to remind him of the love he still has surrounding him. The memories the holiday brings up are painful, but he takes the first steps towards healing.

For the 2025 @bg3-winter-big-bang

༺Pairing༻ Astarion x Serafina (Female Tav/OC)

༺Warnings༻ Implied/referenced character death, grief/mourning, angst, hurt/comfort

༺Word Count༻ 8324

༺A/N༻

The art for this piece was done by the amazing @snowfolly. Please check out their wonderful writing and art.

A giant thank you as always to my partner in fanfic crimes @icybluepenguin for the incredible beta work and crying all the tears with me.

Read on AO3

Astarion was deep in his trance; lost in a warm, happy memory. It was a favorite – the morning sun was just rising, coloring their bedroom with brilliant oranges and pinks. Cuddled close to him on the bed was his beloved Sera, leaning against his chest while one of his arms draped over her shoulders. Soft singing was the only sound in the still morning - Sera sang a lullaby to the infant resting in her arms. Estelle was only a couple of weeks old and had woken both her parents with her very healthy set of lungs. 

The lost bit of trance was no matter; Sera would need to get back to sleep, but he would see to that. All that mattered to him was that the two of them were safe and happy in his arms. His wife and daughter, his whole world, the life that once he would have thought impossible for himself. 

The pleasant reverie was interrupted by a tapping at his bedroom. 

Astarion slowly opened his eyes and remembered. He wasn't in that charming room in their little house. He was in a grand bedchamber in an upper city manor; Estelle wasn't a little baby anymore. She was a woman grown with children of her own, who had procured this manor and the title that went along with it, and Sera - Sera wasn't here anymore - she was…

A strangled cry escaped his throat. 

“Papa?” The voice of that grown woman called from behind the door, her worry evident. 

With a sigh, Astarion rose from the bed and opened the door, admitting the light from the hallway wall sconces into the blackness of his chamber. 

Framed in that light, pale brows knit with worry, stood Estelle. Slender and of medium height, Estelle was a creature of dexterous grace and deadly stealth. The white curls that tumbled riotously over her shoulders could be mistaken for his own when shorter, but the shining blue of her eyes was all her mother. 

“Papa…you look awful.” 

Well, he had taught her to speak her mind. “I was in reverie,” he explained, not moving from the doorway.

“Again? Papa, that’s practically all you do. Have you even eaten lately?” 

It was only then he noticed the steaming tankard held in her hands, the scent wafting from it filling his nostrils. Metallic tang, alluring sweetness, and a certain hint of spice that came from Dalyria’s blood preservation method. Astarion’s mouth watered and his stomach panged - he couldn’t deny an offering of warmed blood, even if it wasn’t fresh. 

Wordlessly, Estelle proffered the tankard until it was securely held between his own hands. He knew her too well to think this would be the end of it, and stepped aside, allowing her into the room. 

“Ignis,” Estelle spoke and the candles in the room bloomed into flame.

Clothes lay scattered over the floor, the bedding was clustered in the center of the bed in a disheveled heap, wine glasses adorned tables and vanities, and Astarion’s personal items were haphazardly tossed about. Nothing like it would have been before the past summer. Astarion was fastidious with his space, showing great care for what was his after centuries of having nothing. It was Sera who tended to leave things wherever it was convenient at the moment. He never minded though, a little mess was a small price to pay for the life they shared. 

Estelle appraised the situation and looked at him sadly. “Drink that. We'll work on this after.” 

Warm confidence, so much like her mother. It almost hurt. “Don't look at me like that. I'm over three hundred years old, I can handle myself.” 

“Don't be prickly, Papa.” Discarding a shirt from a chair in front of her mother’s vanity, Estelle sat, and locked her eyes on him. 

Defeated, Astarion dropped onto the bed and sipped the warm blood. The sweetness of it was deep and rich, like brandy or tea with a hint of honey, definitely sentient blood. Animal blood had its sweetness as well, but it was brash and quick, sugar tossed over sour berries, too much frosting to cover the hardness of the cake. It wasn’t surprising, Estelle was a Duke now and the blood of the condemned often found its way into her cellar and the blood lab, where magic and science worked in harmony to preserve it. 

He drank deeply and sat in the not-quite-comfortable silence. Finally, he passed the mug back to her when the last drop was drained. “There, satisfied?” 

Estelle took it without rising to his bait, she knew him too well after one hundred and nineteen years of life. “Quite. Now before we get to cleaning this mess, we have something important to discuss.” 

Astarion groaned, he knew well what time of year it was. “No.” 

“Papa, we go every year. Gale will be devastated if we don’t.”

“That doddering old man probably won’t even remember us!”

“He’s Mystra’s chosen, he’s not doddering,” Estelle corrected, with patience. 

“And this isn’t every other year…”

Estelle made a little noise of disapproval before rising and coming to sit on the bed next to him. “I know it’s not, Papa. That’s why it’s important to go. You need to spend Solstice with people who love you. That’s what she would want.” Her hand came to rest over his - skin as moon-glow pale as his own, but not as cold. 

Her words made him want to rip it away. If it had been anyone else, he might have even lunged for their throat. Only Estelle had the right to invoke her, well, maybe the grandchildren as well. “Don’t, please, I can’t hear about what she would want right now.”

Beside him, Estelle drooped. “Fine, we’ll let it rest for now. Let’s work on this room.” 

Estelle was a magistrate, a politician, and a warrior; she knew when to change tactics. Astarion didn’t believe for a moment that she’d given up. But he was content with her letting it lay for now. As a compromise, he joined her cleaning efforts without complaint, following her lead while sinking back into the frozen numbness that had claimed him since summer. 

Astarion was right that Estelle had not surrendered her cause so easily. Ever since Estelle’s second Solstice on this plane, they had made the trek to spend it in Waterdeep. Astarion and Sera’s home in Baldur’s Gate was too small to accommodate the growing list of attendees, including Shadowheart and Lae’zel’s adoptees and Karlach’s growing bump - the soon to be baby Ravengard. 

But Gale's tower had only housed himself, Tara, and occasionally Dalyria. Much to Astarion's consternation, their relationship had continued, with her visiting Gale’s home, and Gale in turn taking trips to the Underdark. He hadn’t been able to sort through the strange tangle of feelings about the situation at the time, and had just resigned himself to letting it play out. So it was decided, they would all go to Waterdeep to celebrate together. And the tradition had stuck, with Estelle not ready to let it go of it. 

Knowing that more prodding about his mindstate was inevitable, he tried to satisfy Estelle by emerging from his isolation occasionally. He’d made the mistake of enjoying a book near the library fire, watching the sun dip down, behind the horizon as the early night of winter set in. 

The door behind him creaked open unsubtly, followed by the scraping of boots on wood as someone hesitated, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Astarion snapped his book shut and choked back a curt greeting. “Alright, which one of you is it, Sariel or Alastor?” he asked, though he already suspected which of his grandsons it was. 

“Alastor, grandpa.” His voice lacked his typical confidence.

Of course the older one had been pressed into being the sacrificial lamb. Astarion sighed, it would be quicker to just let him get through it. “Well, don't just linger about, then, come here.”

Alastor gingerly stepped around the corner of the chair, reminding Astarion very much of the little boy who used to try to sneak around it to surprise him. 

Whatever a dhampir and an elf made was apparently close enough to an elf. Alastor was sixty-six years old and hadn't aged since he was roughly thirty. Shorter than Astarion, he maintained an elf-like grace and lithe build. Black curls were kept cropped short, very decidedly not elf-like; they framed a face with soft features that reminded Astarion so much of Sera, and violet eyes that had been a surprise to the family.

Veriena, Estelle’s wife, was a sun elf, and it wasn't a typical color amongst that lineage. Estelle had her mother's blue eyes. It would have been logical for him to favor one or the other. 

While visiting after Estelle had given birth, Astarion had been holding the cooing little bundle, gazing in wonder at his first grandchild. Leaning her head on his shoulder, Sera had spoken in a reverent whisper. “That must be what your eyes looked like before.”

Astarion had felt his chest tighten and his eyes get wet. His eyes - the ones he'd forgotten, the ones he'd thought he'd never see again - were staring back at him from his grandchild. All of it was miraculous and wondrous. 

Those eyes now appraised him apprehensively. The hesitation was irksome and if it had been anyone else… but the grandbabies had always made him soft. Standing, he crossed his arms and waited a second more. 

“This is about Solstice, isn't it?” 

“Y-yes. It's just, this is tradition. We go every year. It won't be the same without you. And we'll all be worried about you.” 

Blast it, Alastor was looking at him with the same look Sera used to use on him. 

Besides, no matter how much he asserted that all he wanted was to be left alone to mourn, it would appear he’d never hear the end of this. 

Once again, Astarion sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine, run along and tell your mother I concede this battle to her, I’ll go along but I do not promise to be cheerful.” 

Alastor’s arms were suddenly around his shoulders and he squeezed him tightly, another reminder to Astarion of his boyhood days. Returning the embrace, he let go quickly, fearing another storm of tears that he didn’t wish to deal with at the moment. 

“Love you, grandpa,” Alastor uttered quickly before leaving him be. 

Astarion sank back into his chair, resigned to being dragged along for the merry-making. 

At the very least, he didn’t need to languish in waiting for long. Once, they would have made the trek to Waterdeep the old fashioned way, along the road. The ever-expanding family had finally caused them to rely on a teleportation circle Gale helped inscribe in a study used by Estelle and Sera for arcane research. Blades and cunning had been what he and Estelle had shared, but with Sera it had been a fascination with magic. After the adventure had brought them together, Sera had become invested in learning proper wizard magic, as she called it. Astarion had been sure it would irritate her patron, Sera having a source of power within, but Titania hadn’t seemed to mind at all. 

Estelle hadn’t had the patience for that sort of magic though. Her magic came from her blades and wits, serving her well in her short time at bard college. Of course now her magic came from another, familiar source. Sera had been in the crypt for mere days when Astarion could actually smell it on her, the hint of fey magic - wild and uncanny. Estelle had insisted it had been her idea, to continue on her mother’s bargain, to keep the Summer Queen’s protection over their house. He’d despised himself for not somehow keeping his baby girl from falling into a pact with that creature but he’d barely been able to find his way out of bed. If the sun could still harm him, he might have walked into it one morning. 

But he was still here, and now he waited irritatedly with a packed bag at the teleportation circle, the first there, ready to get this over with. Alastor was the first to arrive, earnestly beaming and excited to see the extended family. Veriena was next, red hair flowing around her like a fiery halo, gold eyes still hazy from reverie. The night owl had met Estelle in one of the pubs she owned throughout the city. “Morning, Papa,” she called, voice sleepy but chipper. 

She’d left elvish society behind to become her own woman, and without a family had been eagerly embraced into theirs. Astarion gave her a nod, trying to be polite. None of this was her fault. 

Finally Estelle poked her head into the room, gazed around the faces and turned around immediately. 

Moments later, a shout echoed through the hallway. “Sariel, if you don’t get to the teleportation sigil in the next two minutes, we are leaving without you!” 

Sariel burst through the door in scant seconds, followed by a still irritated Estelle. At forty-five Sariel was still as chaotic and mischievous as ever. His red hair was escaping a long braid and his blue eyes danced with laughter. 

“I'm here, mother, see. I simply wanted a quick meal.” Sariel gestured with his flask, the scent of blood wafting from it. 

When the first of his teeth came in, Sariel had bitten into Veriena's hand as she played with him and drawn blood he happily lapped up. None of them knew why only one of the boys was born with the blood thirst but everyone had tried to take it in stride. 

“Next year I'm leaving you behind.” 

Estelle stood at the line of runes that were the house's unique signature and the rest of them huddled into the circle with her. “Invenium viam.”

A shimmering purple light engulfed them and when it had faded, they stood inside a matching circle in Gale's tower. 

“Oh, you're here!” a bubbly voice exclaimed. 

A young woman with a curvy silhouette leapt up from the desk she'd been reading at, the only furniture in the room. Blonde curls bobbed around her head as she beamed at them, green eyes bright.

“Little Sera?” Sariel gaped before recovering and affecting a charming smile. 

Internally Astarion cringed at her name - some grandchild or great grandchild of Gale’s bearing Serafina's name. He couldn't remember which at the moment and it didn't matter. All that mattered was his urge to run. He swallowed a breath he didn't need. 

“That's me! It's been awhile, I'm glad I'm back at Pop-pop's studying this year-” She suddenly flushed a bright red. “Listen to me going on, let's get you all settled.” 

“Please,” Astarion muttered and beside him Estelle clicked her tongue in disapproval. 

It didn't seem to put off little Sera. “Right this way!” she exclaimed, opening the door as Sariel pushed to the front of the group to walk beside her. 

“Now tell me more about what you're studying…” he said, all effusive charisma.  

Astarion quickly let their conversation fade to noise in his mind, his eyes taking in the details of the tower that he’d been to countless times before. It hadn’t changed much over the years: the walls covered by tapestries and wooden furniture, carpets laid over the bare floor - all of it well-worn and well-loved - creating an atmosphere of cozy hominess 

The teleportation circle room was towards the bottom of the tower, ensuring that there was plenty of time to intercept any unauthorized intruders before they reached Gale’s precious books and laboratory. They would make the trek up the stairs past the functional areas - kitchens, pantries, workshops - up to the living quarters. Last year, Sera had been so weak, her body failing her already, that Astarion had insisted on carrying her up the stairs. 

Gale’s areas of magical study occupied the topmost area of the tower, a place Sera had loved on their visits. She’d spent hours watching the stars from the telescope in his observatory and pouring over dusty tomes. Magic had become her great passion, after adventuring, which they had taken a break from when Estelle was young. 

As they reached the living quarters, instinctively, Astarion broke away from the group. 

“Papa!” Estelle immediately called after him, but he wasn’t of any mind to turn back. 

His bag heavy on his shoulders, he started down a hallway that was lined with bedrooms, including the guest suites. There were an obscene number of rooms in Gale’s tower, far more than should have fit from looking at the outside. 

“Fucking wizards,” he’d often mumble to himself while getting lost in the halls those first few years. 

Today though, he found the room he was looking for easily enough, the room he spent every Solstice in. Pushing through the door, the wall sconces lit at his presence, giving the room a soft glow. In the center was a cozy bed, draped in dark blue - Sera’s favorite. Rosewood furnishings accompanied it: wardrobes, a vanity, and even a bookshelf stocked just for them. The other room contained private bathing facilities that may have been part engineering, part magic. 

Tossing his bag on the bed, Astarion joined it, laying on his back to stare up at the canopy embroidered with stars. It had always reminded them of their days out on the road, the night sky they spent so much time under before Estelle and his ability to sun walk came along. Today though, it dredged up recollections of their very first Solstice, spent under those same stars.

They'd reached Waterdeep in the late fall, Gale providing several leads on possible ways for him to walk in the sun again. That had been their grand goal, so they said, but really the both of them were embracing the rambling, adventuring lifestyle. The next item was a ring supposedly located in Suzail, the capital of Cormyr. 

The days had faded into a few scant hours of sunlight, which Astarion could appreciate except for the biting cold. Neither of them could get warm and while he was merely uncomfortable, Sera would suffer so they traveled less each day. He’d asked if perhaps they should have stayed with Gale for the worst of the winter but she’d insisted they had barely been able to get started traveling, she wouldn’t give up now. 

They’d taken a rather nice break in the restored Elturel and were back out in the middle of nowhere, trudging through the remnants of a sleet storm. Time had become a slippery thing, and neither of them truly knew what day it was. The road crested up to a low ridge and suddenly Astarion became aware of singing in the distance, and an orange glow on the horizon. 

Sera could see the light, but not hear the singing yet. “I wonder what that's all about.” 

“Let's go cautiously,” Astarion had urged. The road could be treacherous, even without the potential for him to be recognized for what he was. 

It didn't take long though before the lyrics of the songs became clear and he could spot the merrymakers around what were now obviously bonfires. They were songs of thankfulness for the rebirth of the sun, after the coming longest night. 

Astarion had frozen mid-stride. They couldn't have been on the road that long. 

“What is it?” Sera asked tensely beside him. 

Astarion sighed, he was not overly fond of holidays, they usually invoked at least one deity. “It appears we’ve wandered close to a Solstice celebration.” 

While glancing down, he noticed that Sera’s lips had taken on a slightly blue tone. Those were bonfires below, and they didn’t seem to be praising any god in particular. “Perhaps we should take the opportunity for a little warmth courtesy of their good cheer.” If they guessed his nature, he was certain escape would be easy enough. He was no longer the powerless spawn he once had been. 

Approaching slowly, they called out to the group, who were encamped in a field just outside a town. It looked like the whole population of the small assembly of buildings and surrounding farms was in the field. 

Astarion stepped back to allow Sera to speak first. There was something about her that made strangers warm to her, and even bend their actions to her words. 

“Merry Solstice friends,” she greeted them and Astarion watched with pride as one bright smile captivated them. “My partner and I were wondering if two weary travelers could take some time to warm themselves by your fires.” 

An older, stout woman answered her. “But of course, on Solstice we’re all reminded we walk together through the dark.” 

With that, the town welcomed them not only to their fire, but to the wine they were drinking, and the feast they were warming over smaller fires. With a mug of mulled wine, Astarion artfully disguised not partaking in the food, while Sera ate her fill. 

Settling next to her on a bale of straw, they watched as another song broke out. He hadn’t really ever thought if a day like this would mean anything to Sera, part of his stubbornly selfish nature. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Quite the unexpected way to spend Solstice.” 

Sera laughed but it was sharp, and bitter. “Definitely not the way it would have been at home. We-” She stopped herself abruptly, glaring at nothing in frustration, and Astarion silently cursed Titania and the warlock pact that kept her silent. “Let’s just say I’m fine without celebrating. Especially in winter.” 

Sliding closer to him, Sera snuggled against his shoulder, taking a sip from her own steaming mug. “I won’t argue with the wine though.” 

Astarion wrapped an arm around her, and glanced at the horizon. They had some time before they would have to make shelter - the darkness hadn’t started breaking, and brilliant stars still dotted the winter sky. He could feel the warmth of Sera’s body, even through the layers of clothing between them, and hear the ever-present rhythm of her precious heart. 

If he had been one to celebrate a holiday back then, there wouldn’t have been any better way than that. 

The familiar stinging returned to his eyes. Gods, maybe he should have found a different room. 

Rolling over, he buried his face in the blankets, seeing only blessed nothingness, and then shut them. There was nothing he wanted more than to let the darkness take him again. He’d upheld his end of the bargain, he’d made it to this blasted place, the least they could do was let him have his wallowing. 

With enough stillness, reverie once again overtook him. But instead of Sera, the memories that came were his fall from the Nautiloid and the blinding sun. How sure he was that this was his end, and how it had only been the beginning. 

How long he’d been out, Astarion wasn’t sure. But he woke from his undisturbed rest in the same position he’d been in, face down on the mattress. His muscles felt as stiff as a corpse and his stomach burned with his cursed hunger. Gale did keep a good stock of preserved blood about, holidays weren’t the only time he and the family popped in. And Dal still came to visit on occasion, their friendship remaining even as passions had cooled. 

Using a little stealth, he could probably make it to the wine cellar where it was kept and back without having to speak to anyone. 

With effort, he heaved himself from the bed and stood in the guttering light of the still burning sconces. The flames were magical and consumed nothing, only dimming at the command word. A glance at the parted drapes of the window told him that hours had passed and it was now deep into the night. All the better to avoid unwanted company. 

Stepping softly, Astarion skulked down the hallway from his room, retracing the earlier path back toward the stairs. Not a soul in sight, though he heard muffled talking and giggling from Sariel’s room. At least they were likely to keep occupied, knowing Sariel. 

Even in the darkness of the shuttered kitchens and pantries, Astarion found his way with ease, stopping to pilfer a glass for his late night snack. A special room lay at the back of Gale’s wine stores, behind a rather imposing door. Perhaps he'd snatch a bottle of wine as well and have a nice little time with the two. 

Of course the blasted door was locked when he tried it. Maybe Gale was trying to lure him out to ask for the key. As if he didn't know Astarion at all after all these years. Though he was disappointed in himself that there weren't any lockpicks on his person, he had other ways around these. 

“Dissersa,” Astarion spoke to the lock and a loud knock emanated from it in response. 

Trying the handle, he found it opened easily enough this time. Inside shelves lined the walls, piled high with casks of blood. Astarion’s mouth watered, he really hadn't been eating enough. 

One was already tapped and waiting. Hungrily, Astarion held his glass beneath the spigot and opened it. Iron-scented intoxicant flowed into his waiting glass. He didn’t even need the wine he’d been thinking of, the blood was enough - one sip was already making his mind pleasantly hazy. 

A noise from the direction of the wine cellar made him jump, even as he filled his glass for a second round. Of course Gale was probably about to spoil his blissful solitude, it wasn’t the first time he’d snuck into his blood stores. 

It was their first Solstice at Gale’s, Estelle’s second Solstice. The previous year everyone had come to a lovely celebration at their home in Baldur’s Gate. Astarion had finally developed a taste for holidays, not for the religious trappings that surrounded them, but for the traditions and togetherness that would be part of Estelle’s life. Astarion had resolved to give his little unexpected bundle of joy nothing but the best of life. 

They’d made the trip to Waterdeep to find Gale’s tower transformed into a festive wonderland of greenery, ribbons, and tinsel. The soft snow that covered Waterdeep was the perfect backdrop for a winter celebration. Astarion had shed his irascible facade and finally allowed more of his true self to come out; it had taken years but it had finally sunk in that these were his friends and family. And so instead of rolling his eyes when Gale greeted them dressed in a red robe lined with white, Astarion laughed good naturedly. 

“Excited to host?” he’d asked as they’d all taken turns embracing. 

“Gah!” Estelle had added - her name for Gale. 

It was that first trip where Gale had shown them to their room - and Astarion knew he’d made accommodations special for all of them. They all trickled in, the makeshift family bound by tadpoles and a fall from a Nautiloid. Except Jahiera who had written that Rion would kill her if she dragged the younger ones to Waterdeep. Astarion and Sera had already stopped for a meal and gifts before leaving the city. Eventually even Dal turned up, her and Gale openly lavishing affection on one another. 

As they were waiting for dinner and settling Estelle down for a nap, Astarion felt a bit peckish. In her crib, Estelle was peacefully sleeping, cooing happily occasionally. Ever since her canine teeth had come in, she’d developed a taste for blood - proving herself most assuredly a dhampir. Dal’s preserved blood had been a life saver, even though Estelle had not taken kindly to being weaned; there were many tantrums and tears, more than he would have thought a child just over one could produce. 

Coincidentally, Astarion had learned that down in Gale’s wine cellar, there was plenty of that blood to be had. “My love,” Astarion wrapped his arms around Sera from behind as she was taking in the view from the window. “How would you like to be a little mischievous?” 

“How could I resist if you're involved?” Sera relaxed into his embrace, head leaning back against his shoulder, lips brushing his cheek. “Just make sure Estelle has her bat since I assume we're going to go make this mischief elsewhere.” 

Astarion grinned, he couldn’t have asked for a better partner in crime than Sera. At least when that crime didn’t cause any lasting harm to someone who hadn’t harmed them first. 

After checking that Estelle did indeed have her enchanted bat that would alert them if she needed them in any way, Astarion opened the door and held out his arm for Sera. “Let’s go find ourselves some trouble, my love.” 

When they had seen Gale and Shadowheart working in the kitchens, it was Sera who cast invisibility for them to make the way to the wine cellar easier, hand over her mouth to hide the giggles as they snuck about. And it was she who stood lookout while Astarion picked the lock on the blood supply, just like the old days, rewarding herself with a bottle of wine to enjoy. 

It hadn’t taken Gale long to find them, probably some sort of arcane alarm Astarion should have looked for. But he wasn’t really concentrating on things like that; he was concentrating on his beautiful wife, smiling and laughing, like they were young lovers on their first tryst. 

Astarion had made a seat out of one of the barrels and Sera had clambered into his lap, demanding to know if preserved blood compared to hers. The sound of Gale awkwardly clearing his throat from his door only made them hysterical once more, much to his chagrin.

How bright and magical the world had seemed back then. 

Now there was only darkness. 

Astarion topped his glass off and started to make his way back, stopping to grab a bottle of wine after all and tear the cork out with his claws. No need to keep them short now with no lover to caress. Dumping some into his blood, he took a deep drink, and continued the trudge back to his room.

A large silhouette loomed in the doorway before him and Astarion groaned. It wasn’t Gale who’d sought him out after all. 

“What do you want?” Astarion snapped, eager to just get whatever sympathetic drivel Halsin had to spew out of the way. 

“I am only here to check on you Astarion. I went to your room and found it empty, so I came looking. We're concerned, you didn't even let us greet you.” Despite the time that had passed, Halsin had barely changed at all, perhaps gaining some crow’s feet around his eyes, but other than that, still very much the elf they found in the goblin cage. 

Without conscious effort, Astarion’s legs began to move, and quick, sharp steps started to take him away from his concerned friend. “Did you happen to think that's because I wished to be left alone?” 

Halsin could move quickly for an elf his size, and began to match his stride. “Perhaps what you want is not what you need. You have community here, family. Sera was beloved by all of us, and is missed.” 

Turning, Astarion hissed, fangs bared, though Halsin remained implacable. “Don't you dare! Do you think a few tumbles under the covers gives you a right to speak about it? To grieve her as I do? You don't know anything about this.” 

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder as his anger faded back into the melancholy that was his constant companion. “I would never presume. But still, she had a place in all our hearts. As do you. We're here, when you're ready.”

Astarion fought back a vicious stinging in his eyes and turned away from the kind gaze that looked at him with such concern. “I just want to go back to bed.” 

“At least let me walk you back?” 

Saying nothing, Astarion just shrugged, the argument not worth his energy. Turning away, he continued on to his room, sipping his blood-wine mixture. Thankfully, Halsin was silent as he shadowed him, the only sound the beating of his great heart that Astarion could hear so clearly. 

There were times when it would have been comforting, or even exhilarating, to hear it. But like so much else, it was now an unpleasant reminder of what he lost. 

The halls remained quiet and dark as they walked, only the errant light of the moon and stars peeping through windows broke the blackness. As they reached Astarion’s door, Halsin cleared his throat. He couldn’t just leave things lay with his unending compulsion to help. “Remember what I said Astarion, we’re still here for you.”

He didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say: that none of that mattered now, that he didn’t care, that he was too lost to even try?

Instead he pushed his door open, and retreated inside. The cheery glow of the wall sconces greeted him as he returned to the bed. Despite the blood, he was even more weary. Halsin was the first, the rest were sure to follow. They considered themselves family, even after all this time, even after so many were gone. That’s what they had been for so long, an ever-growing family. 

Halsin had been the last to turn up with an offspring. By Titania’s meddling, he and Sera had been first. Halsin had been true to ways of loving wherever his heart felt stirred, but eventually one Solstice he’d arrived with Layla, a pretty human woman, and a wriggling bundle. 

“This is Tamiel,” he’d introduced the baby, while glowing proudly. 

Everyone had clamored to meet the newest addition to their group, except Astarion. He was still not one much for babies. Estelle had been the exception. But hanging back and watching, that did give him that damnedable warm feeling in his chest he hadn’t been able to escape in years. 

Even the young ones were in on it: Renik and Felle, Shadowheart and Lae’zel’s adopted twins  shoved each other to get the best look, and Caerlack, Wyll and Karlach’s daughter, snuck around while they were distracted. Morena, Gale’s oldest, wasn’t quite old enough to maneuver around the older children and her mother Ashara, a pretty drow woman with silver eyes, held her up to see the excitement. 

While Astarion allowed himself to fondly gaze upon the moment, he caught Estelle out of the corner of his eye. She was nearly eight, the eldest of the little group of hellions and often the ringleader. Now though, she froze in place off to the side, eyes wide and lips parted. Then the smell hit him - blood. 

Turning his gaze to the others, he caught a slight scratch that Felle must have given her brother in all the shoving. 

“Gods below,” he muttered, unsure when the last time she’d had sated her blood thirst,and launched himself forward. 

He made it just as Estelle had begun to lunge forward, her mouth open to display tiny fangs. Hands wrapping around her waist, he pulled her into his arms as she hissed angrily. “Estelle, we ask before we bite,” he said, voice firm but not loud, in an effort to reach her before a truly feral bloodlust took her. 

They had been on self-control since the beginning, which included keeping Eslelle on regular blood doses. But they must have forgotten in the travel rush. He’d failed her - and now everyone would think she was a monster. 

Astarion felt himself holding Estelle tighter, as the world around him seemed to fade a bit, a feeling he hadn’t felt in years. Vaguely he became aware that Sera had rushed over and was talking calmly to Estelle. There was an infant here that she could have hurt, they would all turn on her, demand they leave, and it would be Astarion’s fault. 

It was Gale’s laugh that shook him out of it. “Looks like she gets your cup then, Astarion.” 

He was already handing it to Sera who was soothing their little girl. 

“Chk,” Lae’zel scolded the twins. “Blooded battle is for outdoors.” Shadowheart cleared her throat, and Lae’zel added hastily: “And for adults only.” 

The room started to come back into focus and slowly Astarion lowered a happily sipping Estelle back to the ground. 

“Well, that was quite a moment of excitement to start us off,” Halsin said merrily. “I’m afraid Gale’s dinner might be lackluster in comparison.”

“Speak for yourself, Gale’s food is never less than perfect. Gods, I am starving.” Karlach patted her stomach, just starting to swell with their second child. 

“Sounds like we should settle in for dinner then.” Ashara gestured for them to head to the dining room. 

“You’re not all mad?” Astarion asked quietly. 

“Why would we be? Much like nature, children have storms and calm,” Halsin answered.

“Ugh, you always bring nature into,” Astarion groused and Halsin only beamed. 

As the rest of them headed for the dining room, Sera stopped him, leaning close. “Are you alright, you had that look for a moment, like you were miles away?”

“I’m fine now. I did find myself getting lost for a moment, afraid of what they would say. But they all just… accepted it.” 

“Of course they did,” Sera said like he’d just spoken the most ridiculous words she’d ever heard. “We’re family Astarion, we accept and care for each other no matter what. Now come on, before I miss Gale’s canapés.” 

And, deep down, Astarion knew they were family still. Which was why he wasn’t surprised when there was a tapping at his door the next evening. 

Somehow, he’d been thankfully left to himself the whole day, but as the sun neared the horizon, he knew dinner was imminent. It marked the start of the true festivities and he’d doubted that he would be allowed to continue his isolation. 

The knock that came was gentle but insistent, sounding twice when he tried to ignore the first one. “Fine, fine,” he answered, making his way to the door, wearing only the nightshirt he’d managed to change into last night.   

It was no great shock to find Gale there, patiently leaning on his staff. One hundred and twenty-two years had passed since that fateful crash of the Mindflayer ship, and while he was no longer young, Gale Dekarios lived on, being the Chosen of Mystra extending his days. Time had written itself across his face in wrinkles and laugh lines, his posture was stooped, and his hair was long and snowy. A proper wizard really. 

“Hello Astarion, you seemed to have forgotten to greet the rest of us yesterday.” There was a twinkle in his eye, Gale hadn’t lost any of his humor. 

Astarion made a disgruntled noise. “I’m here against my wishes wizard, you cannot expect merriment on top of that.” 

Gale’s humor vanished and was replaced by a somber countenance. “I know, Astarion. No one expects you to be cheerful, but we don’t want you to forget you still have us. And the hour for Solstice Eve dinner is upon us.” 

“How long before Estelle follows you?” Astarion pointedly ignored the tightness in his chest. 

Gale sighed. “Not long, I fended her off by volunteering to come get you.” 

“Tell her I’ll be along shortly.” He closed the door without letting Gale get another word in. 

Might as well get it over with. 

Emerging a short time later, Astarion had dressed himself in a plain black shirt and trousers, accented with silver piping and embroidery; an outfit that loudly protested he was still in mourning. Estelle hadn’t shown up so she must have accepted his word to Gale. If he ran, he could probably use the delay to get away. But she’d likely come to the worst conclusions and be frantic to find him. Despite everything, he couldn’t worry his little girl like that. Even if the thought of giving up had crossed his mind a few times. 

Everyone was already settling into their places when Astarion arrived in the dining room doorway. Gale’s dining room was like the rest of his tower - warm. The tapestries here depicted joyous celebration, the wainscotting between them was an elaborate criss-cross pattern. The last hues of the sun streamed in from great windows to one side, and on the other, a fire burned cheerfully in a hearth. The table set for less than it would be in years passed, but still it was accented with candles, green boughs, and gold ribbons. 

Gale sat at the head of the table - tradition foisted upon by all the original companions. At his right sat Ashara, lavender skin taking on pinkish hue in the sunset light, to his left was an empty seat, presumably waiting for Astarion. Down the line from Astarion were Estelle, Veriena, and the boys - Sariel making eyes at little Sera. 

Next to Ashara sat an elderly half-elf who had come to live out her final days in the tower with the Dekarios’. “Finally deigning to join us, Astarion?” Age had not dulled Shadowheart’s tongue. 

Of Gale and Ashara's adult children, Morena and Mystral were in attendance, Elminster and his brood being off in Raven’s Bluff in Vesperin. Morena was the mother of dear little Sera and two other very adept wizards. Though their mother was a half-drow, she'd married a human and the drow features were rare in the children. Mystral had no children and was not inclined to the studious wizard life, she'd wandered all over “studying nature” - Halsin's influence, Gale would dramatically sigh whenever asked. There was an enjoyable irony to her name really. 

Halsin and his current partner, another drow named Zyrm coincidentally enough, and the now adult Tamiel rounded out their group. Shadowheart's adopted twins had passed before her, and their family lines had frayed and dispersed, making it rare they joined the group. 

Astarion only nodded to them and took his place in the empty seat, overcome with a sense of wrongness. Sera was supposed to sit at Gale’s left, and then Astarion between her and Estelle. It had been that way for over a century - and this was not right. Any of it. How could it be? A whimper tried to escape his throat, but Astarion drowned it with the warm mug of blood that had been left for him in place of a plate. 

“Right, now that we’re all here.” Gale clapped his hands and a magnificent meal appeared on the table. “Let the feast begin.” 

Enchanted music played from somewhere and people fell into soft conversation as they passed the dishes around. It was though they all had forgotten she was supposed to be here. Astarion snatched a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. 

At the edge of the room loomed the doors to the parlor, concealing that which he was dreading the most, the Solstice tree. He yanked his gaze away and stared down into his wine. 

“Papa, are you alright?” Estelle whispered from beside him. 

“Does it matter?” he shot back. “I’m here, and that seemed to be the only important part.” 

“The important part was not leaving you alone to be miserable. At least you’re miserable in company,” she huffed, clearly hurt and loud enough to draw gazes. 

“I guess,” he conceded. Deep down, he knew she meant well, and it was all out of love, but it didn’t change the spiraling storm dragging him down. 

He drank, blood then wine, then blood then wine, over and over until all their voices were far away. Until he could almost feel Sera beside him where she should be. 

Then everyone was moving, rising from their seats. Astarion must have missed the call to move to the parlor. Legs shaky under him, he followed them mindlessly. 

Ashara pulled the door open to reveal the crown jewel of the celebration, a massive pine tree. It was bare of all decorations, for now. Tradition was that they all gathered to decorate it together on Solstice Eve. Sera had loved it. The minute beating of his heart felt like it was tearing his  chest apart and he pushed forward numbly. 

Sera leaned heavily against his arm, her strength was rapidly fading these days. She’d gotten sick over a year ago. It started with nose bleeds, then dizziness, then fatigue, and built to a steady bodily decline. Shadowheart and Halsin had been there through it all, fighting with all the knowledge and skill to unravel what was happening. In the end, the only answer was damage from the Mindflayer tadpole. During that whole ordeal, only when things had been desperate, had Sera resorted to tapping into the connection they offered to the other infected. But that had been enough. The only treatment was to keep her comfortable. Still, even with her deterioration, she had insisted they come for Solstice.

Dinner had just finished and they all made their way into the parlor. Crates of decorations awaited them, glowing in the flickering light of candles and a roaring fire that illuminated the room. Outside, snow fell softly over Waterdeep, wrapping the city in a glittering blanket for the festival of Simril the next night. It would have been a perfect evening, if not for the hollow dread eating him alive. 

Sera’s breath was already strained from the walk between the rooms and Astarion instinctively guided her to a plush chair near the tree. “There, my love, the best seat in the house.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded empty, devoid of any of his normal bravado or fervor. 

Sera smiled and weakly tugged his shirt until he leaned down for a kiss. “You’re the best of husbands.” 

Gray streaked through her blue-black hair, wrinkles marked the years of frowns and smiles, and her form had grown frail - yet she remained the most beautiful thing in the world to him. The one he loved, and should have had so much more time with. 

Rage bloomed inside him but with nowhere for it to go, he smothered it and instead held Sera for a moment before pulling away and forcing a smile. “Now, let's see to this tree.” 

Even in her state, Sera could still cast a spell, and from her seat, she used a mage hand to help decorate. Watching her smile and laugh with their eccentric, adopted family warmed Astarion’s heart. Estelle even stopped every so often and got her approval on an ornament placement, a tradition from when she was younger, making them both laugh as she stomped her foot over-dramatically when attention wasn't immediately given to her. He'd doubted it was a good idea to come but she needed this one last time. 

When the tree was finished, there was always a pause, a moment of stillness to admire the beauty they had crafted together. Astarion crouched down, bringing himself closer to speak to Sera and hear her soft voice. “One more splendid Solstice tree. Do you think the boys have finally grown out of trying to sneak in early to guess their presents?” Even as he was trying to be cheerful, his voice caught in his throat. 

“Astarion, love, you were the one caught doing it last year.” Sera’s humor had never wavered. 

He tried desperately to blink back tears, that wit and strength had been his pillar for more than a century. “Well you were such an awful tease about what it was.” 

“You’re incorrigible.” She laughed and kissed his cheek, like the Sera who’d just watched him pick a pocket on a street in Baldur’s Gate while they still had tadpoles in their heads to worry about. “Never change,” she added, suddenly turning serious. 

“I…” He wasn’t sure what the turn meant. 

“Don’t lose yourself, and don’t forget you’re loved. By them,” she gestured to the others, “and by me, forever, Starry Sky.”

“Sunlight.” Astarion didn’t have any more words, only tears rolling down his cheeks. 

His cheeks were wet, as he stood frozen with glass baubles in his hands. 

“Papa.” Estelle startled him and he dropped the ornaments, the sound of shattering glass deafening in the sudden silence. 

“How am I supposed to do this?” he sobbed, burying his face in his hands. “Just keep going on? Living day after day, talking, laughing, reading good books, having holidays, all alone,” he wailed miserably. 

Arms wrapped gently around him, pulling him into a soft embrace. “I know, it’s hard.” Estelle’s voice wavered. “Nothing seems right without Mama around.” 

Astarion unburied his face to look into the blue eyes that were the echo of her mother’s, now wet with her own tears. Lost as he had been, he’d forgotten that Estelle was suffering too. Desperately, he hugged her back. 

“We have to try though, it’s what she would have wanted. And you’re not doing it alone, Papa.” 

“Absolutely not,” Alastor said and Astarion felt two more bodies crush against him. 

“Always have to say something first,” Sariel snarked, squeezing tighter than his brother.  

Astarion’s sobs gave way to silent tears. 

“I dare say none of us will ever let you be alone Astarion,” Gale said as the rest of them gathered around him, his oldest friends embracing him as well. 

Part of him wanted to lash out, or push them away with a sarcastic comment, but the better part of him thought of Sera, of how she was the first real love in his life. And even if she was gone, her love wasn’t. It was reflected here, in their child and grandchildren, in their friends that had become a family. He had to keep going, for that love, that would never truly be gone from the world. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, not only to those who were there, but to the woman who had gifted him all this love. 

[thezombieprostitute]

Unwanted - Part 1

Summary: Your life is no longer yours. You've been forced into becoming a different species of human. Bought and paid for, what can you do but follow orders and obey your Alpha?

Warnings: Allusions to surgery, human trafficking, kidnapping; Angst; Depression; Suicidal thoughts. Let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Reader is described as big & tall, is female. No other descriptors required.

A/N2: I've had this kind of story on my mind for a very long time. Couldn't bring myself to write anything else so, why not start another series? 🙄

Part 2

"Alright, pretty girl, time to meet your future Alpha," Dr. Kemp cooed as he entered your cell.

Months, seemingly years, ago you'd had no idea what an Alpha was, other than an asshole who felt he deserved respect and adoration he hadn't earned. Months ago you'd been naive to the world of Alphas, Betas, Omegas. Then a bag had been thrown over your head, you'd been pulled into a vehicle, and forced to undergo surgeries that were, essentially, torture.

Dr. Kemp at least taken the time to explain that you were being turned into an Omega. One of their Alpha clients had specifically requested a big and tall Omega. Since Omegas were naturally smaller, it had been difficult to find a candidate for the surgery, let alone have that candidate survive the procedures.

"You're one in a million, Omega," Dr. Kemp would repeatedly tell you. Especially when you were hurting the most. When you went through your first heat. When you had to undergo repeated surgeries to become...this. You'd wanted to let death claim you several times, especially during your heat. But Dr. Kemp refused to let that happen. You weren't allowed anything in your cell that you might use against yourself or others. You'd been subdued before, thinking that, maybe, they'd just shoot you. No. They just knocked you out and then you had more to heal from.

Your need for socialization, for touch, for interaction also grew during your captivity and transformation. Another kind of pain entered your life. The only way you could think to describe it was "touch starved". No one was allowed to touch you, except for medical emergencies, and even those were highly regulated. Dr. Kemp said it was to make sure you didn't imprint on anyone who wasn't the Alpha who'd paid for you. You were sure it was just another form of torture and control.

So for Dr. Kemp to say you were finally meeting the man who had purchased you and sealed your fate, it was a mixture of fear and relief.

Keeping your head down and watching Dr. Kemp's feet, as you'd been trained to do, you were led out of your cell. Repeatedly you found yourself suppressing shudders as you passed the other cells, each with women in varying states of the transformation. You knew very few of them would make it and you said a silent prayer for each of them. For your own health, you kept from looking around as you walked through the medical ward. You didn't need the reminders of those rooms. You just focused on the idea that you'd never have to step into them ever again. You hoped.

You stepped into an area you'd never been to before and heard a voice cheerfully announce, "ah, Levinson, here's the Omega you ordered!" The voice was vaguely familiar. You think it was one of the people who'd initially kidnapped you. "Gotta say, she was a tough find, but well worth the money you promised."

"Glad my down payment was well spent," you hear a deep, calm voice say as it steps closer to you. You get a hint of his scent and have to fight a wave of fear. He smells like a wildfire, burning everything in its path, only concerned about consuming and spreading. As he gets closer there's an undercurrent of something else in his scent. All you know is that he isn't happy with you.

He lifts your chin and you're met with ocean blue eyes. His face is handsome, bearded, with somewhat long hair. There's a sadness in his eyes and you want to crumple into a heap. The man who ordered you, wanted you turned into something else for his pleasure, ruined your life, doesn't want you.

At least you're not the only one to notice. The man who had kidnapped you chimes in, "what? You don't actually want her?"

"Eh, just don't care for her scent. But, I paid for her so I'll take her," Levinson says. "You kept your end of the deal, I'll keep mine." He presses some buttons on his phone and you lower your head again. "Money should be in your account, Hansen."

Dr. Kemp asks, "you're not going to ruin my good work are you? I put a lot of time and resources into creating this product for you, per your specifications. I don't like to see my creations wasted."

Levinson sighs, "for as much money as I paid for her, I can promise you only one of my best Lieutenants will get her. And I'll have rules for them."

That seems to satisfy Dr. Kemp and he walks off, back to the laboratory.

"The guy creeps me out, but he's got a point," Hansen tells Levinson. "I know that, once they're paid for, our customers can do whatever they want to our products, and they do. But the whole point of our business is rebuilding our species. Can't let a fertile female go to waste."

"She won't," Levinson states flatly.

"So who are you giving her to?"

"Not your concern." He lifts your head again, "follow me, Omega."

It's all you can do to follow him. You want to collapse, cry, scream, anything. But all you're allowed to do is follow him.

Part 2

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @ronearoundblindly

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 48

Groundwork

     Ford dropped his battered suitcase onto the cedar chest at the foot of the bed—a dull, hollow thud made the windowpanes tremble. He was still half-running on highway caffeine and the afterglow of that disastrous, delirious hotel night; skin humming in odd places like a struck glass. One by one he yanked garments from the suitcase—worn or not, clean or sour with travel—and flung them toward the corner, where a multicolored mound was already rebelling against gravity. Socks slithered down the heap like retreating worms. A collar button pinged off the floorboards and skittered under the radiator.

     Next came the books, broad-shouldered hardbacks and annotated journals stacked with equations in cramped graphite. Then the note bundles, spine-cracked field logs, a greasy loop of coaxial cable he had brought for reasons he could no longer remember. Only a single sweater remained—folded with improbable care. As he lifted it, he felt an itch. Sharp, insistent—flickering just above his waistband. 

     He pressed his knuckle against it through his clothing. No relief. With a weary sigh he stepped to the tall wardrobe mirror and hitched his shirt to mid-rib.

     There it was again: Flirty Gal, flourishing across the small of his back in jaunty sailor script, the lettering bracketed by a lip print and candy-stubbed hearts. The ink sat in a halo of tender pink, already healing faster than it ought. The lines were bold, unapologetic—larger than he remembered in the blur of hotel-room adrenaline. Ford exhaled through his teeth.

     A giggle spilled into his mind like a dropped coin.

     “Oh my god,” Ford hissed, still hunched in front of the mirror. “Bill, this isn’t funny!”

     “It’s hilarious, Sixer.” Bill’s voice unfurled through the air like warm steam, full of self-satisfaction. “Where’s that famously adventurous spirit? Look at the line work! The balance! The whimsy!”

     Ford dropped his shirt, spine stinging where cloth kissed the tender brand. “Why”—he turned for the dresser, rummaging for any sort of salve—“Why did you have to make it so big?”

     “So that every time you see it you’ll think of me.” Bill’s tone melted into a purr.

     Ford paused mid-twist on the Vaseline lid. “How often do you imagine I’m admiring my lower back?”

     Silence—then a stagey sigh. “Fine. Then I’ll stare at it. And every time I do, I’ll remember that little trick you picked up during your residency in Marseille.”

     Ford bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling—and failed.

     “There it is!” Bill crowed. “I knew that smile was hiding somewhere under all that self-reproach.”

        “You’re an asshole.”

     “Toi, t’en connais un rayon sur les trous du cul, hein? Petite salope.” Bill murmured, low-vowel syllables sliding like melted butter across the inside of Ford’s skull.

     Ford blinked. The words washed over him slowly. His ears went pink. “Since when do you speak French?”

     “I picked it up after taking a spin around your left hemisphere,” Bill said, voice softening to a caress. “Wernicke’s area is breathtaking this time of year.”

     He was closer now. Ford could feel it—like a drop in barometric pressure, the room turning syrupy at the edges. Still and warm and thick with something unspoken. A shiver skated down the length of Ford’s arms.

     “You know,” Bill murmured, feigning innocence, “to anyone else, it’s stupid. Juvenile, even.”

     Ford exhaled, short and shallow. His head dipped forward, eyes falling shut as a bloom of heat flared low in his abdomen, him hand bracing against the edge of the dresser.

     “But to us,” Bill continued, his spectral fingertips brushing down Ford’s chest—across his sides—then lingering near the base of his spine . “It’s a hallmark.”

     His voice dipped lower. “You wanted something permanent, didn’t you, Fordsy? You went wild on that dirty little fantasy—”

     He had. That ache to pin something intangible to something living—to anchor the cosmic to flesh. A palm—not quite real but more than imagined—drifted lower across the top of his waistband. Just enough pressure to make the nerves believe in it. 

     “All that babbling,” Bill purred, “about knocking me up—like you believed it.”

        “Bill—

     “And I let you. Let you do whatever you wanted.” he purred, the smiling apparent in his tone. “And oh, did you. You almost had me convinced.”

     A pause, breathless and low. “So I figured I’d return the favor. Had to stake my claim, didn’t I?”

     A chuckle followed—soft and affectionate, almost shy. “Couldn’t risk anyone else getting ideas. So I… took out a little insurance.”

     Ford glanced again at the mirror—at the hem of his shirt, slightly lifted, the ink barely visible beneath the cotton. “It’s humiliating.”

     “Oh, totally,” Bill agreed brightly. “And if anyone else saw it? I mean—gosh, can you imagine?”

        Ford’s throat ticked as he swallowed. 

     “They’d ask questions behind your back,” Bill went on. “Stare too long. Maybe think less of you—this brilliant man, packing a dumb little tramp-stamp.” He laughed, light and wicked. Then that laughter bled into something cooler, softer, hardened. “But no one else is gonna see it.”

     A beat. “No one’s gonna get that close to you again. Will they?”

     Ford shuttered when he felt Bill’s hand curl against his throat. The grip was featherlight, but it owned him. “Will they, Ford?”

     Ford swallowed; the motion dragged slow against the pressure. “No,” he breathed. “Never.”

     “You like being marked,” Bill stated, quieter now. “Don’t you?”

        Ford’s jaw tensed—then loosened. 

            “Say it, baby.”

                “I like it,” Ford murmured.

     “Attaboy,” whispered against the shell of his ear, drawing a tremble from somewhere deep inside him. Another phantom touch slid up his spine—tender, coaxing. Ford jerked slightly, his knees locking to keep balance.

     “You were so… thorough .” Bill crooned. “That clever tongue of yours—remember how wet you got me?”

        Ford’s thighs tensed slightly. “…yeah,”

     “You just couldn’t get deep enough, could you?” Bill’s voice darkened with delight. “Fucked me stupid.”

     A shiver moved through Ford’s legs. His balance tilted forward before catching again. Fingertips ghosted up the inside of his thigh—not present, but undeniable. Ford let out a breathless grunt, involuntary.

     Bill nudged Ford’s hand—guided it—maneuvering it toward the Vaseline jar still open on the dresser. Ford’s fingers sank into the salve, scooping a generous amount into his palm.

        “You wanna play pretend, Fordsy?”

           Ford stared at the mirror.

               At the slight lift of his own shoulders.

           At the heat coloring his ears.

        At that haunting gleam behind his eyes.

     “Yes—” 

CRASH

     A metallic clamor rattled up through the floorboards—loud enough to jolt birds from trees—followed by a frantic cascade of clatters and scrapes from the lab below.

     Ford jerked upright and the phantom grip around his throat snapped away. Bill growled, the sound rippling with static. “Oh, good grief— who let the plot in?” 

     Ford was already moving—shoving the dresser drawer shut, wiping Vaseline off his fingers with a threadbare rag as he cut through the kitchen.

        “You’re assistant couldn’t wait ten minutes—”

     “Later,” Ford muttered, though whether it was a promise or a plea, he wasn’t sure.

     Down the narrow stairwell the air thickened. The laboratory—once spacious, now bloated with folding tables, looping cables, terrariums clouded with strange humidity—looked like a body struggling to breathe. Between stacked spectral analyzers and the half-gutted mainframe, Fiddleford was wedged at an impossible angle, both arms hooked beneath a crate of newly catalogued samples. His spectacles hung crooked from one ear; a coil of sensor wire had lassoed his ankle.

     “Alright, clumsy,” Ford muttered, sliding the last two steps. “You all right down there?”

     Fidds grunted, managing a glance over the crate. “Peachy. Just—” The box shifted, threatening to spill a row of glimmering vials. “—running out of square footage.”

     Ford shouldered the crate free, setting it atop an already teetering stack of equipment manuals. Glass still chimed on the floor—shards of a broken petri dish sparkling like ice against oil stains.

     “Place looks like a junkyard had a growth spurt,” Fidds grumbled as he stood, sweeping wires from his ankle. Ford scanned the room. New arrivals glared back at him—containment jars and isolation tanks, each sealed and labeled in his own meticulous scrawl:

GNM-α

PHASMOID LARVAE

UNCLASS. TARKER SPINES

(UNKNOWN, V. HOSTILE – DO NOT TAP)

     Fidds blew out a breath, cheeks puffed. “I’ve measured the crawl space twice. Even if we purge half the hardware—which you wouldn’t do anyway —we’re still neck deep.” He nudged a monitor with his hip, earning an indignant beep. 

     “Even Stache is starting to feel the squeeze,” Fidds added, gesturing toward the rat’s humble wire cage—now surrounded by several unsavory neighbors.

     Stache stared mournfully back at them, crouched in his corner like a prisoner awaiting transfer.

     Fidds straightened, brushing glass dust from his cuffs. “We need another space,” he said, pragmatic as ever. “Hell—what we need is a bunker.”

        Ford blinked. “A what?”

     “A bunker. Something reinforced, The surely ground’s fully thawed by now; I could get concrete poured inside a week.” He tapped the side of his temple, already drafting blueprints in his head. “I’ll even draw up the proposal, budget, the whole shebang—just sign here, Doctor Pines, and watch me work miracles.”

     Ford opened his mouth—an objection already chambered, instinctive and familiar. Too much effort. Too permanent. Too risky. But before the words could form, his heel shifted and—

        Pfst 

     A soft, powdery hiss beneath his boot. He looked down. A fractured vial lay crushed beneath his heel—its contents already leaching into the oil-stained concrete. Around him, the lab loomed, every surface bloated with unfinished experiments, groaning under the weight of samples and screens. It really was choking—every inch claimed. Every hour louder. Every object begging for space.

     The hair at his nape lifted.

     Bill’s voice slipped in quiet as condensation, warm at the curve of his ear. “Not such a bad idea, Sixer… Might do him some good. More room. Fewer elbows. Not to mention, Boot’s stress levels can be a real mood-killer.”

        Ford didn’t answer.

     Bill didn’t need him to. He pressed closer, voice gentling. “Let him play foreman for a bit, he’ll love it. Drafting blueprints, swinging a hammer, being outside—Who knows…” Bill’s voice dipped lower, teasing. “…he might even stop grinding his teeth.”

        Ford’s gaze flicked toward Fiddleford.

     He was already digging through a box of old clipboards, flipping one over, muttering measurements under his breath, tapping his pen like a metronome. He looked… depleted. And worse: like he was trying not to show it.

     But his voice was steady, carried by something closer to hope than exhaustion.

     “Fifty-two by thirty, we could dig down another eight… Passive cooling system built into the subfloor… HVAC self-contained…”

     He gestured with both hands, measuring invisible blueprints midair, eyebrows arched in concentration. Already building it.

     “Imagine it,” Bill whispered. “A whole new wing of possibility. New doors. New secrets. And time—so much time—for just the two of us.”

        There was a pause—measured and careful.

     Bill didn’t say all of what he was thinking, but Ford could feel it: that time with him was fractured. That Fiddleford was always around. That he could feel the split focus—Ford’s heart beating in two directions. That he hated sharing.

        But he also didn’t lie.

           He never lied, not to Ford.

     He just knew how to frame things. How to lean on Ford’s instincts until they bent his way.

     Ford exhaled, the motion tight and uncertain. His fingers brushed his temple, then dropped.

        “…Alright,” he said. “Write it up.”

     There was a pause—the faintest flick of satisfaction, like teeth barely grazing skin. Bill’s smile felt like static across Ford’s mind.

        Construction began quickly.

     Each morning, from the kitchen window, Ford watched it unfold—a quiet ritual of progress, blurred at the edges by condensation and distance. Fiddleford, clipboard in hand, paced the grassy plot beside the cabin with the slow confidence of a man who had finally found a shape to pour himself into. There was always a pencil tucked behind one ear, always a smudge of graphite on his knuckles. His boots wore tracks into the dew-slick earth.

     The first days were modest—just flagged corners and chalk-line grids—but soon the lawn gave way to trenches, then depth. The pit deepened in deliberate layers, each one peeled back like strata, careful and clean. Every scoop of earth seemed intentional, as if something delicate were being surgically removed from the world.

        And always, Ford heard it.

     The rhythmic churn of dirt. The grind of rented machinery. The muted percussion of hammer strikes. The sharp crunch of spades biting through root and rock. From dawn to dusk, a heartbeat beneath the floorboards, dull and steady, always there.

     Fiddleford was out there without pause. A distant figure in sun-faded shirts and frayed jeans, blurred by heat shimmer or fogged glass, arms slicing through the air as he directed his small crew of contractors. Ford caught glimpses—Fidds flushed and sunburnt, shirt plastered to his back, sweat-dark at the collar, his hands gesturing wide arcs as he described corridors still buried in soil.

        He seemed… lighter. Engaged.

     Some internal gear had begun to turn again, smoothing away the anxious tension that usually settled around his mouth.

        And so Ford stayed inside.

     The lab, once bustling with parallel motion, had grown strangely bifurcated—emptier without Fiddleford’s off-key whistling, his muttered swearing when something sparked unexpectedly—but paradoxically smaller. As if the walls themselves had begun to fold in around Ford’s routines. But every task only served to highlight the absence of interruption. The absence of company.

        But, really, he wasn’t ever alone.

     Bill thrived in the vacuum. He slipped into the cracks left behind by Fiddleford’s absence like water through fractured stone. He filled the air with banter, commentary, half-sung phrases, soft mockery. He critiqued Ford’s handwriting, posture, overture of semicolons. He whispered his way through research notes, offered amendments to Ford’s equations mid-thought.

     With Fidds distracted, Ford marathoned his work without interruption. He skipped meals. Skipped showers. Let the clocks blur. He lost days in his own momentum. Sleep came late, if at all. And Bill savored it—couldn’t get enough of him like this. Sharp, obsessive, incandescent with purpose.

     And when Ford finally burned out—when the migraines pressed against the inside of his skull like expansion joints giving way, when his hands cramped from white-knuckling chalk or evenings spent dissecting whatever half-cooked creature he'd dragged back from the woods—he and Bill would meet in the dreamscape.

     Their perfect little world. A place without rules or edges, where logic dissolved into breath. Where thought had no border from sensation, and momentum became a physical thing. They collided—hot, frictionless, atomic. Twin accelerants. Velocity made flesh.

     Clarity no longer came by equation, but by the gentle drag of teeth. By the way Bill arched when Ford found the places he couldn’t hide. By the way their bodies folded into meaning. It was a method of knowing. Of study.

     Ford had spent his life trying to break the universe open—with force, with tools, with brilliance. But with Bill, he learned by holding. By listening. By memorizing the shape of his name torn from Bill’s throat, like the answers to the cosmos were hidden in the arch of his spine.

     What Ford once sought in libraries he found in the slope of Bill’s throat, in the spaces between words where need lived.

     Thoughts sparked between them like flint, each one setting off another and another. Their minds fed each other until they were indistinguishable—a single system, closed but recursive. Symbiotic. Addictive.

        And it wasn’t enough.

     Even with Bill coiled around every synapse—it wasn’t enough.

     But solitude bred something else. Something focused. Their goal sharpened. With every recalibrated metric, every sleepless night hunched over a ream of code or scrawled corrections on the gateway schematics, their vision gained structure. They always returned to it, tuning the machine as they did each other.

     Ford came down late one morning, the soft weight of late-May humidity already curling into the corners of the cabin. His shoulders were tight. His temples throbbed faintly with the residue of his dream—still clinging like sweat at the base of his neck, sticky and persistent. His shirt—rumpled and sleep-warmed—was the same one he’d worn the night before. He hadn’t bothered to change. Just pulled on slacks and tucked his hair behind his ears with slow fingers.

     By that hour, construction had long since resumed—the percussion of shovels striking damp earth, the grind of concrete mixers echoing through thaw-softened clay. But Ford was already halfway through his second inventory log.

     Bill hadn’t said much. He drifted at the margin of Ford’s vision—sated, languid, lazy. It was his favorite high: Ford, pent up for days, overworked, too long without release and finally pushed to a breaking point. It was a pattern Bill exploited often—to see what that tension turned into. How it spilled out it gritted teeth, in greedy hands, in the moment Ford stopped calculating and just chased.

     Ford didn’t mind; the release left him hollow and crystalline, thinking in clean angles for hours afterward. It was efficient, it was fun.

     The lab was a wreck. Not just cluttered—buried. Crates that hadn’t been opened in months were now pulled apart, contents scattered across the floor. Half of one table had been overtaken by empty test tubes, another by a coffee-stained map of the surrounding woods, pinned with color-coded threats. Post-it notes bloomed from every surface like barnacles.

        Ford was sorting.

     Slow, deliberate. What to keep in the main lab. What to move to the new space once it was finished. What, if anything, would finally get thrown away.

     The “discard” pile was pathetic: a warped cassette labeled BAT CALLS – WESTERN RANGE, a broken compass, several flattened cigarette packs that had never quite found their way to a bin. A sad little mound of decay, nudged guiltily beside the trash can.

        Ford stared at it for a moment.

           “Label it ‘Pack Rat Trail Mix’,” Bill offered.

     Ford huffed—a bark of laughter punched out of him before he could think better of it. “Good one, Billy,”

     He was elbow-deep in re-tagging the spectral analyzers when the console across the room chirped.

        His hands stilled mid-motion.

     He set the clipboard down carefully and crossed to the monitoring station, where a narrow window of active frequencies flickered to life. The waveform jittered slightly—a clean spike at 2.47 megahertz, barely above background radiation, but just sharp enough to register on the anomaly filter.

        Something small. Local.

     Ford’s fingers moved without pause, narrowing the field, opening nested submenus one by one. He clicked through the console’s nested menus, his brow furrowing tighter with each step. It seemed like this was something internal. Inside the cabin. More specifically: inside the southwestern quadrant.

     Ford grabbed the handheld sensor from the pegboard, checked its battery out of habit, and moved for the stairs. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight, ancient pine flexing in the morning quiet.

     At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched before him, hushed and sunlit.

        The door to Fiddleford’s room stood ajar. As Ford passed, the handheld sensor ticked faster—a dry, precise stutter.

     His hand hovered over the doorknob. He paused, the device still whining softly in his other hand. Then he stepped inside.

     He knelt, looking under the bed, sweeping the reader across the clutter. It spiked again as he passed by the small surplus chest that sat shoved toward the wall. He placed the reader on the floor and reached in, dragging the box forward across the worn floorboards. Then he opened it.

     And there—right at the top—a stack of well-worn magazines stared back at him—Playboys.

     He stared down at them for a beat longer than he meant to—long enough to register the dog-eared corners, the way one centerfold had been folded open and back again enough times to crease the spine.

     Bill whistled—low, lewd. “Wow,” he said dryly. “Look at the old cowboy go.”

     Ford snapped the lid closed and slid the box back under the bed. 

     The handheld sensor kept ticking where Ford had left it on the floor—its green diode pulsing steadily, a little faster with every beat. He straightened slowly, eyes narrowing as he followed the invisible line of the device’s nose toward the far wall. The signal wasn’t coming from the box. It was coming from beyond it.

     Ford stepped to the window, parted the curtain with two fingers, and peered outside.

     Outside, the construction site rippled with motion. Workers in safety vests trundled wheelbarrows, rebar winked in the sun, and a concrete mixer turned slow circles like a grazing beast. And in the center of it all stood Fiddleford, clipboard aloft, gesturing animatedly toward the slab being poured.

        Ford let the curtain fall.

     Ford turned toward the door, down the hall towards the kitchen, and slipped into his boots by the side of the back door.

     Warm air hit him like a wave. Earthy, acrid. Diesel exhaust. Wet soil. The scent of mineral-rich clay, turned up from deep layers. He crossed the threshold and let the screen door slam behind him.

     The beeps quickened as he approached the excavation site—soft at first, then brighter, more urgent. Ford followed the curve of the pit slowly, keeping distance from the crew. He ducked beneath a long beam balanced between two workers and murmured a clipped Thanks as they passed.

     Fiddleford spotted him instantly. Without missing a beat in his discussion with the concrete truck driver, he plucked a hard hat from a nearby sawhorse and thunked it onto Ford’s head mid-stride.

     “Safety first, Doc,” he quipped, already turning back to shout slab thicknesses over the rumble of the truck.

     Ford barely acknowledged it. The handheld squealed again—sharp and clear—whenever he stepped south of the pit, then dropped into silence the moment he shifted north.

     He moved in a slow zig-zag through the clutter—around plastic sheeting, over discarded gloves, past stacked pallets of lumber—until he reached a mound of spoil, the rich clay piled in broad, heaped layers. It stood nearly to his waist, casting a shadow across the edge of the trench.

        The beeping jumped.

     Ford grabbed a shovel from a nearby wheelbarrow, gripped it near the neck, and drove it into the mound. The clay gave with a wet hiss. Moist earth sloughed down the blade in soft sheets, folding back on itself like cake batter.

        The handheld went berserk.

     Behind him, Fiddleford trotted over during a lull in orders, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. “You lose something?”

     “Found something.” Ford watched the sensor; each slice of the spade sent the beeps into a staccato frenzy.

        “In here?” 

     Ford shrugged, watching the readout. “Could be a bad calibration. The handheld spiked inside the cabin—Led me right to your room, actually.”

        Fiddleford blinked. 

     Ford didn’t wait. “Didn’t find any anomalies, though.” He clicked his tongue. “Just your stash of dirty magazines.”

     Fiddleford flushed deep red, cheeks puffing like a toad. “I—I haven’t seen my wife in almost five months!” he blurted.

        Ford smirked. “That’s the official line, huh?”

            “Ford—”

     “Perfectly natural.” Ford smirked, turned another shovel of dirt, and the handheld shrilled—flat-line loud, then cut out. Whatever set it off was now exposed.

     Nestled in the shallow scooped depression lay something dark and oblong—no bigger than a grapefruit. He crouched, set the shovel aside, and brushed away the remaining earth with slow, practiced care.

     Its surface was slick like riverstone, but not uniform—faint tessellated patterns ran across it, shifting subtly in the light, like the glint of polarized film or oil on water. The shapes weren’t etched so much as embedded, moving ever so slightly, as if alive beneath the skin.

     Fiddleford peered over his shoulder. “What in Sam Hill is that?”

     Ford didn’t answer at first. He slid both hands beneath the object and lifted it carefully.

        It was warm.

     Not just sun-warmed. Internally warm. Radiating.

     Ford felt the heat pulse faintly through his palms—something steady. Something alive.

        “I don’t know yet,” he said, transfixed. “But I think our bunker project just paid its first dividend.”

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[Read Entire Work Here]

[Theres a Playlist, too ¨̮]

[highwayphantoms]

Happy friday! "Can you walk? I'd be happy to carry you" for Rook/Davrin!

Thank you for the prompt! Had some fun with this one, hehe.

For @dadrunkwriting (VEILGUARD FIC)!

Slight spoilers for the middle of the game, but nothing that spoilery lol.

-

A nice walk in Arlathan Forest with Davrin and Assan. It should have been the easiest, calmest hour of the whole week.

And then they’d taken one wrong step. It was a familiar sequence of events: their ankle went sideways, Aquile collapsed into an awkward heap, and grumbled a halfhearted curse. To add insult to (mild) injury, Davrin had seen the whole thing. Before Aquile could even begin to get back up off the ground, he asked, “You okay, Rook?”

Aquile sighed, exasperated. “Yeah, I’m fine,” they said.

He did not look convinced. “Do you usually fall over for no apparent reason?”

“Just twisted my ankle,” they replied. Not entirely true, but easier than trying to explain that their ankles were wobbly pieces of shit. “Mind giving me a hand up?”

As Davrin stepped closer, Assan dropped from the sky with an inquisitive chirp. The griffon peered at them for a moment, as if assessing whether his presence was needed, then evidently decided it was, as he planted his butt on the ground to watch while Davrin offered Aquile his hand. Aquile took it, and Davrin promptly hauled them back to their feet.

Much to Aquile’s irritation, the ankle that had folded under them twinged painfully as they put weight on it again. “Great,” they muttered under their breath.

“Rook…”

“I might have done slightly more than twisted it.” That was new—in all the times they had rolled an ankle, it had never done any real damage—but then they realized one critical factor. It was the same ankle they’d broken at Weisshaupt. Though they’d fought a fucking Archdemon on it while broken, they thought it had healed up nicely afterwards. Clearly not.

“Can you walk on it?” Davrin asked, his expression entirely too sympathetic for their tastes. “I’d be happy to carry you.”

Their cheeks burning, Aquile glanced away from him. It was ridiculous, really. He was just being nice. There was no reason to be embarrassed. And while Aquile was quite certain they could walk on it—it would just hurt the rest of the way—some part of them very much wanted to take him up on that offer.

Well, fuck. When did that happen?

Not that it was unusual for Wardens to get together. It happened all the time—after all, it was hard to have a relationship with someone who wasn’t privy to the countless secrets you were obligated to protect. Still, that didn’t make it a good idea. Wardens, after all, have a marked tendency to die.

“Uh,” they said, as eloquent as ever. “I mean, I survived Weisshaupt with a broken ankle—”

“And multiple broken ribs, a concussion, and more bruises than Assan has feathers,” Davrin said, deadpan. “None of which you told anyone about. All due respect, Rook, but I think it would be best to head back to the Lighthouse.”

They scowled at him. “And, what, you’re going to carry me halfway across Arlathan Forest?”

“Guess so.” A beat passed, then Davrin shot them a smirk that quite plainly said you don’t fool me.

“Well, if you insist,” Aquile replied with mock offense. “My knight in shining armor, and all that.”

He chuckled and took another step towards them, closing the distance between them to mere inches. Aquile was not that much shorter than he was, and yet he picked them up as easily as if they weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. They made a small, surprised sound, and as undignified as it was to be draped across someone’s shoulders like a hunter’s prize catch, Aquile was far more interested in how warm Davrin was. Feeling rather like a spoiled cat, they settled in for the walk back to the eluvian.Of course, being a healer, Aquile could have fixed their own ankle with a little delicate spellwork, but if it meant getting such dotingon from the big, scary monster hunter, well… who were they to complain?

[flatoutin-eaurouge]

I don't want you to see me cry

Pairing: Mika Häkkinen x Michael Schumacher

"Are you... are you going back already? Are you leaving me here alone?"

Aila Häkkinen stared at her son's tear-stained face and swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. It was as if some invisible force had slammed a hammer against her heart, making it crack, making it shatter, then crumble to dust.

Her wounded heart ached for the crying boy in front of her. The boy that looked so pale and devastated, so unlike what he used to look like. Gone were the beaming blue eyes and the never wavering smile. He was so vulnerable and in pain. How could she ever leave her baby boy thousands of kilometers away from what they called "home".

She wished she could just quit her job and care for her son full time, but she couldn't.

"Mika, kultaseni. There is no other way. We can't stay here for many weeks to come. No one knows how long it will take for you to recover." She carded her fingers through his hair, while trying to fight against her own tears.

Mika didn't understand. His father had left days earlier for the same reason as his mother: their jobs. Mika had offered to pay for their expenses. His parents could both very well quit their jobs and still be financially stable. He lived in a Monaco pent-house for heaven's sake, he could do with a little less! But his mother had clasped his hands between her own and had kissed his palm. "You don't need to pay for us, kulta. You might need all of that for the future."

First Mika hadn't understand the meaning behind it, but he quite quickly realised what his mother had meant. And it made him nauseous. His parent's minds were two steps ahead. They wanted him to safeguard all his money in case he would end up paralyzed and disabled for good.

The reality of it had downed on him like a dark thundercloud. It had made him even more anxious and depressed. Even more afraid of the future.

"But I will have to be here for so long!" A big fat tear rolled down Mika's cheek.

Aila shook her head in sorrow. She knew how much difficulty Mika had with showing emotions openly in front of people he didn't know well. She was afraid he was going to surpress it all, which she believed was detrimental to his healing process.

"Mika, honey, I believe you are in good hands! They have saved your life and they know what they're doing. I will ask them to keep an extra eye on you."

She gathered her hurt son in her arms and kissed his brow, then tucked his blonde head under her chin. 

"We will miss you and we will throw you a big party when you are allowed to leave the hospital! We are going to call and write. We will visit you every oppertunity we get!"

Aila rocked Mika back and forth in her arms as if he was still her little baby from 1968. She tried to ignore the tremors running down his spine, afraid that it would make her stay with him. Afraid that she would indeed quit her job and live on the money that Mika might need very much in the future. No matter how much she wanted to stay, it wouldn't be a wise decision for that exact reason.

"Bye sweetheart. I know you can do it! You will walk and talk like never before! I know you will, my champ!"

With those words she let go off him. She slowly walked backwards to the door of his room, to the exit. She couldn't stop her tears from falling. She had to make this quick in order not to change her mind.

She blew him one more kiss, then shut the door of his room behind her, leaving her son alone like a lost and clueless puppy.

In the hallway of the hospital – on the floor Mika's room was located – his mother halted a nurse. There was one more thing she needed to do before she left to Finland. "Miss, could you please keep an extra eye on Mika? He is very lonely... maybe he needs a roommate at some point?"

As soon as his mother had left, Mika collapsed onto his bed in a boneless heap, taking shuddering breaths. He stared at the ceiling apathically as silent tears trickled down the corners of his eyes. He mourned the finality of it all... the shut door... his mother out of the country soon. It caused a painful lurch in the beating of his already sore heart. His hands coiled in the sheets and tugged at the soft material to distract his restless mind.

He was alone. Only him and his traitorous mind, that constantly reminded him how weak he was and in how much physical and emotional pain he was. Every twist and turn in the bedlinnen hurt, but if he laid still... for hours... his limbs screamed for movement.

The door only opened for relief and agony. Relief when nurses came in to refill his IV-bag with morphine. Agony when the same nurses came in to drag him from his room and have doctors use him as their lab rat for their medical tests.

The silence and the lack of distraction made that he experienced every sensory change tenfold. He could sense with every minute passing by how the effect of morphine lessened. Hell, he could write a scientific book on "morphine" based on his own empirical observations.

What if he did? It would be a welcome distraction. But at this point... could he properly write with a pen? Could he type coherent sentences on a laptop? Probably not. Both his fine motorskills and the creative left hemisphere of his brain had suffered great damage. At this moment he couldn't even stop his left eye from blinking out of sync with his right eye.

Every day his mind was consumed by darkness while in his room it was very much light. The neon tubes on the ceiling pestering him as he tried to find peace. Peace with himself and the situation he was in.

He hated that in the hospital he had nobody to talk to. Most nurses were very business-like. A few nurses wanted to coddle him like a baby. None of them could make him laugh. They were all very serious about the matter... of course they were! He had escaped death! But he knew that very well himself!

Mika believed that the only uplifting things he could gather would be from little chats with people. He was dissapointed in most of the topics of conversation people in the hospital initiated with him. It was always about pain elevation and homesickness. He knew they were only providing a sympathetic ear, but it didn't work for him. Although pain elevation was very much an interesting topic of conversation when his morphine was running out, because the pain was unbearable most of the time.

His head was throbbing all the time. The inside of his throat was sore because of the removed tracheotomy. He was going insane in his bed and his major daytime activity was trying to keep his mind sane. He wanted to cry but he didn't want anyone to see him cry. His progress was slow, although Mika counted himself lucky that there was progress at all.

He could walk down the entire corridor of the fifth floor without collapsing to his knees. His hearing got a little better. He slowly started regaining his smell and taste. These positive developments were the only anchor to his somber mind.

The progress also caused a new development.

"Mika, we have administered another patient to your room. You've made so much progress in the last couple of weeks, and you seem to be coping quite well emotionally. So you will be getting a roommate today."

The nurse changing his IV-bag smiled at him. "I hope you like it."

Mika froze in place. A roommate?! Coping quite well emotionally?! If that woman only knew... He was crying his eyes out when no one was looking. He didn't want a roommate who could witness how weak and desperate he was!

"Why?!"

"Your mother told us on the phone you are a bit lonely in here."

Mika frowned. "Yes, I am, but I don't need anyone in my room! Can't I suffer in privacy?"

"Oh Mika," the nurse pouted and caressed a strand of hair from his face. She was one of the 'coddling nurses'. "I thought you would like it. Don't worry, he will only be here for a few days. Your new roommate has a complicated leg fracture. He will have surgery today."

"But why would you put someone with a leg fracture in the same room as someone with a fucking skull fracture?" Mika said a bit disconcerted. "Do you think it looks pretty to see someone whine for more morphine?!"

"I've seen a lot of patients looking less pretty," the nurse flirted with him.

Mika glared at her. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave her the silent treatment.

"Sorry Mika, but he will be here in a few hours."

Mika had fallen asleep in the course of those few hours, being very much unaware of who was being wheeled inside his hospital room.

Michael Schumacher stared at the sleeping patient with the rosy cheeks and the angelic features. His skin however was paler than before, and had lost its previous glow of life and happiness. How did he end up in same room as Mika Häkkinen?! The poor guy had almost died! How is he allowed in his room? To see a sleeping Mika Häkkinen in this intimate setting made him blush. It felt illegal to witness it. Michael knew journalists had been lurking around the hospital walls to see a glimpse of the unfortunate boy.

Mika stirred in his sleep as if he could sense something was different.

Michael watched him from the corners of his eyes and couldn't help but be endeared by the sleeping Finn. His precense filled Michael with a sudden calm. It put into perspective how lucky he was to have only suffered a leg fracture from his most recent crash. Mika was here well over a month now, and he himself could leave in a few days.

He noticed the damp crimson spot on Mika's pillow and gasped, not aware that it was one of the long lasting complications of internal bleeding and tracheotomy removal. He watched as Mika accidently smeared his face and hair with the blood as he turned in his bed again. It caused his sleepy face to frown and his eyes to flutter.

Mika felt the warm sticky moisture on his face and cursed silently. "Not again. Perkele." He slowly opened his eyes and startled when he noticed Michael Schumacher's vibrant emerald eyes staring directly at him. What?!

Michael stared into the saphire blue eyes of Mika and could only mumble a: "I am sorry."

Mika's eyes blinked again, this time in confusion. He didn't want this. He didn't want Michael to see all this. He quickly turned around, facing away from the succesful F1-star, and burrowed his face in the blood-stained pillow.

Michael didn't know why he had said "I am sorry" because he had done nothing wrong, but it still felt like the right thing to do, especially since the Finn clearly didn't like his privacy being invaded.

"Mika?" he tried. "Are you okay? I am sorry for being here. And I understand if you don't want to talk."

Mika listened to Michael with tears shimmering in his eyes. He couldn't turn around to him and he couldn't reply. Michael would see him cry like a toddler and he didn't want him to see.

Michael sighed and sagged down into the pillows. He felt bad about the situation. Mika was ignoring him and his leg was throbbing like crazy. It really hurt and the bandages around it itched like hell. He really didn't know what to do. He could only wait for the the sutured skin tissue to heal after his surgery.

After a few minutes of silence, both their heads went up when a nurse entered the room.

She rushed to Mika's bed and gently lifted his head, reaching for his pillow. "Oh it happened again. The washing machine runs overtime with you as a patient".

She noticed Mika's teary eyes and immediately felt bad about her stupid joke. "Mika, I am so sorry! That wasn't funny at all!" She quickly grabbed a tissue to wipe at the tears and the bloody smudges on his face.

Michael saw it all happen in front of him. He startled to see Mika's shoulders shaking, a sniff followed by a whimper escaping his trembling lips. Though his face was partially turned away, Michael could see the glimmer of tears as they left a trail down his cheeks, plopping onto the blanket at a rapidly speeding pace.

Mika knew he couldn't hide his raw emotions for long. But to be exposed as a crybaby in only a matter of minutes saddened him even more. What would Michael think of him?

Michael was thinking many things, but thinking of Mika as a crybaby wasn't one of them. He wanted to walk to his bed to console the Finn, to tell him there was nothing to be embarrassed about, but he couldn't. His broken leg stopped him.

"Mika?" He tried again after the nurse had left.

Mika now did look at him. What did it matter now anyway? He has seen me cry. "Yes, Michael?"

"I don't know where to start. I have apologized to you already, but a I am really sorry for invading your privacy! You deserve a room for yourself alone."

Mika shook his head. "Please don't apologize for that, Michael. I have had a private room for more than a month. It's not your fault and I am terribly sorry to see you have broken your leg!"

"It's nothing, Mika! I can hardly say it's bad when you are lying here in bed for weeks on pain killers!"

Mika shook his head as more tears trickled down his cheeks. "Please don't say that!"

Michael swallowed against his own tears. Again, he didn't know what to do. He wanted to be close to his rival. He wanted to hold him and tell him everything will be alright. He wanted to tell him that he could foresee a trophy standing in his living room instead of a wheelchair.

"Mika, can you walk?

"Yes, but not too far. Why?"

"Could you please come over?" Michael bit his lip in anticipation. His caring nature urged him to console Mika. Michael knew Mika needed it, but the Finn probably didn't want to admit that he needed affection.

With hesitation in his eyes, Mika pushed himself upright in his bed and very slowly and inelegantly swung his legs over the bedframe.

He slowly strode towards Michael's bed with his face twisted in concentration. He couldn't wobble on his trembling legs, or worse... fall over in front of Michael.

He halted in front of his rival and gave him an awkward little smile. The best one he could muster with half of his face paralyzed.

Michael stared at him for a long time, taking him in from head to toe. Except for his adorable crooked smile, Michael barely noticed the paralysis. His rival was alive. Alive and walking, albeit slowly.

"What are you looking at?"

"I just realized how good it feels to see you doing so well."

"But, I am not doin-"

"Yes! Yes you are doing well," Michael interrupted him. "Have you never thought about how bad it was when you were rushed into ER here? Do you not realise how far you've come? All of us were told you were fighting for your life!"

Mika blinked at him in confusion. Why did he never think of that? People outside the hospital knew about his accident, but they didn't know a single thing about his healing process. And of course they were speculating... his McLaren seat was not on the market for next season yet... so something must be going on.

"Yes... I was... fighting for my life." Mika looked down at the pristine tiles of the hospital floor.

"But you aren't anymore!" Michael stretched out a hand and let it rest on Mika's back, motioning him to sit down on the edge of his bed.

Mika sat down, but didn't say a word. He stared at the cast around Michael's leg, wondering how even the best in the sport could end up in a hospital. His hand shot out in the direction of said leg, his fingers hovering over the cast, as if he wanted to heal the fracture with secret, invisible powers.

"We don't belong here."

"No, we don't."

Michael watched him with great intent as he felt his heart fill with a sudden warmth. His own hand reached out and started to caress the soft blonde locks of his rival. He was very careful, because he knew that underneath that mop of velvety hair Mika was hurting very badly.

Mika turned around to look at him. A blush spread across his pale cheeks as Michael continued to caress his hair. He grabbed Michael's hand gently and kept it in place on the side of his head. "It distracts from the constant throbbing."

His own hand moved down to stroke the unharmed upper part of Michael's broken leg. "I hope it does the same for you."

Michael sighed and stared into Mika's eyes with great adoration. "It does!"

They sat like that for over half an hour, talking about life at the hospital until Mika's morphine started to run out again.

The Finn squinted his eyes against the pain. He removed Michael's hand from where it was still resting against his head. Tears forced their way outward, their damp tracks making his cheeks glisten in the neon lights on the ceiling above them. And worst of all... Mika couldn't surpress a heart wrenching sob.

Michael saw how Mika's calm demeanor had changed into that of a pain tormented soul in a matter of minutes. He could understand Mika's negativity if pain struck like that and progress was so slow. A month into his healing process and Mika was still relient of pain killers.

Michael scooted a bit to the side, making room on his bed, and guided Mika to lie down next to him. He curled an arm around the Finn and pressed a hand against his sweat-matted brow.

"It's okay, Mika! Take deep breaths!"

"Every fucking day it happens twice! Every early morning and every late afternoon!"

Mika shook in agony. His fingers started tugging at the stands of his hair, causing small tufts of the blonde fluff to drift through the air. Michael stopped the action by taking both his rival's hands in his own.

"Don't do that! That won't help!"

Mika burrowed his face in the hollow of Michael's neck and wept quietly. Any embaressment he had had about crying in front of others was gone.

Michael gasped in pain when Mika curled against his side and accidently hit his hurt leg. He supressed a whine in order not to upset his rival. The Finn was already dealing with his own pain, which seemed to be constant. He could bump into his leg as much as he wanted if it meant he would be more comfortable on the bed.

When Mika began to shiver and his teeth began to chatter, Michael covered the both of them with his heavy blanket. His arms tightened around the shaking Finn, holding him impossibly close. Nothing strange about sharing some body warmth.

"I miss my mom," Mika sobbed.

Michael realised that Mika must be delirious with pain, because all barriers he had put up around himself had crumbled to dust. Again, it felt illegal to witness this. Michael softly murmered in Mika's ear a promise that he would never tell anyone about this vulnerable moment.

[captonite]

Would you still like me? Genre: Angst / Comfort / Hurt-Soft Healing CW: Injury, self-blame, fear of abandonment, trauma response, hurt/comfort, heavy emotions, Dean and Sam being absolute big brother soul-savers. Lots of “baby” and “Chubs.”

It was just supposed to be a salt and burn

Simple. Easy.

Sachi had handled worse in her sleep.

But this one? It went sideways fast.

Rotting floorboards. A collapsing staircase. And then—

Snap.

Her scream echoed through the house like something out of a horror movie.

She Can’t Move Her Leg

Dean reaches her first. “Sachi? Hey—hey, talk to me.”

“It’s broken,” she gasps, face pale. “I heard it snap.”

Sam slides in beside them. “We gotta get her out of here.”

She’s crying, shaking, clinging to Dean’s jacket like it’s the only thing holding her together.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I messed up again. I didn’t look where I was going. I—I—”

Dean grips her hand. “No. Don’t even start that.”

“But I always ruin it,” she chokes. “Every time things get okay, I ruin it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, baby,” Sam says firmly. “You got hurt. That’s not the same.”

She doesn’t answer. Just squeezes her eyes shut and whispers something neither of them catch.

---

In the motel room, Sam props her leg up with pillows. Dean brings her water. They’ve barely slept, and neither of them will leave her side.

But Sachi’s gone quiet.

Too quiet.

They’re used to her grumbling about being fussed over. Rolling her eyes when Dean tucks blankets around her. Teasing Sam for reading instructions on how to ice a fracture like it's rocket science.

But now?

She just stares at the wall.

---

That night, she breaks

She thinks they’re asleep.

She tries to stand, wincing hard, gripping the chair to take pressure off her leg.

She wants to get to her bag. Wants to run. Can’t run. Wants to disappear anyway.

She makes it two steps before she collapses in a heap, gasping in pain.

Dean’s immediately awake.

“Sachi?!”

Sam’s at her side in a second.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I didn’t mean to wake you—”

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean’s voice cracks.

“I—I thought maybe I should go. You don’t have to deal with this. With me.”

Sam kneels down. “Why would you even think that?”

“I’m broken,” she whispers. “Again. And you said last time that it was too much, and I don’t wanna make you choose between me and staying sane, so—”

Dean cups her face, gently, tilting her head to look at him.

“Hey. Look at me. Listen. You being hurt doesn’t make you a burden. It makes you ours.”

She shakes her head, sobbing harder. “You’ll leave. Everyone leaves.”

“Not us,” Sam says, voice thick. “Not ever.”

“You screamed at me last time.”

“And I’ll regret that for the rest of my life,” Sam says, tears in his eyes. “But I didn’t leave. I looked for you for four days, Sachi.”

Dean presses his forehead to hers.

“You could lose both your legs and we’d still carry you, baby.”

“Everywhere,” Sam adds. “Even the bathroom.”

That earns the tiniest wet laugh from her.

Dean kisses her forehead. “We’re staying, Chubs. Right here. No matter how hard it gets. You couldn’t make us leave if you tried.”

“You still want me?” she whispers.

Sam wraps his arms around her from behind, holding her up.

“More than ever.”

---

The morning after, they don’t let her sleep alone. Dean’s in the chair beside the bed, Sam curled on top of the covers beside her, a protective arm over her waist.

She wakes up sore, swollen, but not alone.

There’s coffee on the nightstand. Her favorite hoodie freshly washed and folded.

Dean’s voice is soft behind her. “Morning, baby.”

Sam murmurs from the blankets. “You’re stuck with us.”

She smiles, just a little.

For the first time, she believes it.

[blackjackkent]

By far the most annoying thing about the battle with the Avatar of Myrkul is this motherfucker:

Fundamentally what this means is that anyone near the big boy cannot get healed, which is a problem given that Rakha has the constitution, robustness, and mental stability of a single sheet of tissue paper.

Nevertheless we persist.

MVP status for this fight goes to Lae'zel, who landed a disarming attack on the first strike of the battle and knocked Myrkul's giant-ass scythe out of its hands, then action surged four attacks on it and dazed it with a pommel strike.

Aylin continues to eat shit repeatedly every time I do this fight, which I continue to blame on her having been a century out of practice, bc she always does a lot better in Act 3. :P

In the end, Rakha gets the final blow with a barrage of magic missiles that smash in the avatar's skull mask and send a shower of bone splinters raining down around them.

-----

The monstrous form fades. Ketheric collapses at Rakha's feet, a man again, mortal. His blood soaks him from head to foot, drips out in gory spatters on the rock.

The beast screams with glee in Rakha's head, watching him die. You mocked me, but you die like all the others, whimpering, pitiful. Who is the mad dog now?

"Impossible," he wheezes. "Death cannot take me... I am its master..."

He struggles to his knees, his eyes lifting again towards the cavern's ceiling. "My Lord! Hear me!"

Silence, but for the low slap of water against the rock around them. His shoulders slump. Blood drops through his beard, along the ridges of his armor.

"Nothing..." he whispers. "I am forsaken."

She steps forward, grips the front of his armor, gives a short, sharp jerk. "Answer me before you die, Chosen of Myrkul," she growls. "Tell me what I need to know. Who am I?"(*)

His eyes drift out of focus past her shoulder. "You... have no idea what you've done..." he whispers weakly.

"WHO AM I?!" she bellows, releasing him with a jerk. He nearly topples over, all the strength gone from his body. Light begins to pour from his eyes, his mouth.

"Isobel..." he whispers, and she watches and feels the deep shuddering pleasure of the beast as the life flows out of his body.

His corpse collapses in a heap at her feet.

Silence.

Rakha's head aches. She stares down at Ketheric's body. This has been her only goal for so long, almost since the crash, almost as long as she can remember, and now it is finished. She feels empty, drained - she waits for the feeling of fulfillment and it doesn't come.

What do I do now?

Before she can muster the energy to speak, a pale white glow streaks down from above them, an avenging angel homing in on the broken body before them.

"THE VILLAIN IS DEAD!"

The Nightsong. Aylin. She slams her boot into Ketheric's head and Rakha watches as his skull explodes, brain matter spattering in all directions, coated in black, corrupted blood.

"THE WRETCH!" she howls. "TOGETHER WE HAVE CRUSHED HIM, BODY AND BRAIN!"

Rakha watches, fascinated. Aylin's eyes are alight with her goddess's magic. Her movements are jerky and frantic, desperate. She pounds her boot again and again into Ketheric's head, flattening it into the ground, into a pile of shapeless meat.

She is just as majestic in this moment as she was in her flight out of the Shadowfell - but Rakha sees beneath that facade of light. Underneath is a river of rage, the fury of the prisoner released after a century of torment. Vengeance. Animal destruction.

This is what Rakha looks like when the beast overtakes her, reflected in the form of this creature of ostensible good. It is surreal to see it in another.

Eventually Aylin calms. Her eyes lift; the light has faded from them. Rakha recognizes that look on her face, too - the weary acknowledgement of her own violence, its mindlessness, its ultimate pointlessness.

"Now," the aasimar says softly. "Now we pick our way toward our fates... unleashed."

Rakha doesn't answer. What is my fate? she thinks bitterly. A lost animal, doomed to stagger forward forever, hoping only to sink her teeth into the 'right' prey.

To her astonishment, Aylin straightens and inclines her head with a sudden air of respect. "You have my sword - my fealty."

Fealty. Rakha blinks, bewildered. Why?

She draws a slow breath and lets it out. Because there is more ahead. Ketheric is dead, but the Absolutists still live. The tadpole still sits in her head. Her vengeance isn't complete.

And she realizes she is afraid. She is beginning to learn that there is nothing good for her in the memories that are lost to her - and also that following the trail of the cult will only lead her to more glimpses of whatever dark path she once walked. She will have no rest from the beast, from the war inside her head, because the path that lies ahead will be as soaked in blood as the path behind.

But the cult marches on the city. Rakha has never seen it - but Wyll has. It was his city, once. His father is still in the Absolute's clutches. She has to keep going - for Wyll, if not for herself.

She swallows. She doesn't feel able to speak. But she meets Aylin's eyes and she nods.

Aylin returns the nod, sober and serious as the grave. Perhaps she understands something of the turmoil that boils in Rakha's head, just as Rakha understood the rage that burns in hers. "Do what you must," she says softly. "Then we fly this foul place."

[jazzyinspace]

🌱 🌎 🐄 & 👤(Aries!) for Jeff! (I'd love to know more about him!) 💙

Thank you so much! 💙

(Admittedly, one of these questions in particular took me a bit to answer...for reasons 🥹)

🌱 What's their basic information? Name, gender, age, that sort of thing

Answered here, but I can share something else 💙

Jeff's items & inventory:

(Note: this man is almost always over-encumbered, and nothing can change that, not even the ridiculous amount of carry weight boosters that he has on his person.)

💙 Armor pieces in desperate need of repair–everyone around him lets him know, rightfully so.

💙 Nukashine Beer Hat, which doesn't contain actual Nukashine.

💙 His signature Bottlecap Sunglasses

💙 Blue Ridge Caravan outfit–a wastelander recently offered him 20k caps for it (true story).

💙 Healing: Stimpaks, RadAway, Rad-X

💙 Lunchboxes

💙 Honey (for Sweetwater)

💙 Nuka-Cola–no, his hat isn't enough.

💙 Food: pepperoni rolls, bubblegum, Rudy's canned pozole

💙 Plant cuttings

💙 Pictures of friends and loved ones, including various cryptids.

🌎 Do they have a favourite region of the world map (e.g. the Forest, the Ash Heap...)? A least favourite region?

❤️: Cranberry Bog

Although the Forest was a fast favorite with everything being in one relatively safe area, Jeff grew to love the Cranberry Bog over the years. As dangerous as it can be sometimes, he feels the most whole there. There's nothing like those misty mornings, blue hours, and radstorms overlooking the cranberry rivers. His work and friends/loved ones are all there, too.

❌️: Toxic Valley

Jeff will only travel up to the Toxic Valley if he absolutely has to. At least Grafty, the "Snallies," and Wavy Willard's are up that way.

🐄 The Blue Ridge Caravan Company?

So much changed when folks started returning to Appalachia, Jeff included.

He found himself aligned with many factions over the years, wearing multiple hats on any given day. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but something was missing.

Jeff didn't know that a random visit to the Cranberry Bog one day would bring him closer to finding out what that was. He's grateful that he gave the Blue Ridge Caravan Company a chance, and the same can be said to Joanna (and Vinny?) for him.

It's tough work being a caravan guard, but it's rewarding. He's always more than happy to lend a hand (or Redd Upper) whenever he's called up. His efforts help folks in Appalachia (including his BRC crew) and beyond–and that means the world to Jeff. 💙

👤 A specific character? (specify who!)

responderschief: (Aries!) for Jeff! (I'd love to know more about him!) 💙

So, I don't know where to begin with this answer 🥹 I haven't written a story/scenario for Jeff since year one of Fallout 76, but I decided to let inspiration take me ✨️

Jeff smiled to himself.

It had rained earlier in the evening. Mud from the ditches that lined the Cranberry Bog stuck to Jeff's boots, squelching beneath him with each step. Behind him, he could hear his friends and co-workers singing along to the song playing on Appalachia Radio. Nearly every verse ended with cheering of some sort, punctuated by clinking bottles.

He was just there at his camp, unwinding with everyone after a long week of traveling back and forth through Big Bend. He had daydreamed about this get-together during his breaks, or whenever Vinny tasked him with getting everyone back on track or whatever.

It was nice to see everyone having a good time–well, almost everyone.

Rudy had found Jeff in the kitchen, preparing two plates of food and filling up an empty bottle carrier with drinks. The merchant smiled at his blue-haired friend and gave him an encouraging pat on the back. Jeff eventually declined Rudy's kind offer of helping him get from one side of the east tunnel base to the other, but maybe he should have–

Lost in thought, Jeff nearly dropped everything in his arms as his boot landed in a hole that wasn't there the day before. He managed to correct himself, sighing in relief.

"Bravo, Knight-Errant! Smooth recovery. Yet another reason why the Brotherhood of Steel have been keeping you around, huh?"

Aries was sitting where his train car door would close, next to the gulper skin that adorned the outside.

Jeff looked up at the source of the voice and let out a defeated laugh. "More like Knight-Errand, but yeah."

Aries chuckled. He helped Jeff up the ramp, then returned to his previous spot with enough room for his fellow caravan guard to slide in next to him.

Jeff popped open a beer for Aries and a Nuka-Cherry for himself. The pair enjoyed their dinner together in comfortable silence, even with the party behind them surging on.

Jeff's gaze settled on the sparse sundew grove, which was beautifully illuminated under the foggy moonlight across from them. He could definitely get used to this, whatever this was.

"Uh…hey, Jeffy?" Aries started. "Thanks for…" Everything, he thought.

Jeff slowly turned his head toward the source of the seldom-used nickname. He did his best to hide his burning cheeks behind the hand holding his half-full Nuka-Cherry, and his smile was just as warm.

Aries looked at Jeff, a smile of his own forming beneath his mask. He immediately forgot what he was going to say, but that was okay.

fin.

Also, I wanted this to be a separate post, but I'm too excited to share:

(Thank you to @jonnyonearth who patiently waited for me to take pictures, as always 🥲❤️)

[numericalbridge]

Title: At the Precipice (The Rot AU)

Fandom: The Owl House

Rating: G (briefly mentioned and implied character deaths)

Word count: 2464

Characters: various

Summary:

On the Isles plagued with the Rot fourteen-year old Darius spends his morning battling with anxiety and worrying about his relationship with his father, until the routine is interrupted by the arrival of an unusual visitor.

---

In the dream he was running from the Rot. The putrid grayish-green waves threatened to choke out the whole world. He ran until he stumbled and fell to his knees, wheezing. And that’s when the Emperor appeared, the golden cloak billowing in the wind, the mask bright and cold. Radiant light swirled around the jagged staff, and even the Rot retreated before its purifying glory.

Relief washed over the boy, but then the Emperor turned round to face him. Pinkish flood was running down the mask from the empty eye sockets, like tears or blood…

---

Darius woke up in his bed, gasping for air, pressing his hands to his chest. The pale morning light fell through the narrow windows of his room. At the foot of his bed the palismen stirred and murmured. A peahen and a horned crayfish he’d been fostering at Daddy’s insistence. Darius gently swung his feet to the floor, careful not to disturb them any more. He tried to steady his breath.

“A bad dream,” he whispered apologetically to the critters.

He slid his feet under the purple carpet and wiggled his toes. The anxiety was building up. He slid his feet out.

From the heavy dressing table near the bed the new doll stared at him with dead green eyes. Another present from his father. Darius sighed. He had heaps of toys, all kinds of them: cloth and plush, wooden and ceramic, many of them custom-made... most of them purple creatures with blank green eyes. On the shelves and on the windowsills, on the chair and on the dressing table. Rows and rows and rows of them, threatening to take over his small room.

Darius hesitated, then reached for his scroll. Another village on the Southern Condyle had to be evacuated because of the Rot. No fatalities. A band of robber wild witches attacked a military outpost near Bonesborough. A convoy was looted. The restorations of St. Epiderm’s facade were going on well.

Darius patted the palismen on their heads and opened the chat for the Hexside drama club that Raine had recommended to him – the kids were nice, and chatting with them was always fun. Smiling a little, he reread their conversations from previous days. But this morning nobody seemed to be awake just yet.

He put away the scroll.

Careful not to step on the toys that didn’t fit on the shelves or anywhere else in the room, he prepared water and some fruit for the palismen. He wasn’t sure whether the creatures actually needed the food, but they seemed to enjoy playing with it. Their bowls were purple, of course.

He went through the motions of his morning routine. Today was his free day, and he had no classes or training, and so he could take his time.

He carefully chose the outfit for the day. Nothing flashy, but, after studying his reflection in the mirror, he decided he looked good. The frame of the mirror was purple too.

He applied one of the fashionable liquid concealment stones – the product of a rare frivolous collaboration between the Healing and the Illusion Covens – to dye his hair. Now his locs were almost the same colour as his eyes. Cool. He used the stones often, and the effect was always striking.

He whistled while making his bed. The bedclothes, the silken pillows, the quilt – everything was purple. Daddy had assured him over and over again that he could choose any colour he liked, but Darius could tell what Daddy really expected him to pick. But it’s not a big deal, not really.

After saying goodbye to the palismen Darius left his room.

---

The corridors of the Castle were quiet at this time of the morning, and when you looked out of the tall narrow windows you couldn’t see the Rot anywhere. Darius paused briefly, imagining the Golden Guard, in full regalia, saving the common folk and vanquishing the Emperor’s enemies. What would it feel like to be out there? It was foolish to daydream about it, of course. The Rot was not fodder for picture-book adventures. Darius felt the anxiety returning.

He strolled slowly down the corridor, nodding to the passing servants. Should he go and watch scouts train in the yard? The day already loomed ahead empty and purposeless.

The ping of his scroll. A new message from Raine! Darius couldn’t hide his smile. Unlike Daddy or the tutors, Raine always seemed to know what would cheer him up.

He opened the message.

“Good morning, Darius. How are you doing? Busy training?”

“No,” he typed out honestly. “Today’s my free day. Every third day is. Don’t really know what I want to do today,” he couldn’t resist the urge to complain.

They replied almost immediately: “Oh. Then, maybe you could help me out? ^o^” A cat face emoji? Seriously? They really type like an old person.

“Can you look for ‘Music of the early Savage Ages: Concepts and Classifications’ in the Castle’s library? I’ve heard it should be among some of the oldest collections. I can explain some spells from the book to you later.”

Darius considered it. He supposed the book would be in a very remote and, strictly speaking, forbidden section of the Old Library… but he had nothing better to do. “Sure, I can try.”

“Thank you so much! Oh, and you’ll probably find some fascinating works about the Empire’s early history in the same collection. I think they might interest you.” Another cat emoji. Darius rolled his eyes and immediately felt guilty: Raine seems so lonely…

Perhaps he shouldn’t trust them so easily – he still didn’t know them very well after all – but they seemed harmless. He even briefly wondered whether one day he’d be able to visit them… wherever they lived… and maybe they could tutor him in bard magic. Just another daydream. Daddy had made it very clear that these days it was far too dangerous for children to travel because of the Rot and the wild witches.

Still, after this brief exchange with Raine he felt less anxious.

Murmuring his favourite song from the 'Ride the Gryphon' musical, he took the stairs down to Daddy’s study room. ‘The cozy office’ Darius used to call it when he was younger. Unlike the other offices around the Castle or the oppressive Throne Room, ‘the cozy office’ was sunny and comfortably cluttered. There his daddy did paperwork and sometimes accepted visitors with petitions.

The guards stationed at the door let Darius in at once.

“Good morning,” Darius muttered awkwardly. “I hope I don’t interrupt...”

Daddy smiled at him from the messy desk. “Darius! Up so early? You truly are your father’s son,” Daddy laughed at his own ‘joke’. Embarrassing. “Come, give your dad a kiss.”

Tips of his ears twitching, Darius dragged his feet over to the desk. He was fourteen, almost a witch grown, and yet his father didn’t seem to realize it. Darius allowed himself to be babied, and only rolled his eyes a little. Not like his father ever noticed.

From beside Daddy’s elbow his palisman chirped his greeting. He was very old and cracked all over, and he couldn’t really fly anymore, only flutter a little, so he spent most of the time resting on the pillows that Daddy hand-sewed for him. Darius patted the bird on the head. The palisman was made for their family generations ago, Daddy had told Darius, and deserved to rest and enjoy the comfort.

“So, Darius,” Daddy returned to his work, signing and stamping papers, but his eyes were still smiling. “How is your morning? Did you eat breakfast?”

“I’ll eat later.” Darius settled onto a bench by the side of the desk. “You know I never feel hungry early in the morning,” he reminded his father.

“Hmmm,” Daddy hummed. Already immersed in the paperwork.

“The palismen are doing well,” Darius added, trying to get more attention. He used to love to just sit and watch his father work, and help where he could, and talk. Perhaps today Daddy would have time to eat breakfast or dinner together? Or maybe he would tell Darius one of the stories about his glorious younger days. Darius loved those stories, even though sometimes they made his father sad. The story he loved the most was the funny one about the time Daddy had participated in a sports competition. Darius loved it even more than the heroic tale about the slaying of the great basilisk. Perhaps today he will tell it again… but Daddy continued working, nodding to himself and petting his palisman from time to time.

Darius frowned. He was getting jittery again. “Maybe I’ll go to the library today,” he said. It felt awkward, talking to his father like this when he clearly didn’t have time for Darius. “But only if it’s alright with you…”

Daddy looked up from the document he’d been reading. “Of course you can go. Just be careful. And, please, stop being so apologetic. You have to become more confident.”

“Of course, Daddy.” Of course. A true Golden Guard wouldn’t constantly falter and hesitate. “Can we, maybe, go together?”

Daddy’s eyes – their colour the only feature he shared with Darius – softened. “I’m sorry, Darius. I am very busy... as is usual with me...” he chuckled. “I know, I know... But the Rot is spreading rapidly in the South...” Daddy shook his head. “But don’t you worry! We’ll find a way to stop it, as we always do!”

“Of course, I understand.” Darius felt something, not just the usual anxiety or fear, flutter inside his chest – Daddy looked very sad, almost forlorn. He looks old. Darius felt sorry for him.

Daddy shuffled some papers, examined one of them more closely, then sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. “Lilith Clawthorne’s passing had affected me too, I guess,” he muttered. “I didn’t expect that.”

Darius looked down at his feet. What could he say? The apprehension was growing, and it was tiring. Darius pressed his hands to his chest. But Daddy was constantly worried too. Daddy is sad all the time.

Darius shuffled his feet. “I… I’ve made a new spell!” More confident. More Golden Guard-y. “I’ve created it all by myself… well, um, with only a little help from the guys from this chat…” Actually, Raine had given him some tips, but they had insisted that he shouldn’t even mention them.

“Really?” Daddy’s face brightened, his eyes lit up. He pushed his quill aside. Now he looked excited, almost like a little kid. “Show me!”

Darius stood up and straightened his shoulders. A withered goosebump plant was living out its last days on the corner of the desk. Darius pointed at it and whistled while drawing a spell circle with his finger. A familiar deep hum resonated inside his chest, as always happened when he performed complicated spells. The plant responded, its branches spreading and dancing. Invigorated by the tune.

“Ah, a bard spell…”

Darius’s hand froze. The spell faltered. Daddy’s mouth was a thin, stubborn line. His eyes were hard. Disappointed.

Darius lowered his hand. There’s no point. He knew what would follow.

Daddy blinked, catching himself. “Oh. Oh, no, baby!” he hurriedly got up from the desk. “Of course every magic is good! Great, even! Darius!”

Here he goes again. Daddy roughly drew Darius to himself and peppered his temples with quick, smothering kisses.

“My son is so talented! You are wonderful, my baby, it’s your Daddy who is too old-fashioned… But I’m unlearning it!” Daddy laughed nervously. “You know how back in my day the bard magic was considered weak? That's all it is!”

His palisman squawked angrily.

Darius supposed he should expect a new toy very soon. That’s how it always went with his father: first disappointment, then guilt, then suffocating affection and meaningless presents.

“But you’re doing so great!” Daddy had gone red in the face trying to convince himself.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Darius pulled away from him. “Really. It’s nothing.”

But Daddy wasn’t listening... Then his ears flicked, and suddenly his eyes were sharp. He motioned: Silence.

Darius listened. Sounds of a commotion outside. Shouts?

With a sharp motion of his hand Daddy signaled for Darius to stay back by the wall.

The mechanical staff – tall and imposing, all sharp edges – was already in Daddy’s hand. He put the mask on. Darius hated the mask. Gone was Daddy, and only the Emperor remained. Sharp-witted and coldly playful, the golden feathers of his cloak shining like wyvern scales.

Darius straightened up too, like he was taught to stand at court – still and alert.

“Your Grace!” a red-faced guard opened the door. Someone shouted something from behind him in a language Darius didn’t recognize. “This old woman is causing trouble!”

“Let me through! Let me in!” An elderly woman barged into the study, her walking cane clacking on the stone floor. She was older than Darius’s tutors, probably as old as Raine, and had a bandage covering her left arm. She breathed heavily, as if she was very tired.

“Are you the ruler of this place?” she demanded, adjusting her thick glasses with her free hand.

“A human?” Daddy muttered. Darius stared – yes, the ears! A human on the Boiling Isles? His breath caught. What does it mean?

“Leave us!” the Emperor barked, and the guards bowed and scurried away.

“Yes, I am the Emperor of this Realm. Now. How did a human get here?”

Darius felt an unusual sort of pressure building up in the room.

The woman frowned, “Emperor... You are the one they call Hunter, yes?” She swayed a little, leaning heavily on her cane.

Something strange then happened. Daddy turned away from the woman and leaned his arms on the desk. Like… like he didn’t know what to do or what to say. Like he couldn’t face the woman? Then he tore off the mask. But he almost never exposed his face in front of strangers!

Darius felt something bigger than fear creeping up his spine. He saw that Daddy’s magenta eyes had darkened to an almost amaranth colour.

“Afraid,” someone said. Something soft and heavy bumped into Darius’s shoulder. “He is afraid.” Darius looked and saw that Flapjack had fluttered his way onto his shoulder. Darius cupped him into his hands. The pressure was building up.

The Emperor drew himself up and turned back to the woman.

“Hunter… haven’t heard that name in a long while…” he mused. “How do you know it, human?”

The threat in his voice was obvious, but the woman didn’t react, as if she hadn’t heard him at all. Dread, Darius felt dread.

“My name is Camila Noceda,” the woman said. “I came here searching for my daughter. I’ve been searching for over twenty years, and now I am going to get my answers.”

[punkscowardschampions]

Ambux & Lush pt.1

Amber: Tell me to mind my own

Amber: but are you okay?

Lux: I didn’t hurt you, did I?

Lux: I’m so sorry for running like that, I felt kinda sick, I needed to find some space to be alone

Amber: I’m this close to a fake out, but hey, we all know this place’s first aid kit doesn’t contain bandages

Amber: no though, you didn’t really

Lux: I’d be surprised to learn of a first aid kit at all, if not for your ma

Lux: Good, I think I stepped on some guy’s toes, I don’t know who though

Amber: It’s [the name of a strain of weed and whichever essential oils the girlies are using to heal themselves and we’re shading because sick of it haha]

Amber: that’ll teach him not to wear shoes, ever, when there’s a time and a place

Lux: I’ll be careful not to need anything stronger than peppermint

Lux: At least I wasn’t wearing my heels, that’s something, I suppose

Lux: Thanks, for asking, I know I looked like a 🦇 out of hell

Amber: Do you need something for your stomach?

Amber: not that I’m asking for myself out of a need to leave before this bonfire or anything

Lux: It’s my head, really

Lux: not like I’m crazy or anything, nerves, that’s what I mean

Lux: I was going to go but now I can’t… have you been invited to another party somewhere else?

Amber: Not even, that’d be all my head like I’m crazy, in no world am I getting heaps of invites

Lux: But you’re so cool

Amber: [the name of this commune] cool

Lux: I don’t know how to fit in here

Amber: You’re too sane

Lux: Never been accused of that before 😌

Amber: I know what you mean, first to be hit with the accusation of insane, me every time

Lux: Why don’t you want to go to the bonfire?

Lux: if you don’t mind me asking

Amber: I’ve got my own nerves, I guess you could say

Lux: It’s a lot of people

Lux: it always is, but all in the one spot doing the same thing

Amber: This thing happened with one of the people and I usually avoid him in the day to day, but I know he’ll be there tonight doing his thing

Lux: That makes sense

Lux: it’s sort of like you have to join in every activity here or you’re not being supportive or group-minded… I can only pretend to be sick so many times

Amber: Mama got to you too, say no more

Lux: No, it wasn’t her

Lux: someone welcomed me, was trying to convince me of the utopia this place is

Amber: Oh, it was Dash

Lux: Does he always do that?

Amber: Always is a stretch

Amber: but you’re who he would, for sure 

Lux: That doesn’t sound good…

Lux: Was he playing some kind of prank?

Amber: I’ve made him sound way more shady than he is

Amber: I just mean, you’re his type

Amber: new, available, cute girl is him all over

Lux: He was talking about you, you don’t need to apologise

Amber: He used to talk at me before I spelt out he’s too young to be using words like those in my direction

Lux: I’m so stupid

Amber: No, he’s smooth

Amber: he’s put in the work with heaps of girls before either of us

Lux: I’m not just a normal girl, with normal experiences, he knows that

Amber: In fairness to him, he’d see you as one

Amber: for all his flaws, that’s not

Lux: I told him

Amber: Did you run away, is that what that was?

Lux: Yeah

Amber: And I’ve made you feel worse, running my mouth

Amber: I’m so so so sorry

Lux: No, it’s all entirely obvious

Amber: I could be wrong, I am about heaps of things

Lux: You aren’t

Lux: he told me, about you and his da, that’s who you don’t want to see, isn’t it?

Amber: How and why would my sex life come up? God, I don’t know why I’m surprised, why wouldn’t it? 

Amber: typical this place

Lux: I did say he shouldn’t gossip

Lux: we were talking about his parents, I think, but beyond that, yeah I don’t know why he brought it up either

Lux: well, now I realise he thinks it’s impressive, aspirational behaviour

Amber: Generational toxic masculinity being alive and well inside these walls is no big shocker either

Lux: Oh God, how do I avoid him forever

Amber: If I get a working system going, I’ll let you know

Amber: his dad is the kingpin of suck, it knocks me genuinely sick I went there

Lux: Is he not, like, extremely old?

Lux: I couldn’t call his daddy a creep to his face but… why did you?

Amber: [drop his exact age because you are mortified]

Amber: I don’t know what happened, there’s a whole long story how it did, not long enough to excuse me though

Lux: I know some girls like older guys, I’m not judging you, only him

Amber: I do when Dash is asking, and I’m not about to lie about truth to it at other moments, but

Amber: circumstances were what they were, he was there, not exactly in a he could’ve been anyone way, there’s levels of unhinged I haven’t reached

Amber: I was upset and how he decided to comfort me was the least creative method there is, to keep the story short

Lux: My sort of boyfriend from home, I only kissed him because he was the only gay guy I knew of

Lux: that makes me feel mortified admitting it but my point was we probably shouldn’t be that hard on ourselves

Amber: Being kind to myself is hard when no one else is about it

Lux: Yeah, I know what you mean

Amber: And he’s so persistent, I officially can’t be found crying ever again

Lux: I could promise to look after you if you promise to stop me from talking to him again, beyond the polite, community-spirited small talk

Amber: Okay, I promise

Lux: 🤞

Lux: Why were you crying?

Amber: It was stupid, I had a fight with mama

Amber: I don’t remember what about now, everything and nothing

Lux: Ah, I understand

Amber: I was in a hammock trying to silently, or quietly anyway, sob it out and he got in thinking mine was empty

Amber: damn near tipped me out, and when he saw I was crying he thought he’d hurt me, like his body crushed me or something

Lux: That’s a shame, it’s almost cute

Amber: Which is what got me to fall for it

Lux: I’m sorry

Amber: He was being nice and I wanted someone to be nice to me

Amber: I know you like her, but she can be so not, to me at least

Lux: I know parents can be one thing to the world and quite another at home

Lux: I’m not going to tell her

Amber: When I kissed him, I reckoned even as I went to go for it that it would be okay because he’d stop me, how could he do anything else, right? He’s old enough to be my dad, and for the record the older men I like are always under 30, but he didn’t

Lux: He should’ve

Lux: but as you said, unsurprised he didn’t

Amber: I should’ve snapped out of it, had words with myself

Lux: You were upset, and a kid, to his adult anyway

Amber: She couldn’t even bring herself to treat me like a kid when I told her, just once would it kill her?

Lux: What did she say?

Amber: She had the pill waiting for me next to a mug of green tea and a plate of cut up fruit before I’d opened my mouth, she must’ve heard through the grapevine, I didn’t ask

Lux: Oh

Lux: Helpful but clinical

Amber: And the fruit’s caring, she did chop it up before her prepared speech about what she’s trying to do here and how happy my daddy is teaching you all

Lux: She thought you were making a point, throwing a tantrum, parents always think that

Amber: Maybe I was, I don’t know, part of me

Lux: Maybe you had a point

Amber: I hate living here, and in the heaps of other heres like this

Lux: It’s their dream, the life they want, not yours…

Amber: Check my privilege definitely, talking to you, I know how I sound

Lux: Not at all, it’s nice, to be talked to like I’m normal

Amber: Congrats, you’re pretty normal, but I can’t be or I’d have shut up half a bad sex story ago

Lux: If I had my own to share I’d chip in but

Lux: not that kind of normal

Amber: I’m proud of you for not getting under that boy, from your past, but also Dash

Lux: I did K-I-S-S him up a tree, like a complete cliche but that’s as far as that goes, scouts honour

Amber: The bloody orchard, been there

Amber: every boy treats it like he’s the first to think of it as a uniquely romantic destination, I swear to god

Amber: calm down, they’re a few apple trees

Lux: 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️ I can never forgive myself for entirely losing my brain

Amber: It was a good kiss, I forgive you

Lux: I didn’t say that, did I?

Amber: Honey, you didn’t have to

Lux: Oh no 😩

Amber: It’ll be okay, I’ve promised

Lux: He’ll be onto the next new girl or boy, or back to my previous, I’ll have to just get over it

Amber: What hiding spot are you using? I could come find you, bring [whatever the best food and drinks are this lame bonfire has to offer]?

Lux: I’m in the attic

Lux: there’s no ladder yet and you are quite short, no offence

Lux: I could give you a leg up though

Amber: Some taken, I’m short but I’m super flexible

Amber: ask Dash’s dad, except don’t

Lux: 😶😶😶!!!!!

Amber: He didn’t last long enough to experience [whatever advanced af yoga pose you’re namedropping here because you’ve probably been doing yoga since you were a literal baby, love to shade Caleb for being bad at sex and I will take every opportunity thank you]

Lux: Were you still in the hammock? 

Amber: Oh yeah, he wasn’t going anywhere once he struggled in

Amber: it was over so fast I’d have been able to forget it happened right after if everyone else would let it go

Lux: That really sucks

Lux: do you think Dash will say anything to anyone?

Amber: How did you guys leave things? Was he pissy and petty or mr nice guy?

Lux: Okay, I think

Lux: I just said I’m not going to the bonfire, he didn’t seem mad

Amber: He won’t say a word if he thinks you’ll climb up another tree with him, he’s no idiot

Lux: Ah, yeah

Lux: smart thinking

Amber: His school friends are a separate little world, but I’m there to overhear and I’d let you know

Lux: Thanks

Lux: maybe it’s best I don’t know, don’t think about it

Amber: We can do that too

Amber: maybe there won’t be stuff to talk about anyway, if he’s not about you to the lads

Lux: If he’s done that and more with however many people, yeah, why would he

Lux: You’re right

Amber: I’d brag, you’re beautiful, but I didn’t say that because girls are more than their looks and objectifying anyone is wrong, blah blah blah, I know

Lux: 😳 But coming from you, woah

Amber: Don’t worry, it’s not coming from me like that, bisexuality is assumed because of how I look and where we live but I’m not, despite the pleas to give it a chance

Lux: I’m not worried

Lux: and probably not bisexual either

Amber: It wouldn’t be any easier, girls can suck as bad, I’ve lived with heaps who do the most to live up to the very worst stereotypes boys have of us

Lux: If only things were that simple

Lux: I’d give it a chance, in a heartbeat

Amber: Anything once, or I’d be disowned for being narrow minded

Lux: Labels are my bag, another Dash-ism

Amber: He’s awesome, I completely understand why everyone’s falling over themselves on any given day

Lux: 🙈🙈🙈

Lux: I blame my parents for sheltering me so much

Amber: Hard same, but the opposite

Amber: someone give me a bit of shelter please, that sounds really nice in the right quantities

Lux: There must be a nice balance there in the middle… and some lucky people who get to experience it

Amber: Unfair and therefore I imagine 100% true

Amber: like me not having sex since, because I just can’t, and him being the lasting impression and memory I’m left with now

Lux: That is unacceptable

Lux: You have to find a nice boy immediately, a normal one from your school, not here

Amber: Nice, normal boys are intimidated by my alien otherness

Lux: And your ridiculous good looks, undoubtedly

Amber: Ridiculous, yeah 

Amber: good, I don’t know

Lux: You don’t look ridiculous

Amber: My parents have been letting me get tattoos from the age of [I dread to think but the point is that you’re saying you’d have made different choices if you’d been older which anyone who gets one as soon as they are 18 even usually agrees with so]

Lux: I would have made infinitely worse decisions than you seem to have, if that’s any consolation

Lux: I went through so many awful names before ending up where I did

Amber: Sorry, my brain’s designated you agony aunt tonight for some reason

Amber: I’m not even high, I guess that could be why but I’m not going to think about it, a problem for another day if I’ve got a drug problem

Amber: this name suits you, thankfully, more than mine does my accent

Lux: It’s been mutual, and as I can’t talk to anyone else about him, it’ll have to stay that way so you better take up the chance

Lux: The contact high is permanent, I try to avoid it and it’s impossible so

Lux: you’re cute, Ambah

Amber: Girl, we need to get you in school

Amber: cleaner air, other gorgeous lads, friends who aren’t my mama

Lux: But your da would miss the conversation with someone over the age of [however lil these lil kids are giving lol]

Amber: She’ll shepherd in some more teens any day now, especially if she hears your wool is going black

Lux: 💔 Ouch

Lux: I know I can’t hide here forever but

Lux: I don’t know if I can step foot inside a school again

Amber: I know it’s scary, I stayed out of spite for ages because I’d begged and begged to go and I didn’t want to give the satisfaction of an I told you so

Amber: then it got gradually better, honest

Amber: I’ve found a little tribe and everything, the work’s still hard and I’m laughed at for being grades and years below where I’m meant to but I don’t hate going every day

Lux: It’s brave of you, without meaning to sound patronising even a little

Lux: I don’t know, I don’t feel safe anywhere so it shouldn’t be any different on my nerves, I guess

Amber: I’m stubborn, like someone else we both know

Amber: When’s your birthday? You’d be in my year, I reckon, the one they’ve kept me down in for not knowing heaps of things

Amber: we’d have each other

Lux: It isn’t a bad trait, if she wasn’t, I’d still be at home or God knows where

Lux: [tell her because you would be]

Amber: Okay, that’s settled

Amber: I do need to warn you, Dash will be around too but you can’t let that put you off

Lux: Settled?!

Amber: Uh huh, daddy will fix it up for you when I talk to him and you’ll get to come to school with me

Lux: You’re kinda scary you know 😅

Amber: Yeah, I am, school’s got nothing on me

Amber: I’ll watch your back

Lux: He said that too, not to accuse you of coming onto me now 

Amber: I’d be tempted if he was the kinda boy who’d back off but he’d just expect both of us to be his girlfriend

Lux: 💀💀 me

Amber: That sounds bad, I’m not saying I would because you were born a boy biologically, I hope you don’t think I was getting at that

Lux: I wasn’t taking it as a serious proposition, or like that, promise

Amber: I’ll throw myself off the attic height, I promise, or just stop talking

Lux: You have to tell me all about school first, including who else to avoid

Lux: but we can do that in person, if you want to

Amber: If I ever show up in person

Amber: mama was throwing daggers when I first tried to leave, then daddy wanted a dance, then Caleb was blocking the exit dealing

Lux: 😬

Lux: Do you know what happened to Dash’s ma?

Amber: What do you mean by what happened?

Lux: Why’d she like, leave him here

Lux: when clearly Caleb isn’t a good enough father to be left raising him

Amber: Leave him?

Amber: Honey, hold on, did he tell you he lives here?

Lux: Yeah, I swear, I asked him where he sleeps and everything

Lux: what do YOU mean that he doesn’t?

Amber: He sleeps here sometimes, at the weekends

Amber: he isn’t like us, he doesn’t have to stay

Lux: Oh my God

Amber: He’s fully got a house, I’ve been there when I was new

Amber: I didn’t meet his mum or whatever but he’s got one that he assumedly lives with

Lux: It just gets worse and worse

Amber: I’m sorry, I didn’t know his web of lies was including a fake backstory

Lux: Now I’m doubting what he said, or what he purposely didn’t

Lux: but I’m not reading it back, it doesn’t matter now

Amber: How sick

Lux: I thought she might be dead, seriously

Lux: I wouldn’t have leapt to those conclusions for no reason

Amber: Giving him the tiniest benefit for the shortest second possible, I didn’t meet her, maybe he does live with someone else, different family and she is gone, I’m not sure

Amber: he doesn’t live in [the name of the commune] with Caleb though

Lux: I think she’s around, he talked around everything, in hindsight

Lux: he would think it was Utopia, it’s a holiday for him

Amber: He’s having the luckiest escape me not knowing where he is right now

Lux: I do

Amber: Where? I’m going to kill him

Lux: He won’t be alone

Amber: Like I care

Lux: I do

Amber: I’ll get rid of the audience, he’ll be ecstatic to be alone with me, he’s been trying to be for months

Lux: That doesn’t make me feel better

Lux: it’s not you, it’s… whoever else

Amber: I’m lame as at this, aren’t I?

Lux: No, he’s just a jerk

Lux: tell your ma that you’re going to make me [some remedy for stomach aches she swears by] that should buy you some time without the daggers

Amber: Okay, yeah, I’m on that

Dash: what’s up?

Lux: Nothing

Lux: you?

Dash: I ain’t heard jack from you in time

Lux: What’s to say? We only had the one convo, like

Dash: wdym 

Dash: we’ve had no bad scene, why you being off?

Lux: You can’t think of a single reason?

Dash: nah

Dash: ??

Lux: So you do that whole routine every time but why’d you lead me to believe you live here when you don’t

Dash: what routine? 

Lux: Playing dumb and making me describe it all to you is annoying, you know what routine

Dash: I don’t

Lux: You said it yourself, fresh meat, not subtle really, in hindsight

Dash: you’re getting unglued over a past I laid on you?

Lux: No, it’s not your past, it’s now

Lux: you let me think your ma abandoned you here when you literally have a home

Dash: I said she split from the farm

Dash: she did

Lux: I think it was pretty obvious I thought you lived here, you don’t

Dash: I feel at home here

Dash: why am I the big bad 🐺 for that?

Lux: You can say you didn’t lie but you didn’t tell the truth once

Lux: if you were actually interested in getting to know me, you wouldn’t have been so duplicitous 

Dash: I told you my truth

Dash: no scams, fake or plastic nowhere near what I rapped to you

Lux: I’m sure there’ll be someone new before we know it

Dash: yo, how can you be like this?

Lux: How can I?

Lux: That whole tree bit isn’t even your idea!

Dash: someone’s been putting ideas to you to get you to trip

Lux: Why would anyone want me to freak out?

Lux: You had reason to want me to buy what you were selling

Dash: reason to want you, you know it

Lux: That’s as far as it goes

Lux: chalk it up to a loss, I suppose, I will a complete mortification

Dash: you’ve gone off the deep end

Lux: You’re gonna call me crazy? Like this isn’t a really bad look for you as is

Dash: you’re gonna act it, running round behind my back checking up on what words I’ve put out there when you could’ve just come to me to untwist this all for you

Lux: How could I trust you to

Lux: it’s said and done now, I shouldn’t have behaved so stupidly

Dash: you never trusted or it wouldn’t be said & done 

Lux: I don’t want to be friends with someone who only wants to screw me

Dash: not my action or my energy

Lux: Sure thing

Dash: I’ve kept this thing honest cos I’m sure we could have something unreal

Lux: How much did we even find out about each other?

Dash: finding out don’t gotta be a mad 🏃🏼‍♀️⚡️ like you jetting from the orchard

Dash: we were vibing

Lux: I just feel like you weren’t interested in getting to know me, or letting me get to know who you actually are

Dash: you think I’m a phoney cos you’re listening to idk, beats me who

Dash: instead of me

Lux: Someone who had similar experiences, enough that an off-hand comment hit base

Dash: they couldn’t

Dash: the experience we had hit different

Lux: Don’t tell me I’m special when the opposite is true

Lux: I don’t need to be special, I’ll survive but it’s mean to tell me otherwise

Dash: I’m telling you the opposite ain’t

Dash: who else was there?

Lux: You do it all the time

Dash: it don’t feel that way all the time

Lux: I don’t know, I only have one person to compare it to

Dash: comparing you to [however many] people, I know you’re special

Dash: & we were making magic happen together

Lux: We could still be friends, if you were willing to be more open, not mislead me, intentional or otherwise

Dash: whoever’s snitching’s misleading you about me

Dash: I’ve opened myself up to you 

Lux: And I did to you

Dash: you’ve closed off now

Lux: You said it’s not a race, if you mean it, getting to know each other properly shouldn’t be an issue

Dash: you haven’t moved, you’re on some 🐢 race

Dash: keeping yourself hid while I’ve been 👀 for you everywhere

Lux: You have not

Dash: have

Lux: Not very hard

Lux: and you took someone else up that tree when I didn’t show

Dash: I kissed up to Hazel ages, it was a real drag

Dash: & quit trying to rattle me, you didn’t show

Lux: You didn’t even wait, what, an hour?

Lux: Imagine I had shown up, you don’t think that’s harsh

Dash: this isn’t a trip you can lay, you weren’t gonna, I was hip to that before I did anything

Lux: Proving that marking the tree out was just to make you look good and make me feel bad then

Dash: when I marked it I was keeping the faith, I waited & you didn’t change your mind

Lux: You have the attention span of a gnat, clearly

Dash: I wanted to hang with you, you shut me down

Lux: Because I was upset

Dash: you ran & then went 📻🔇 babe

Dash: I don’t dig that either

Lux: A friend would have cared, someone who only caught the tail end bothered to make sure I was okay

Lux: you didn’t

Dash: you forced me to go to the bonfire

Lux: You know why

Dash: you knew it’d be a bummer without you

Lux: Doesn’t sound like it was though

Dash: you cut me low, friends cared

Lux: How do you think I felt learning it was all recycled

Dash: it wasn’t

Lux: How could I get told every move play-by-play without needing to prompt the convo at all

Lux: It’s fine, that’s how you operate, I was the idiot for assuming otherwise

Dash: search me, I’m not the slick operator I’m being painted as

Lux: As a potential friend, I should probably let you know that the whole orchard thing has been caught on to then, like, big time

Dash: caught onto as what? my fave place to 💭 & 💤?

Dash: it’s where I chill & I like you so I brought you, there’s no conspiracy

Lux: You didn’t bring me there to 💭 & 💤

Lux: and that’s not the general consensus of why you take anyone there, why anyone does

Dash: we could’ve

Dash: you’re turning on me & this dark

Lux: You’re allowed to do what you want, and I didn’t say you forced me

Dash: I’m not with none of what you’re talking about

Dash: I don’t get it

Lux: Are you embarrassed by it being obvious or?

Lux: It’s more embarrassing to have fallen for it, trust me

Dash: I wasn’t playing

Dash: I don’t about 😍

Lux: Can we just, I don’t know, draw a line under it?

Dash: you can

Dash: I’m not gonna just get over it

Lux: Why are you making this my fault?

Dash: why would you believe everybody but me?

Dash: you felt how for real I was

Lux: I can’t ignore when someone tells me that you laid the exact same thing on them when they were new

Dash: but you can tune me out for as long as no sweat

Lux: You don’t know how I’ve been feeling

Lux: what about hiding from you says that I’m okay?

Dash: you’re acting like I feel zilch 

Lux: That’s how it feels

Dash: I didn’t know it could feel like you’ve got a 2nd 💓 but that’s how I did

Lux: Dash

Dash: nah, don’t name me when you’re trying to shame me in the same breath

Lux: You’re confusing me so much

Dash: I told you about chosen family

Dash: I would’ve about her if we were tight

Lux: Okay

Lux: it’s not that you owed me it’s just weird that you didn’t mention you don’t live here, then I look so dumb when I act as if you do to someone who knows what’s up

Dash: it’s heavy & someone can rap like they’re hip to what the deal is all they want but they’re full of it

Lux: They didn’t say they knew your whole life story or anything

Dash: right on, stories to turn you off & hassle me’s their bag

Lux: If you feel that hassled, I’ll leave you alone

Dash: nah, colour me gone, I’ll bail

Dash: you live here, I’m only a tourist

Lux: Don’t put that on me

Lux: like I haven’t stayed out of your way this whole time

Dash: you’re shining a light on me not being welcome

Lux: You can’t expect everyone to want you like that

Dash: my expectations were I could hang with my da & friends & make new ones without it being how you’re making it sound, like I’m out to shaft everyone for my own kicks, whenever I want

Lux: No one is stopping you from either of those things, no one would

Dash: cos I’m gonna roll up on a bad scene & have a good time, gimme a break

Lux: So you can upset me but I try to have a conversation with you and that’s, like, evil

Dash: what convo?

Dash: you’re jazzed to draw a line under me

Lux: It’s like you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said

Lux: I’ve asked if we can start again, be friends, I’m not going to beg you

Dash: you don’t trust none of mine

Lux: We don’t know each other, you didn’t trust me with your truth

Dash: yeah I did

Lux: didn’t

Dash: I gave you more truth than you could deal with

Lux: No you didn’t

Dash: that’s how it felt watching you leave & stay backed off

Lux: That was about the people who showed up, I told you that

Dash: & now you’re telling me how uncool I am

Lux: We’re just incompatible in that regard, maybe

Lux: you want to be with everyone

Dash: I wanna to be with you

Lux: Not now you don’t

Dash: more now

Dash: you’re so choice, I don’t have one

Lux: Do you think I’m playing hard to get?

Lux: because I’m not, where’s the sense when you know exactly how quickly I gave in to you

Dash: your sweetness soured the whole orchard for me

Dash: yeah I made a move on someone else but kissing them couldn’t go near the rush kissing you gives me

Dash: whenever I 💭 about it I’m lit up 🎇🌌🌟

Lux: Why is it a rush?

Dash: you’re electric

Dash: our chemistry is

Lux: Did you miss me this time?

Dash: you want me to rap what you already know’s my deepest truth?

Lux: I don’t know anything, anything you think or feel

Lux: you’ve been moving onn, with anyone you can

Dash: nah, I can’t 

Dash: you’ve blown my mind & I’ve got a totally different head after

Dash: 💭🧠👀 fresh

Lux: It could be a good thing

Lux: My mind is changing, has to, to be here, move on

Dash: we could be on the journey together

Dash: 🌱 next to each other

Lux: I suppose we will be, you’re here all the time, home or not

Dash: don’t hit me with it like you’re bummed

Lux: I’m not, I promise

Dash: friends?

Lux: It’s a truce

Lux: friends 😌

Dash: groovy cos I’ve something for you

Lux: Really?

Dash: right on, want me to pass it to Hazel?

Lux: You really been talking to her too?

Dash: yeah

Lux: I bet she’s given you a harder time than me

Dash: that’s my karma

Lux: 😏 I wouldn’t go that far

Lux: It was a misunderstanding, more than anything

Dash: beats no idea how you are, like you were giving

Lux: I didn’t think you wanted to know

Dash: you don’t think I care

Lux: Didn’t

Lux: I believe you now, that you want to be friends

Dash: cool

Lux: Cool, he says

Dash: what else?

Dash: I’m not shining you on & you’re finally with that

Lux: You’re cool, I told you before

Dash: 🤞🏽🤞🏽 what I made’s as cool to you when you take 5 to grab it

Lux: Are you sticking around? We could hang, if you want

Dash: if you do

Dash: where?

Lux: You can recommend another place

Lux: this time I swear I won’t assume the worst

Dash: [give her directions again, I’m imagining a stream that’s on the boundary of the plot this commune be on, because that’s a mood even if it’s tiny and there’s barely any running water]

Lux: Okay… I THINK I know where you mean and can get there on my own, see you in 5 🤞😌🤞

Dash: or I’ll look for you in 6

Lux: Good thinking

Dash: keep the faith first

Lux: I’m not directionally challenged, just new

Dash: 🍒

Lux: Kinda sour

Lux: Do they grow here?

Dash: new & kinda perfect

Dash: [tell her everything that everyone is growing here because we all know there’s a massive veg patch as well as the orchard which she’d already have experience of from being and eating here but I’m sure there are also sneaky other overspill corners for other things that she might not]

Lux: The food is fresh

Lux: taste depending on who’s head chef, though

Dash: should’ve grabbed 🥪🍎🍌🍊 my bad

Lux: I can

Dash: didn’t teach you how to 🤹🏼‍♀️ yet but go for it

Lux: Didn’t ask me if I already know either, like

Dash: girls are hip to carrying 👛💄👜👠🔮👑👓🌂💐🛍️🎀🧸🎈🔑📚📱☕️

Lux: Around here, definitely

Dash: & at school

Lux: You’re meant to offer to carry their 📚s

Dash: you dunno I don’t

Lux: Uh-huh 😏

Dash: I’ll carry your 👜👠 back

Dash: or you on mine, whatever

Lux: I’m a professional, I can wear my heels almost anywhere

Lux: tree climbing was even a step too far for me, mind

Dash: wearing ‘em in the water ain’t the move

Lux: We’re going IN the stream?

Dash: you gotta on your first time or she’ll be offended at you

Lux: Who will?

Dash: the water

Lux: Oh

Lux: well, in that case, I better get changed

Dash: I’d’ve been better keeping my mouth shut & throwing you in 😏 

Lux: You think so

Lux: I just finished this, I wouldn’t wanna be your friend if you ruined all my hard work 🐺

Dash: finished what?

Dash: quit holding out on showing me your 🧵🎨

Lux: [send him pics, I’m imagining the type of artsy clothes where it’s made of something recycled that would not withstand water for real, not practical, hardwearing clothing because you do fashion more like that for the art and not everyday lol]

Dash: that’s the most! 

Dash: 🤯🤩

Lux: I needed something to do in my hiding spot

Lux: but the kids wanted to see it today so I put it on

Dash: idk what to say 😍💓  you’re like a serious 👩🏼‍🎨

Lux: That’s a nice thing to say, thank you

Lux: Amber’s daddy lets me do it for an hour a day, whilst he’s doing finger painting with the kiddos

Dash: what hour? I wanna be there to 👀

Lux: One when you’re at school too, man cub

Lux: but I’ll show you my sketches, whenever

Dash: later?

Lux: Sure, if you haven’t tried to drown me

Dash: floating vs drowning, you remember

Lux: Amber wants me to go to school with her

Dash: you down?

Lux: I don’t know

Lux: sometimes I think it might be fun, but my last school wasn’t, the reality of this one probably doesn’t match the ideal in my head either

Dash: sit with it for a sec

Dash: Amber being rash don’t mean you gotta, y’know

Lux: I’m glad she likes me that much

Dash: I like you that much

Lux: I know, you mentioned it too before

Lux: I didn’t realise she was in your year

Dash: establishment won’t let her pass hers

Lux: Makes sense, school hasn’t been the focus, wherever they’ve been

Dash: was it her?

Lux: Huh?

Dash: who ratted on me

Lux: She didn’t rat, she’s the person who asked me if I was okay after though, I almost flattened her on the way in

Dash: she didn’t tell you I don’t live here & all that stuff?

Lux: I said something about it being hard to avoid you, because you lived here, she corrected me

Lux: it’s not snitching

Dash: 🐀  she thinks she’s righteous cos her mama’s taken on this place for a cause

Lux: She does not, her and her mama argue all the time

Dash: I tried to give her a shoulder when she showed up but she didn’t wanna lean long

Lux: I know

Dash: she’s against [the name of the commune] that’s why I took her to my ma’s house

Lux: Makes sense

Dash: didn’t work

Lux: Again, I know

Lux: you’re too young for her

Dash: everyone knows I am now

Lux: You’ll get over it

Dash: I’m ages over it, she’s been around since [whatever month]

Lux: Great to know the time we’ve got left

Dash: take it easy

Dash: timing to see we 👀 at things through different lens is what I meant

Lux: I’m just teasing you

Dash: you do wanna get thrown round

Lux: No I don’t

Lux: you deserved it and more

Dash: you’re my karma, huh?

Lux: Maybe

Lux: though I’ve no doubt Amber not liking you back cuts deep enough on it’s own

Dash: not anymore 

Dash: I’m about new depths with you

Lux: Smooth, very smooth

Dash: I clocked some time 💭 you didn’t like me back

Lux: I was going to try not to

Dash: eats me up

Lux: Don’t, I want to like you

Lux: and I want to like it here, to feel like I belong, make it work

Dash: everybody’s got their arms out for you, just let yourself feel it

Lux: I just want to be me

Dash: you can be whoever you want & take whatever you need from all of us, you’re home, you found it

Lux: I’m not like people where I’m from but what if I’m not like people here either, what’s the next move, what if I run out of places

Dash: your heart’s as open as anyone I’ve met here, that’s all they ask to accept you in

Lux: Then I’ll really try

Dash: 🏡🌞 & 🌚

Lux: You can help me, with the stuff I don’t understand

Dash: you name it 🦊

Lux: 😌🙏

Lux: I’ll start the list

Dash: in your head on your way

Dash: I can’t wait no more

Lux: I already knew you had no patience, I’m on my way

Dash: 👼🏼🙏🏽

Lux: You just want your 🥪🍎🍌🍊

Dash: I wanna give you your 🎁 babe

Lux: I do like 🎁s

Dash: come find me then

Lux: I am!

Lux: You know I had to get changed as well as forage

Dash: I know you can 🏃🏼‍♀️⚡️

Lux: When I need to

Dash: like now

Lux: You need me to

Dash: & you need it too

Lux: We’re not kissing, okay

Dash: 👌🏽 

Dash: we’re still in the same ⛵️ with our same 💓

Lux: Yeah

Lux: I don’t want to lead you on, any more than I want to get hurt

Dash: I’ve got you

Lux: 💓

Dash: as a constant

Lux: I believe that about you

Dash: that’s my girl, you gotta believe

Lux: 😳

Dash: I’m forever gonna be 🤯😳🥵 about you

Lux: I will be about you

Dash: you’re an untouchable part of me now, whatever

Dash: new heights & depths

Lux: Do you like English at school?

Dash: nah

Lux: but you’re so poetic

Dash: if we read about girls like you maybe I’d be into it

Lux: Have you read Orlando?

Dash: who?

Lux: The Virginia Woolf book, it’s about her lover, it’s good, you’d like it

Dash: I’ll go buy it before school, gimme something to do all day, reading it

Lux: There’s even pirates in it

Lux: You can borrow my copy

Dash: you draw your 🎨 in it?

Lux: Of course

Dash: rad, I’ll borrow yours

Lux: You can draw in it too

Dash: 👨🏽‍🎨

Lux: or make notes, whatever feels right

Dash: write you one 💌

Lux: I hope it will make you think of me

Dash: already all I do & my whole 👜🎒

Lux: You make it so hard to hold my resolve

Dash: I only wanna hold you

Lux: I miss something that only happened once like it was my everyday

Dash: it can be

Lux: It can’t

Dash: why?

Lux: Because we want different things

Dash: I want you & you want me

Lux: You want 🍒 over all else, I don’t think I can handle being replaced, maybe jealousy is my bag but, it is what it is

Dash: you’re irreplaceable

Dash: you’re my golden girl

Lux: Do you mean it?

Lux: it’s a nice thing to say but is it just that

Dash: you felt it with me & I’ve said you were different for me

Lux: I can’t stop remembering how it felt

Dash: what happened happens how many times? we can’t let it go like we’ll find it again somewhere else, no biggie

Lux: but there are so many things I don’t know that you do

Lux: and I don’t mean physical things, I don’t know if I like girls like that, I don’t know if I like sharing

Dash: we’ll get answers together

Lux: My need for you scares me

Dash: you’re safe

Lux: You’ll look out for me?

Dash: no falling from no 🌳s cos you’ve got that tie to me

Lux: It’s different with me, with us

Lux: you mean it

Dash: I’ve been ate up by you staying clear of me

Lux: I missed you, so much, thinking it wasn’t real killed me

Dash: it’s unreal

Dash: I rapped to my own ma about you too

Lux: What did you talk about?

Dash: I did 😢 more than speak if we’re keeping things honest

Dash: about blowing it when I finally had a beautiful thing, true believable magic

Lux: I cried over you too

Lux: I want this fixed, to believe it all with you

Dash: our connection is what’s 🍒

Lux: No one has ever told their mammy about me, at least, not in a good way…

Dash: she wants to meet you but I’ve never brought a girl to her like that

Lux: You can sit with it, see if you want it

Dash: sit with me

Lux: Always