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seresinhangmanjake · 1 month ago

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An Heir: Part 3

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Summary: You and Feyd intend to be together forever--marry, have children, lead Giedi Prime side by side--but your plans are disrupted when the Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit reveals Lady Fenring is pregnant and, to Feyd's utter shock, the baby is his.

Notes/Warnings: Based on a request from @tgmreader. Pregnancy.

Words: 3300

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist

Part 1, Part 2

When you agreed to be kept on Giedi Prime, you had a plan. You knew what to tell your parents: that you were ill and wished to return home before the House meetings concluded. Three more days of meetings were to take place on Giedi Prime, and once they finished, it would be two more days of travel back to your planet before your parents would discover you were not home. That seemed enough time for Feyd to remove Lady Margot and bring you out of the shadows. But when he went to have her arrested, she was gone. Vanished, as if she had never set foot in the fortress.

Feyd only became more determined to keep you well-hidden. The Baron had not yet been informed of your pregnancy, and not until your safety was guaranteed would Feyd reveal the truth to his uncle’s court. If the Baron knew, it would quickly reach the Gene Besserit, and that would only make it harder to protect you. Not worth the risk, Feyd had told you. He didn’t trust that the Bene Gesserit were not lurking about somewhere.

But days passed, so many that you had no choice but to send a transmission to your handmaid back on your home planet, asking her to imitate your handwriting in a letter explaining that you had gone to Corrino to spend time with the Princess. Your parents would find it upon their return, and while there was a chance of confusion on their part, you and the Princess had a bond, and it was unlikely they would be so distraught at your sudden departure to feel the need to verify your whereabouts.

Since then, two more weeks have come and gone. Feyd has found nothing from his search for Lady Margot; his men have returned with no clue as to her whereabouts on Arrakis; his spies have not sent word of her presence on Wallach IX, and you are getting restless, struggling to find the difference between yourself and a prisoner within a room once built for royal concubines.

You know why he chose the room for your cell. Only the Harkonnens are supposed to know of its location. But still, something bitter fills your belly whenever you rehash the fear you had at ending up in this very space when you learned Feyd had impregnated a Bene Gesserit.

I was not going to be your concubine, is what you’d said. Yet by not being permitted to leave, you’re hidden more than any concubine ever would be. While Feyd is preoccupied day and night with the hunt, you dine alone, you sleep alone, you read stories to your unborn baby alone.

Just a bit longer, you tell yourself. Then surely, you will have the freedom you crave, the freedom that allows you to join him at his side.

—

Freedom does not come in the form you expect. There is no open door for you to step through. No light of day. No fresh air. Freedom from your room comes in the form of a gag shoved between your lips as you sleep, a bag thrown over your head, and two thick arms around your waist, lifting you from your bed.

You scream for Feyd, but you can hardly hear your own muffled voice. You thrash in the grasp, but the arms holding you are locked. You’re hanging over a shoulder for what feels like hours due to the panic that rises with each step away from where you are supposed to be, and you can’t think clearly long enough to focus on where you’re going. You don’t count the steps. You lose track of the turns through hallways.

Then suddenly, the air is different, stifling. You’re set on your feet. The grip on you is replaced by a hand on your back, shoving you forward. You stumble and catch yourself before you rip the bag from your head and the gag from your mouth, tossing them aside.

Another room encases you. One you’ve never seen, empty of all furnishings and windows. The walls and floors are the same shade of black, shiny and smooth like sharpened metal, and their sameness makes them appear blended together. It’s a hollow cube. And you’re trapped.

Your nerves spike. Your baby kicks, but it’s unlike the kicks you’re used to. This one is sharp, quick, as if in warning.

“Be still,” you hear.

And then you feel it, the way it weaves through the sections of your brain and latches on with the pointed fangs of a serpent. The way it settles deep into your gut. The way it spreads through you, infecting every motion and function of your body.

You imagined many times what it might feel like, but in none of your imaginings did you suspect such…pain. You never imagined that your heartbeat would no longer feel like your own, or like your lungs and your bones and the blood in your veins might betray you at any moment.

Is this what Feyd felt when she had hold of him?

You hope not.

Another stabbing sensation pierces through the shell of your skull as you uselessly fight and struggle to gulp more than a molecule of air down your throat. Your arms throb from the heavy pressure that is holding them down at your sides.

“Turn” is an echo bouncing between your ears, and before you can even process the word, your legs are complying. Your body twists, bringing you face-to-face with the only other souls in the space.

Her expression is blank, though her downturned lips leave her in a permanent frown. A hood is draped over her pulled-back blonde locks. Her hands are clasped, resting at her stomach where a baby should be, but a bump is missing from under the compressing corset of her black dress.

She nods to the man at her side—a Harkonnen guard. You try to memorize his face for later. You’ll tell Feyd and he’ll have the man dealt with. But then again, if he is allowing his face to be shown at all, it’s unlikely he believes you will survive through the night.

“Leave us,” Lady Margot says, and with a grunt, the guard does.

As the door closes behind him, she watches you, expertly prying, skillfully examining. Her eyes trail from your face down your body. They stop at your stomach. Your hands push against their invisible bindings in an attempt to protect your unborn child, but the power over you is too strong.

The Bene Gesserit moves forward, her heels clicking with each languid step. As she comes to a halt in front of you, a long breath leaves her nose.

“You’re ruining him,” she then says. Blue eyes flick to yours. “You know that, don’t you?”

Her lips thin and her brow pinches, but her gaze softens, almost as if remorseful over what she has to do to you. But you know better. You know an act when you see one, and you see sliminess behind those irises, violence tapped into. She’s like Feyd, willing to do what she must to get what she wants, unashamed about what that may be.

“You’re interfering with destiny,” she continues, a gentle, unsettling tone to her voice. “Our child has been seen to have great potential. She will be a leader. She will change our worlds. Why would you want to meddle in something so significant?”

Even if you could respond, you’re not sure what you would say. That Feyd wants your child? That the love you share should be what determines his fate? It would not be enough to sway her. No one of power cowers to love, certainly not a Bene Gesserit, one of many women who live by mission over morals.

Her head tilts. “You’re young. I understand this. But you’ve made a mistake.”

Lady Margot looks down and slides her left hand's fingers into the right sleeve of her gown. She pulls something free that you immediately identify once catching a reflective glint in the lower edge of your vision.

“This must be done. You decided so the moment you permitted him to keep you,” she says. Her open palm holds the small knife out to you. “Take it.”

Your arm thrusts forward and your fingers wrap around the hilt. Dread fills your gut.

“Place it at your throat.”

A tear forms, trickling down your cheek as the sharp edge of cool metal settles against your skin. You close your eyes. You picture Feyd, your baby, what could have been, what was so close to being, and another droplet squeezes out from under your lashes.

Lady Margot’s Voice infiltrates the beauty of your thoughts. “Now, cut your–”

A deep wail of fury forces her words to surrender to a gasp. Your eyelids snap open to find Feyd’s arm slashing horizontally toward Lady Margot’s neck. She trips out of the way, narrowly missing the edge of the blade in your lover’s hand. Feyd practical growls. He lunges for her once more, but again misses her small frame, her body skittering to the side just in time.

Ever so slightly, the intangible strength holding you still loosens. Your fingers twitch. Your arm feels the weight of being held up for too long and your elbow dips an inch.

With her back to you, Lady Margot retreats a step in your direction, then another, slowly, as if subtle movements might blend her into the walls like a small prey concealing itself within the grasses to avoid its predator. But it’s a wasted effort. Feyd is honed in, tracking her every motion. Her hands fist into the skirts of her dress as if preparing to lift them to better aid her escape.

“Guard!” she then shouts.

Your lungs take in the air they’ve been craving.

“Dead,” Feyd responds, and another strike of Lady Margot’s panic finally tips the aura of the room.

She continues her cautious attempt at fleeing, her head turning from left to right and back, searching for a second exit unimpeded by Feyd’s monstrous frame. He continues to descend upon her, the distance between them closing. Your limbs begin to regain their own power as the tendrils woven into your brain unwind and recede.

“S-Stop,” her Voice tries, but it only results in a moderate jerk of Feyd’s head and a tick in his jaw before his sights are targeted back on her. He takes another step. As does she. Your arm falls to your side. The blade nearly drops from your grasp, but you grip it tighter, keeping it firmly against your palm.

Then she is within reach.

You act on instinct.

The gurgling you hear first, a sound that breaks through the ringing in your ears. Crimson is what you notice next. The color seeps around the edges of the metal. Then it’s the disgustingly unique scent of iron, and the feel of flesh almost gripping the blade in desperation to keep as much blood in the body as possible. When you pull it free, a waterfall drains down the side of her neck.

Feyd watches, his expression unchanged, as Lady Margot’s knees give out and her head slams against the floor. A puddle forms beneath her, but you’re too stunned to move away from its rapid growth. Blood touches your toes, breaking into rivers around your feet.

Both your blade and Feyd’s race to the floor as you feel his gaze latch onto you. You don’t meet his eyes, your own wide and stuck to the wall ahead.

He rushes forward. Your wrists are encased and he pulls you from the body’s reach. With his hands planted on your cheeks, he tips your head back to get a good look at your neck. You can sense a light, warm droplet running down your skin that he brushes away with his thumb. An expelled breath coats your face as he rests his forehead on yours. You haven’t blinked, and your eyes are going dry. You start to quiver as the reality of what you’ve done sinks in.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“I-I didn’t–”

Feyd pulls back and forces you to look at him. “You protected our baby.”

You protected our baby. You protected the baby. Your baby. His baby. Yes, you protected.

That statement sinks in, allowing you to finally blink. You take in his face—the worry, the pride, the relief. Your nod is shaky and unsure, but he nods with you.

“How…How did you know?” you ask.

“You weren’t in your room,” he tells you. “I found the guard away from his post. He squealed after one stab.” He wraps your arms around his waist and presses your head against his chest and holds you.

You hug him, his form in your embrace being the one thing that can keep you sane in this moment. “What do we do?”

“You do nothing. I will handle it.”

—

It wasn’t nothing that Lady Margot’s life had been taken. You both knew that. But Feyd had a way of working around the truth when he needed to. So he told the Baron and Reverend Mother that a guard had killed her, thinking she was an intruder at the late hour, and that he had killed the guard for the mistake.

To the Baron, that detailing of events was accepted as an unfortunate incident. Any emotion on his part was subtle and driven by the disappointment of losing an heir. The Reverend Mother, however, appeared much more skeptical.

Not once during Feyd’s twisting of the truth did the Reverend Mother’s stare drift from you, or more specifically, from your slight bump of a stomach that was hidden under your dress. You wanted to shrink away from her, that desire doubling when Feyd officially revealed both your pregnancy and that Lady Margot was at no point bearing his child. A flicker of surprise set in the Baron’s eyes, but nothing altered the Reverend Mother’s expression. Nothing said changed the frown etched onto her face.

It was a look of silent, composed frustration for ruining the stability of their plans, and it reminded you so much of Lady Margot that it wreaked havoc on your nerves. You recalled the light that left her eyes, the warmth of her blood at your feet. Your hands began to shake. Your throat went dry. What you had done was a stain on your conscience, unforgivable.

For many months following the meeting, you expected retaliation to come at any moment. Feyd assured you otherwise, claiming that all of Giedi Prime knew of your pregnancy and so the Bene Gesserit would not unleash devastation on the planet’s people by murdering the Harkonnen heir and the woman who would birth him.

Still, you were unsure.

Not until many weeks of their silence passed did you start to entertain his explanation. But only once it was brought to attention that the son of Arrakis was due to have an heir, a child carried by a Bene Gesserit, did you stop looking over your shoulder.

They were done with you for the foreseeable future, and that was enough.

Regarding Feyd, you never gained the strength to ask if he had somehow discovered the truth before he’d pointed a blade at Lady Margot. But deep down, you knew the answer. The day he attacked her for attacking you, you could see in his eyes that truly nothing would have stood in the way of protecting you, that no circumstances would have severed his determination to keep you safe. He was and always will be unstoppable. And you know the only guilt he has felt is for failing to end her life before she could threaten yours.

He didn’t want this to be your burden. You were meant only to worry about your health and the health of your child. It was for your baby that Lady Margot had to die, and there should be no shame in that—so he claimed—not for your actions or his.

“You must let this go,” he’d often say. Those words never did much for you in the way of alleviating your own guilt. But then he would follow it with, “All you were in that moment was a mother,” and it was that which eventually unknotted the remainder of the coils in your muscles.

He was right. You had acted as a mother. You had not shoved a blade into Lady Margot’s neck to protect yourself; you’d done it guided by the need to preserve the life growing inside you. And reminding yourself of that is what saved you. It kept you from inflicting stress on your body and child for the final months of your pregnancy. You were finally able to focus on the health Feyd was so desperate for you to conserve.

—

He takes after Feyd in nearly every available physical aspect: the outline of his face, the tone of his skin, the puffiness of his lips. It is his eyes that differ. The shape and color match yours so closely that peering into them is like looking in a mirror. But you thank the gods that those eyes in their youth and smaller form have not seen what you have seen; that he did not have to witness the events that brought him here. He will only ever know that his parents did their job in safely bringing him into the world, as parents are meant to do, and no other detail deserves to reach his ears.

As you run the tip of your finger down your son’s tiny nose, Feyd comes up behind you.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

Cradling your baby, you turn to face your husband. “Are you?”

Feyd reaches up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes along your skin. He lightly smiles. He smiles more now than you have ever seen in the time you’ve known him, and it’s a sight you’ve quickly and happily adapted to.

“I’ve been ready,” he says. “For months.”

You snort. “There was no baby to show for before last week.”

Feyd hums and wraps his arms around your waist. You grin at how your son fits perfectly between you. “That doesn’t mean I couldn’t eagerly await this day.”

A soft kiss touches your forehead, and you settle into the peace of the bubble around your small family. This is all you’ve wanted, all you’ve desired from the first night you were pulled under Feyd’s sheets. And though it may have required a fight through obstacles to be where you are, at least the universe gave you the opportunity to right the wrong and join you with Feyd as you were always meant to be. You’re not so naive as to believe everyone is granted that chance.

“My Lord,” you hear, the bubble popping. You both turn your heads to the guard. “Everything is in place.”

Feyd returns a sharp nod, then, meeting your eyes, awaits your own nod of agreement. When you give it, he slides his hand into your free one. His palm is warm against yours. Your fingers intertwine, and together you walk out onto the balcony of the fortress.

Your body is coated in a wave of heat and the light of the glaring sun blinds you, but you can hear the cheers, the many voices shouting your husband’s name as they await their moment to meet the Harkonnen heir.

---

A/N: thank you for following this short series. If you enjoyed it, let me know. It always makes my day :)

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha harkonnen #austin butler #dune 2 #feyd rautha fic

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ohgodthevoices · 4 months ago

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hey swaggy author, i would absolutely LOVE if u did a tsukishima fluff + angst 🤭 smtg like the osamu timeskip one with the themes of childhood best friends and development of feelings once they're like older 🙂‍↕️🙏

omg i never wrote for tsukishima and im scared it'll be ooc but here we go ill try my best 😭

Tsukishima kei x reader

tags : fluff , a lil angst , he’s not good with feelings , childhood friends to lovers , gn!reader

you and tsukishima kei had been inseparable since chilhood. you were there when he got his first dinosaur book , sitting cross-legged beside him as he rambled about prehistoric eras with excitement only a kid could muster. he was there when you scaped your knee falling off your bike offering a "don't be dumb next time" as he handed you a band-ai

your friendship was nothing too loud , sitting next to each other on the bus , sharing earphones and bickered over song choices or staying up on call when one couldn't sleep and the other was studying.

but somewhere along the way, somwhere between your first and second year of highschool , something shifted.

it wasn't obvious at first , maybe it was the way his gaze lingered a second longer when you laughed, or how your heart stuttered when he absentmindedly fixed your scarf on a cold day. small, almost imperceptible moments stacking up, like a slow-building crescendo neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

when summer was finally here, your joy was quickly met by confusion when tsukishima started leaving you on read longer than usual, it was the way he stopped comming to your place to pick you up for your weekly saturday morning coffee date , the way you'd see him with yamaguchi after he told you he couldn't go out today, the way he stopped answering you calls when you wanted to give him a haul of what you bought.

you decides to brush it off , ever since the start of your first year , tsukishima has been getting closer to his new volleyball teammates , maybe he had decided to change friendgroups , maybe you weren't enough for him anymore...but then days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and it was already the first day of your second year in highschool

obviously you didn’t know the way he felt about you, that him distancing himself only equaled to his realization of his growing feelings for you. he couldn’t accept it, him liking loving someone ? and that someone had to be you ?? that just couldn’t be good. so the only logical solution to him was to disappear, maybe that way the way he was feeling would disappear too…

but tsukishima only found himself seeking you even more, he was seeking your presence , your unfunny jokes , your stupid smile that he just loved to see , he tried distracting himself with practice and hanging out with his teammates, he thought he’d get used to the feeling of something missing when you weren’t here. but boy was he wrong.

now that second year tsukishima stood in front of you in silence, his arrogance was quickly replaced by vulnerability as soon as he locked eyes with you, his best friend next to him quickly got the notice and left the two of you alone in the school’s empty hallway , he suddenly didn’t assume all those unanswered calls and texts , tsukishima opened and closed his mouth as if looking for the right words “i know i acted like an idiot.” he was gonna put his pride to the side for this, for you.

he told you everything— from the reason to why he ghosted you to how he realized he liked you, and you didn’t say a word until he finished , you had known him for so long yet this was the first time you saw tsukishima nervous, actually expressing how he feels. when he was done , he looked at you with an intense gaze waiting for an answer , anything— but you laughed, not because you were going to reject him but because he looked so out of it. of course he got pretty mad at your reaction but you didn’t reject him.

tsukishima preferred to keep your relationship on the low, he didn’t want it to be private, he wanted people to know you were off limits, but he hates showing off. but that changed over time, he was glad you continued to grow up together.

tsukishima thought it was endearing that the person he played hot wheels with was actually driving a car now, that he went from eating pretend food you made in your play kitchen to actually coming back to you and savoring the nice warm meal you made him.

both your families were over joyed when tsukishima finally agreed to let them know you had been dating for 3 (almost 4) years , your families were already pretty close thanks to your mothers being best friends but now they were even closer, holidays were spent together and dinners that were actually enjoyable were hosted more often.

he’s the type of boyfriend to be very attentive, very teasing, his teasing isn’t as mean as it was back in highshool, but he liked how affective it was on you. he’d tease when you mess up a word and kiss you if you got annoyed. tsukishima’s way of showing his love for you is act of service omg he just does everything for you and if you dare tell him “i could do it myself yk” he will hit you.

he still has the stupid little playlist you made him back in your first year of high school that he listens to when he gets nostalgic or when you argue.

a/n : HEY I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG 😭😭🙏 i’m catching up on all the requests istg

#haikyuu #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima fluff #tsukishima x y/n #tsukishima smau

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deansbeer · 6 months ago

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★ soup, snuggles, and mr. wiggles // beau arlen.

synopsis. you're sick during a visit to montana, but your dad, comes to the rescue with chicken star soup, snacks, and your old childhood stuffed bear, reminding you that you're never too old to be cared for.

kari yaps. i love my pretty cowboy sheriff sososo much && literally don't have anything written for him + this idea was perfect for beau, because one im an older sister / daughter myself & two my brain was wired up @ 2am ???? n i took that opportunity to write. but i only got halfway & BARELY got to finishing it 2day.

you knew it was a bad idea the second you bit into the chicken sandwich. something about it tasted... off, but you hadn't eaten at all during your flight from houston to montana, and your stomach didn't give you much of a choice. by the time you arrived at the airbnb you rented, you were already feeling the first signs of regret—your stomach twisting uncomfortably, your body heavy with fatigue. you chalked it up to exhaustion from the drive, but when you woke up the next morning, nausea hit you like a freight train.

you'd planned today for weeks—just you and your dad, a father-daughter day he'd been talking about nonstop since you told him you were visiting. he'd even promised emily she'd get her turn after you left because, as he put it, "this one's special. just me and my girl." and now, lying on the couch of your airbnb, wrapped in a blanket, you felt guilt gnawing at you because there was no way you could keep those plans. your stomach rolled again, and you groaned, reaching for your phone to call him.

"hey, sweetheart," he answered on the first ring, his voice bright with excitement. "you ready for me to pick you up? i've got the whole day mapped out—breakfast, a little fishing, and maybe we can stop by that trail you liked last time."

you winced, both at the enthusiasm in his voice and the wave of nausea that hit you. "uh, about that…"

he instantly picked up on your tone. "what's wrong?"

"nothing," you said quickly, even though your voice was weak. "i just… i don't think i can make it today. i'm not feeling great."

"not feeling great how?" his voice lost its lightness, replaced by concern.

"it's nothing, dad. probably just something i ate. i just need to rest, that's all."

there was a pause, and you could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. "where are you staying again? that little airbnb by the creek?"

"dad, no, you don't have to—"

"i'll be there in twenty," he said firmly, already moving. "and don't even think about arguing with me."

you sighed, knowing there was no point in trying to stop him. "fine. okay, dad."

"what kind of dad would i be if i didn’t take care of my girl when she's sick?" he said, his voice softening. "sit tight, sweetheart. i'll be there soon."

true to his word, twenty minutes later, you heard the familiar rumble of his car pulling into the driveway. you managed to shuffle to the door, opening it just as he walked up, two large grocery bags in his hands and a determined look on his face.

"you look terrible," he said bluntly, though the warmth in his eyes softened the blow. "not that you're not still the prettiest thing i've ever seen."

"thanks, dad," you muttered, stepping aside to let him in. "just what every girl wants to hear."

he set the bags on the counter and turned to you, his hands on his hips. "all right, let's see what we've got here. crackers, ginger ale, that soup you used to love when you were little—chicken and stars, remember that?—and some popsicles, because you'd always ask for those when you were sick. oh, and a heating pad, in case you've got chills."

you felt a lump rise in your throat as you watched him unpack everything, his movements quick and efficient. he was always like this when you were a kid—hands-on, attentive, making sure you had everything you needed even when life got chaotic. and now, standing in your little airbnb kitchen, he looked just the same, though his beard was a little grayer and the lines around his eyes a little deeper.

"dad, you didn't have to do all this," you said, your voice thick with emotion.

he glanced at you, his expression softening. "yeah, i did. you're my kid, darlin'. it doesn't matter if you're five or twenty-five, i'm always gonna take care of you."

you blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to fall. "i suppose you're right."

he gave you a small smile before turning back to the bags. "and because i know you're gonna get crabby—don't deny it, you've always been a little bear when you're under the weather—I brought backup.” he pulled out a small stuffed bear, its brown fur worn and familiar. "found this guy in one of the storage boxes last week and figured you might need him."

you let out a surprised laugh, reaching for the bear. "oh my god, is this… is this mr. wiggles?"

"the one and only," he said, grinning. "thought he'd been retired, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

you hugged the bear to your chest, shaking your head. "you're ridiculous."

"and you love me for it," he said, nudging your shoulder gently. "now, go lie down. i'll heat up the soup and put on a movie."

you didn't argue, too tired and too grateful to protest. you curled up on the couch again, the blanket pulled snug around you and mr. wiggles tucked under your arm. a few minutes later, your dad appeared with a tray—soup, crackers, and a glass of ginger ale—and set it on the coffee table in front of you.

"all right, what's it gonna be?" he asked, grabbing the remote. "something funny? or one of those sappy movies you always make me watch?"

you smiled faintly. "sappy. but you're not allowed to complain."

"wouldn't dream of it," he said, settling into the recliner next to you. "though if i start crying, you're not allowed to tell anyone."

"deal," you said, your smile widening.

as the movie played, you found yourself relaxing for the first time all day. your dad stayed by your side, occasionally cracking jokes or making comments about the characters, his presence a constant comfort. and even though you felt awful, you couldn't help but feel a little better knowing he was there.

"thanks for coming, dad," you said softly as the credits rolled.

he reached over, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "always, sweetheart. you're stuck with your old man, whether you like it or not."

and in that moment, with the warmth of the blanket, the faint taste of ginger ale on your tongue, and your dad sitting nearby, you realized there was no place you’d rather be.

SPECIAL TAGS. @floralscented @titsout4jackles @deansbite @deanswidow @jasvtsc @beausling @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @lacydollette @lustagel @ultravi0lence14 @beausling @ostaramoon @rubyvhs @aileenunfiltered @bluestrd @jackleslvr @fallbhind . . . ૮っ ̫ _ ྀིა

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desigal-26 · 2 months ago

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My first F1 writing. Please be gentle in criticising. Requests are open if anyone wishes to request something.

The Enigma

Max Verstappen x Fem!Driver!Reader

She was different—an enigma. He was the moth drawn to her.

She took the world by storm when she came and he couldn’t stay away from her.

Warnings: Misogyny towards the reader, mention of hate comments and haters, it’s my first ever F1 related writing so please I am sorry for any mistake in advance, Max lowkey simping(?), Reader assumes the position of Yuki in this but I changed the results of the Chinese GP a bit…so don’t hate me (pretty please 🥹)

Word Count: 2.3k

Formula One—a sport rooted in unpredictably and high-stake risks that have ended in many accidents, fatal and otherwise, over the course of its seventy five years. Things changed. Cars changed. Rules and points system changed. Security measures changed to accommodate the safety of the driver above all perimeters. But what didn’t change was the lack of its reach to the marginalised sections of the population.

Women. Third world countries—or even the developing countries. People without much source or wealth but talent. People of colour.

It was disheartening, and while everyone might have given it a thought once or twice, no one did anything. And why would they? Because Formula One is a sport that might change on track but the core values of it ever really changed—and included the exclusion of certain sectors of life.

It was a news—a world shocking one—when Racing Bulls proudly announced that a female driver—a F2 prodigy and Red Bulls Junior Driver Programme member—will be joining the team in the second seat of the sister team, replacing Liam Lawson who was promoted to the main team to drive alongside Max Verstappen—the Four Times Winning Dutch Lion.

The media called it a PR stunt, a chance to make the headlines and divert attention from the deteriorating situation of the RB20, or perhaps a way of saying “we don’t know what we are doing anymore”. The fan reactions were mixed too. Some hailed the move and inclusion of a woman in motorsport after a long time—especially in Formula One—while others called it “uncalled for” and a “waste of time”.

When asked about the situation and how it would affect her race as a whole, the Racing Bulls’ newest driver had only given a diplomatic smile and a simple answer. “I suppose we will see the results on the track.”

The Australian GP wasn’t a good start for her, ending up in a bad position despite a solid qualifying and ultimately being left heartbroken and out of points because of a strategy that was never going to work out. But one thing was certain after the race—whosoever started and ended the race deserved their respective seats, and she was one of them—even if the haters and the misogynists hiding behind the curtains of ‘traditionalists’ mocked her for not having a decent finish.

But what Christian Horner and Helmut Marko and the whole world saw in the grid positions couldn’t be ignored. While Liam Lawson—the replacement of Sergio Perez—had failed to even bring the car to the checkered flag, their rookie—“replacement’s replacement” as the media likes to mock her—had done so in torrential rain in a car that was less competitive and feisty than the RB21, even if she was still out of the points at P12.

The media chalked it up as a fluke—a one time occurrence that would never happen again, until it did happen again in China. A good qualifying—as good as Racing Bulls can hope for—and a good start of the race had left her in a good position, until an ill-timed pit stop led to her being stuck in traffic, behind the very man whose car she was sitting in.

Liam was struggling, that much was clear to her, and with a radioed confirmation of her outpacing the Red Bull in front of her, she made her move, refusing to bow down to the driver in the senior team. Because why should she? Just because he had a better car and a senior team seat? That didn’t stop her before and it wouldn’t stop her then.

She had scored her first point in Formula One that day—making history in doing so. Becoming the first woman after Lella Lombardi in 1975 to score point, she had proven her worth for the seat she was given, and leading to the ultimate speculations of what if’s when her teammate had ended another race without points at P14 and Liam had followed suit at P16.

Everyone wondered if Christian and Team Red Bull is looking for a switch of drivers before the triple-header started. Speculations ran wild, fans remained restless and rooting for their own favourites while the haters continued to spread word of malice.

On the other hand, in Milton Keynes, the entire team of Red Bull was left in a deep dilemma of choosing between their second driver who refused to perform as well as they expected him to and a rookie that was outqualifying him in a car made to battle the mid-field cars, not a Red Bull.

“We should give her a try,” Hannah Schmitz, the Principal Strategy Engineer of the team, stated with a firm tone, sliding both Christian and Helmut a small bunch of stapled paper holding the raw data of pace on track and little things that make biggest of differences on track. A straightforward and brutal comparison between Liam Lawson and the newest star of the two teams.

The British Team Principal looked at Pierre Waché—their technical director and the man responsible to build the new car as per the new regulations of 2026 for the next year—asking for his take on the matter at hand.

The said man only shrugs, carefully reading through the data kept in the file in front of him. Everyone could see the gears of his mind shifting and churning, processing the data and making the calculations only he could understand.

After a while, Pierre looked up and nodded, quietly stating, “she might find trouble with the car for a lap or two, but she seems to be adaptable.”

Just to be sure, her past championships in F4, F3 and F2 were pulled up and carefully dissected through. Quick decision-making, precise timings, late breaking but at the right times, calm under pressurising conditions, quick adaptability to both the car and the weather and good instincts. Everything they want in their second driver—someone who could help in Red Bull’s campaign for reclaiming the Constructors after last year and help Max’s own campaign for Driver’s Championship.

Therefore, the decision was made.

The initial call had only informed Max about test driving the rookie driver in one of the old RB cars. Maybe RB19 or RB20—which in Max’s opinion, was hard to driver, especially for a rookie who was stepping into a top team car and expecting less…resistance. They had asked him to drop by the Red Bull Ring in Austria, give a lap or two for them to obtain whatever data they wanted to compare her with, and then leave if he wanted to.

Simple. Or so Max had thought.

He had seen her performance in the Racing Bull, had congratulated her when she scored her first point in the Chinese Grand Prix and had lingered around a bit to talk—to advice her for her future stints, he argued with himself. But he knew himself better.

She was friendly in a way that wasn’t common in the sport, easy to talk to and definitely didn’t hold any prejudices against him. He had expected her to be a bit shy, maybe naïve as well, but she wasn’t neither. Initially a bit quiet, probably intimidated by him, but that had soon away gave way for her true self to blossom out, which had, in turn lead to them speaking for a longer time than Max had intended it to be. But he enjoyed it—no, he craved it once she was whisked away by a media personnel and she had offered him a smile that he swore could melt the Himalayas.

It was stupid, he knew. She would most probably be his teammate soon enough. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about her or the way she remained so calm under pressure or the way her hair looked in a certain light. But it is not meant to be.

They are not meant to be.

The parking lot of the Red Bull Ring was mostly empty except for the familiar cars of his team and a slightly worn out one parked in the farthest end of the lot. He didn’t give it much attention, not when GP was already making his way to him, already informing him about what was expected of Max to do for the day. A small help, his race engineer had phrased.

“Is she here?” The Dutch driver didn’t even realise the words had slipped out until he saw GP shrug and nod. “Arrived before I did.” That caught the World Champion’s attention. No one in the senior team arrived earlier than his race engineer, not Hannah, not even Christian who was the team principal and usually earlier than a lot of people.

The inside of the garage was bustling as usual and Max immediately caught sight of Christian talking to her in a corner with an encouraging smile. His steps slowed down and his eyes studied her like she was the one race he hadn’t conquered yet.

Her gaze was sharp, sliding over and studying each curve and ridge of the RB19 that was being polished for Max to drive. One of the most dominant cars to have ever been made in the history of Formula One—awaiting for its rider to drive it again to a speed that had all the other teams trembling in its prime. Her hair was neatly tied, the casual clothes traded for the navy blue fireproof overalls of Red Bull. The race suit was undone on top, hanging off her waist while the fire resistant white undershirt stretched over the entirety of her upper body, accentuating her curves in a way that had many engineers and mechanics double taking—not to forget Max himself. Her helmet, balaclava and gloves were perched upon the counter beside her, waiting to be worn and be used by the rookie that had set the world on fire with her performance.

“Max! We were just talking about you!” The driver smiled as Christian hugged him, gesturing for him to join the conversation that seemingly had consisted of the team principal trying to soothe the Racing Bull driver’s nerves while all she had done was give back hums and small replies while studying the car like an expert.

But now, her attention was on the Four Times World Champion, and did Max almost preen at the thought of capturing her interest when all she had done before was provide non-committal replies because she was pre-occupied with an innate thing.

He flashed her a smile, offering his hand while he greeted her, “it’s good to have you here.” She smiled in response, and the Dutch Lion felt himself being pulled into her gravity, her small but no less callous hand slipping into his considerably larger ones with ease. “It’s good to be in the big leagues garage for once,” her smooth voice held its own unique authority that had the air around them stilling.

The hands were retracted and Max mourned the loss of the touch quietly before he began to ask her about random things. Whether she was feeling nervous or had she had her breakfast, before the conversation turned to their respective seasons so far before ending at the small tips for her for handling the RB19 efficiently.

He was called away to get dressed and slip into the car and do his job, and the thought of her and the outer world just disappeared until all that remained for Max was himself, the humming of the car beneath him and the track in front of him.

It was a quick in and out. Two laps of speed before he was called in and the car was parked in the garage, the Dutch driver emerging out of his chariot with ease of a king stepping into his kingdom—knowing full well that no one can challenge him here, much less beat him.

His blue eyes fell on the woman that stood in the corner, gloves slipping on while her own gaze was on him. He could see the spark of appreciation in them, a good impression—not that he needed one to prove his worth to her. The whole world knew what he could do—what he can do.

“Thanks, Max. You can stay if you want to see her test drive.” Christian patted his shoulder like a proud father, gesturing to the rookie whose balaclava was in place and helmet was going on, concealing her features but not her sharp eyes that seek only one thing: to prove that she was here because of her talent and not her face or sympathy.

Usually, he never stays. He doesn’t need to. Because for Max, these test drives and comparing contrasting is a waste of time. Because no test drive or practice can prepare someone for the real race—when nineteen cars fight against you in unpredictable situations with the weight of expectation weighing your shoulders down and insecurity clawing at your mind.

But something in him relented against the idea of leaving.

Perhaps, he only wanted to see the potential of the enigma that had walked into the garage with a quiet strength only a few possessed, or perhaps, he knew that while he might give himself several dozen excuses for every word he had spoken to her—she was different, and he wanted to know her. Solve the puzzle that she was.

“I will stay.”

If Christian was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, the team principal only handed him a headphone and the duo waited in silence as the RB19 made its way to the track again—this time with a driver that might become their next big hope for competing against the McLaren and their killer driver line up.

“Starting Lap One.”

And so, the Red Bull garage held breath.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #driver!reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #max verstappen fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 2025

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moonsaver · 6 months ago

Text

Almost a kiss, Always a breath

How close life is unto death. Almost a kiss, but always a breath.

With only about a month left to live – your previous guardian angel, Robin, has been replaced, as The Family decide to assign you one that's more "suitable" to your need. Guardian Angel!Sunday x gn!reader CW/TW: reader is chronically ill, and there's descriptions of how painful it is (a little gruesome) but the actual illness is left vague for self insert purposes. Mentions + implications of childhood abuse, death (reader), lesbians because i just wanted it A/n: As much as I'd have loved to make it Seraphin x reader, Sunday is just a guardian angel who has a more biblically accurate appearance. also it's about just a bit over 11k words. sorry for the delays! ______

"You can stay out here."

You turn halfway to face Sunday, the pair of wings over his eyes firmly shut, the other two pairs slightly bristling at your words.

“I have been assigned to you for a reason.”

You glance at the bright entryway of the boutique in front of you. People would definitely notice something was off. No one can ignore someone like him. At least, they’d sense something would be off.

You turn back to face him. Your hesitant silence seems to spur him to continue,

“I shan't interfere.”

He smiles. You don't think it's genuine. You look up at the various eyes embedded across his halo and wings like jewels. They stare back.

Have they ever blinked?

You shake your head,

“No. Stay out here. You'll scare people.”

You stand your ground firmly, your body facing him entirely now. He hums, his smile vanishing from his face.

“Is that so?”

“It is so.”

You reply, and it's followed by silence.

The corners of his mouth perk up slightly, before it's met with lesser and lesser resistance, eventually letting out a wholehearted chuckle.

“I can promise, truly, I won't interfere, nor draw attention. Nothing like the scene at the hospital.”

You sigh.

—

“Sweet mother of..”

You keep Xipe's name out of your mouth, sitting up on your hospital bed as fast as you can, ignoring the jolt of pain in your body from the sudden movement, as your eyes train on the figure in front of you.

The man is clad in white – a suit, to be specific – and seems to have started his day much earlier than you.

“I thought Robin was..”

“The Family has decided otherwise.”

You stare at his covered eyes, only to glance over at the plethora of his.. other eyes blink at you; wide and all-seeing, surrounded by clusters of feathers. A pair of them bristle as you continue to stare, and he clears his throat, drawing your attention back to his (wing-covered) eyes. His halo is golden - just like Robin’s, except.. Bigger. And sharper.

“I'm– I think my intentions were very specific, so why on Earth do I have a Seraphim looking after me?”

“The Family decided the timely course of your fate required an assistance of much.. higher capability.”

You scoff, the covers crumpled under your hands as they clench.

“Robin was adequate– no, more than adequate.”

“I would be aware. I expect nothing less of my sister.”

“Your–?!”

This day couldn't get any more confusing in the mere 15 minutes of it's starting, really. A Seraphim. Sent to be your guardian angel. And he has a sister by some biological miracle.

As if he senses the question you are about to ask, he says,

“Let's focus on a more dire topic.”

He neatly sets down his cup of finished tea on a surface – you don't care enough to check; too busy glaring daggers at the man – a few of his other eyes peeking over at the cup in your stead.

“ugh, great.”

You groan and plop onto the bed on your back with an ‘umpf', then cringe as the pain shoots up from a plethora of nerve endings on your back.

Sunday continues, regardless of your pained expression, an artificial smile plastered on his too human-like features,

“Roughly 2 weeks. That is all.”

He gets up, and walks with measured steps to the side of your hospital bed, his eyes (in multitudes) staring down at your not-so intimidating glare.

You click your tongue, your eyes zoning out for a moment before they settle back on the teacup he'd just placed down.

“Since when did Seraphims like..?”

“Coffee. It helps, I've found.”

“Found?”

He opens his hand towards you. You awkwardly look at his gloved palm before he speaks to clear your hesitance again,

“Let us continue to whichever place you wish to visit.”

You look at his hand again, now with a dull glaze over your eyes, a plethora of thoughts glooming over your mind before another one of his (unsettling, you may add) eyes catch your attention, breaking you out of your saddened trance.

You breathe out, taking his hand,

“Fine.”

—–

And so, that led you here.

You pick out a dress, then shuffle through the stacked hangers to find your size, as Sunday patiently stands beside you, his obnoxiously white suit out of your vision by your request as to “not blind you.” But you can't necessarily explain about that to someone who covers their eyes for.. 90% of the time, you assume. Regardless, he obliges.

You turn to hand him a few of your clothes to hold, but watch as he stares at a distant baby. Their face is red and swollen, presumably from having cried for a while. The tears in their eyes confirm the suspicion. You look back at him, curious as to what he could possibly find fascinating about a red-faced baby.

..what the fuck?

You observed his eyes – the conglomerate of them making a weird sensation bubble under your skin as you watch all of them blink in succession.

You sigh, for the umpteenth time, making him turn to you. You look at Sunday with a strangely confused expression, as Sunday’s cautious hands pry the clothes from yours. You shift your eyes to see the baby look at you two once again with a face as confused and perturbed as yours.

“You’re lucky not many can see you.”

“Yes, it is fortunate.”

You continue browsing through the selection of clothes, politely waving off any staff member that seem to force themselves to help you regardless of the strange aura they felt around you.

“I’m trying these on. You stay right..”

You reposition him, hands on the sides of his arms as he complies.

“Here.”

He stands, in all his glory, in front of a kids’ indoor playground.

“The changing room is too far from here.” Inquisitively, that seems to be the only trouble Sunday faces, and not the curious glances from a few children making weird faces at his eyes on his back.

“It isn’t. It’s just a few picks, I’ll be back soon.”

He seems to stay silent, although his (unsettling) smile is no longer on his face, which reads him as more intimidating instead.

You shake your head, and then turn to walk over to the changing room.

——

A scream.

It rips through the chill, calm atmosphere of the store, warranting concern from a few employees situated around the changing room,

“I-Is everything okay-?”

“Yes-! Sorry, sorry, Im just–”

You hurry, and shuffle the floating eye into your bag, your hands fumbling with the buckles and buttons.

Why was there an eye in your bag in the first place?

Turns out Sunday sent one to stand right dab in front of your stall to ensure your safety in, probably only his opinion – a minimal way. You screamed the moment you opened your door and found a floating eyeball in front of your stall, before realising only that Seraphim was capable of doing such a thing.

You internally let out a beautiful, colourful string of curses, presumably to beat some sense into him, as you wrestle with the bag that's flailing in your bag like an animal caught in a potato sack.

“Stop, stop, Xipe damn it-!”

You bring the bag up to your face, glaring down as the singular eye looks up at you with an unreadable glint from the soft fabrics of your bag,

“If we get caught I swear I will–”

“Uh.. is everything okay?”

You jolt watching the door slightly move ajar as one of the employees gently signal their presence,

Shit, you forgot to lock it!

It wasn't your fault - you were about to step out when you were delightfully greeted by an eyeball, and in your hurry you must have forgotten to lock it.

You throw a sheepish smile towards the door, hiding your bag behind you. You're aware it looks like you've stolen something, so you take a deep breath and pat your bag, careful around the bulge of the eye inside.

“I'm okay, I- I just uh.. saw a cockroach.”

“A cockroach-?!”

The employee gasps, immediate words of apology on the tip of their tongue, but you stop them before they can continue. You swing open the door, having only grabbed a single item as you rush past the employee sputtering on their words, politely dismissing yourself as you beeline to Sunday.

––

You did, thankfully, find Sunday where you left him.

You stood a bit of distance away as he came into your vision, making sure to count the number of his eyes, blinking a few times and recounting to really make sure – who knew staring at his eyes for so long would make you dizzy?

By then, the eye in your bag only nudged a few times, but nothing more than that. On the way you realised there might have been no need for the commotion, considering people can barely see Sunday as is, let alone (one of) his eyes. You sigh tiredly at the thought, but brush it off.

You walked over to the small barricade surrounding the children's indoor playground and observed.

Sunday is crouched down, watching intently as two young girls clack their (very distressed) barbies together, making up drama on a whim. Sunday seems deep in thought, occasionally piping up to add his own additions.

Ookay. You need to stop this.

You sigh, running your hand over your face before calling out,

“Sunday!”

His head turns to look at you, then gets up, unassumingly as though he'd not been getting in on local gossip from girls.

—–

You sigh, pushing off the shoes from your feet as you sit back down on your familiar hospital bed, the door of your room clicking as Sunday ensures your privacy.

“Do you plan on going somewhere?”

“Tomorrow, actually. Since we have enough time, I'll take it easy.”

He hums, merely in acceptance, as he sets down the small bag your recent purchase was in.

“Oh, also, c'mere.”

You motion him to come closer.

“Closer.”

He steps closer, your knee almost grazing against his thigh,

“Closer.”

“Any closer and I-”

You grab his tie and yank him down eye level,

“Do you know what happened in the dressing room-?!”

You sputter out, the embarrassment returning to you as you recall the flustered employee's voice,

“I.. cannot say I do.”

You grab your bag, and out comes bursting an eye.

Ah. He felt something was amiss.

“I was fine on my own! Seriously, if you wanted to check in you could have just walked over! Which guardian angel just casually sends an eyeball of theirs-?!”

“Ah, but I did not want to overbear—”

“I would have preferred that, instead of your eye hanging in front of my stall like a Christmas tree decor!”

…

“Noted.”

You sigh, watching the eye float and join the conglomerate of his, wink at you, making you blink, unimpressed.

——

“I wanna be buried…”

You hum, looking over the green, slightly bumpy landscape, and point to under a tree.

“There. That's perfect.”

Mei seems to take your words in stride, despite the depravity of your humor. She chuckles softly, and turns to you,

“I'm sure it's possible.”

“D'you think I can get one of those colored, glass tombstones?”

“Hm, slightly difficult..”

“Oh please.”

You nudge her shoulder, making her softly chuckle again. Both of you gaze over to the distance, the plot of land sparsely filled with tombstones of other strangers you've yet to know about from Mei.

If the purple haired woman knew anything about you – it was that you adored stories. She never considered herself the best storyteller, but you'd convinced her enough to tell you anyway. Occasionally her companion would join in, greatly elevating the storytelling atmosphere, but for the most part, it was just you two.

Mei, who would tell you of each person she'd buried. Carol, 98, a lovely grandmother. She'd always smell of pie and something herbal – always sure to drop off tea wherever she went, the dull packets that rattled whenever she'd placed them down with her shaky fingers. Only her daughter's side of the family visited.

Nico, 17. His father comes every weekend to clean his tombstone. He had a green thumb. His gravestone had the most beautiful flowers around him.

Razalina, a mysterious woman who you'd been waiting to hear about from Mei, before Robin was shortly replaced. Your health got worse and Mei urged you to take a break. You miss the flavour of the tea Mei would serve for you two. You wonder how it would feel to drink it for the rest of your life until you'd grow to be 98.

There was a morbid comfort in having a friend as Mei. Acheron – the term suited her. A gentle, sorrowful, but greatly respectful and polite woman who took care of the dead. A mortician you'd gotten familiar with on a whim when you'd bumped into her somewhere. She was going to bury you, and you'd let her with delight. You imagine there was a sort of trust and intimacy in that. She would clean your organs, and lay you to sleep on the naked Earth. There was certainly intimacy in that.

“A wardrobe change, hm?”

She quirks an eyebrow, her words still slightly hushed in caution to not even possibly offend you.

“Thought I'd try something new.”

You kicked a stray rock, looking down at your newly bought clothes, then back up at Mei.

“Went shopping with someone yesterday.”

“Finally let you out of your enclosure?”

“Ugh, for once, thankfully.”

She hums, walking alongside you with a leisurely pace, her gaze drifting over the cloudy sky,

“I'd expected Robin to come with you. I don't think I was able to continue onto the next story with her.”

“Yeah, I did too..”

You look back at Sunday – still following you two a few ways behind, waving as you and Mei observe him for a second.

“quite a character.”

You nod, simply, continuing to look at him as Mei's steady eyes train on you for a moment.

“Scared?”

“No. Never have been.”

…

“Good.”

Mei's assurance was quiet, almost relieved. She turned ahead and continued, and you followed her.

——

The cloudy weather only seemed to thicken with humidity and the threat of rain as the sky dimmed with time, and Mei was kind enough to end the story on a reasonable cliffhanger, making you giggle in your seat.

“There's never enough time, really..”

You say, between your soft chuckling. It always felt like time passed by unfairly fast when you sat with Mei as you used to.

She hums, smiling, her finger circling the rim of her cup,

“Tomorrow will come, so have faith.”

Have faith in a tomorrow. It would have left you breathless had you not heard it from Robin before. You glance back at the Seraphim behind you as if to confirm Robin really wasn't looking after you anymore.

You bit your lip for a moment at the agitation as the thought bubbled in you, before looking back up at Mei and returning her gentle smile.

“Alright. I'll get going. Take care, Mei.”

She nods, getting up with you, as you gather your items and walk up ahead a bit.

Mei turns to Sunday, and mutters something out of earshot.

——

You're tired of this.

You get up once again, in pain. It shoots through you, and pulses in your body. It continues to ebb and intensify with passing moments.

You stifle a groan, biting down on your chapped lips and swallow thickly, a bead of sweat forming over your eyebrow as you clutch yourself in pain.

No one else is awake.

You zone out in pain, the only sound in your ears of the heart rate monitor beside you picking up slightly. The pain renders you almost still.

This pain. This all too familiar ache. You despise it, and yet you don't. How many events have you had to skip or leave because of it? How many times have you turned down hanging out with your friends over it? It angers you. It's as though inhabiting a scrawny animal who claws at your insides for nothing. How many hobbies, pastimes, hell even careers, have you missed out on because of this? The all to familiar sight of your friends’ slightly pitiful gazes burns your mind, almost making the pain in your body worse as you squeeze your eyes shut–

A hand.

Your eyes open, suddenly aware of the cold sweat forming on your back as you turn your head to look at the hand on your shoulder.

Sunday. He doesn't seem to be donning any gloves this time.

His hands are pretty. The thought floats through the top of your mind like oil on water, the pain pulsing in you barely letting you cling to the present.

“Are you in pain?”

You lick your lips, shallow breathing carrying the response you wish to say. He hums, the noise almost soothing.

His hand moves and rests on your back, the warmth of his palm more comforting than the sweat making your skin shiver. He doesn't seem to mind the fluid sticking to his own skin.

For a moment, you feel the warmth increase, before it dims. Everything dims. The pain ebbs away, making you breathe out shakily, your tense muscles eventually relaxing. His hand slides to your wrist as you lay back down, fatigued from the midnight bout of pain.

“Better?”

You blink a few times, a futile attempt to appear more alert and less affected from the episode. There's a bit of water in your eyes – you didn't notice, but it's nothing you're concerned about.

You turn your head slightly to him, your eyes looking up at him as you ask with a hoarse voice

“How did you do that?”

Sunday hums, his fingers moving from your wrist to your palm, drawing soothing circles in the middle of it as a comforting gesture.

“We are equipped to absolve a bit of your pain. This is our duty. This is how we become pure.”

“Pure?”

His head isn't turned to you, instead a bit low, as he leans back in his seat. He breathes out.

“Purification happens through only a few means. Absolving you of your pain is a major way to do it.”

“But it hurts.”

“It hurts.”

His hand gently squeezes your hand.

“But you are feeling better.”

“It's not fair.”

His head turns slightly to see you. Your watery eyes only become more teary. Frustration, hurt, sadness, anger. There's a scripture in your face as he scans the furrow of your brows, the tears in your eyes and the chapped, dry blood on your lips.

And the silence settles between you two. A tender sort of hurt in the night air as he folds his fingers around your hand. Your eyes trail to his plethora of wings. Pairs of 3. They're beautiful. You watch the conglomerate of his eyes closing and gently blinking, almost lulled to sleep. His golden halo hangs a little lower than usual – sharp, yet elegantly prudent. The ones on his wings covering his actual eyes stare back at you.

You're beautiful. The words stay choked on your tongue like a regretful prayer. Your eyebrows relax, and your jaw unclenches.

Sunday smiles, watching your tear filled eyes close with sleep.

–—

Your shoes click as you circle around the fountain, watching the carved figure in the middle pour out water from various sources.

Your padded shoes come to a slow halt, followed by Sunday's polished shoes right behind.

“Do you believe in wishes?’

“Hm..”

You shuffle through your bag, picking out something silvery. A coin.

“Yeah. Like.. a wishbone. A shooting star. An eyelash.”

You hold up the delicate coin, but Sunday's attention is trained on your face.

“We find wishes and stories everywhere. If you could.. what would you wish for?”

You gently grab one of his hands, and press a coin in the middle of his palm. He seems to have forgone his gloves once again.

“I am incapable of–”

“It's hypothetical. Come on.”

He hums, glancing at the coin, and then at the fountain.

“I'd like more coffee. One that is flavorful, deep and complex.”

You chuckle and shake your head,

“Be a little more creative. Just coffee?”

You pick out your own coin.

You suppose you were a bit unfair to him. What would you explain about walking to a whale in it's depths? About flying to a mammal accustomed to it's faithful footing? About crawling to feathery or scaled wings?

You throw your coin.

I wish for freedom.

Sunday hums again, pondering deeply.

“Ah, but if I say it out loud, it won't come true.”

“Aww..”

He chuckles, pocketing the coin.

“Let us proceed.”

He holds out his hand to you, and you eagerly accept, intertwining your fingers around his as you walk alongside and make small talk

“They've been struggling to walk and do basic tasks. Look after them.”

Mei's voice rung out in his head for a while, like a record playing over and over in an empty ballroom.

“You can see me.” He says matter-of-factly, instead of a question, after a moment of contemplative silence.

“I'm intimately familiar with death.”

He stares at her distant look for a moment.

“..I have my duties.”

“Sure. Take care of them. Please.”

–—

“Sunday, it's okay–”

A small gasp escapes you as he yanks you a bit closer,

“Watch out for the pothole.”

“The cover?” You look up at him almost in disbelief.

What on Earth has gotten into him?

“Careful.”

He pulls you aside again, ‘assisting’ you to dodge a very obvious, very blaringly red fire hydrant.

“Ugh, okay, wait.”

You halt, Sunday stopping in his tracks ahead of you as your limp hand refuses to move with his in grasp.

“you don't have to babysit me. I'm not going to keel over if I step on a rock or something.”

“Nonsense, I'm simply fulfilling my duty.”

He turns to you completely, your hand still firmly grasped in his, as he looks down at your troubled face.

“You weren't this.. protective.”

“Hm, something must have messed with your memories. Here, let me–”

You gently swat away his hand that reaches out to you,

“Sunday, relax.”

You both stay silent for a moment. You breathe out,

“Okay, here,”

You step closer, and shake your hand out of his firm grasp, but loop your arm around his, and gently pat his bicep with your other hand.

“Better?”

He stays silent for a moment,possibly surprised for a moment.

“Better.”

He smiles at you, and you return it, both of you continuing forward.

——

“I want a garden. As big as possible.”

“Is that so?”

You kick around a small pebble, stepping on a slightly raised stone platform before looking up to gawk once again at the priceless view – the field of tulips making you stop for a moment.

“Mhm. I want to grow as big of a garden as I can. I've always wanted to.”

He chuckles softly, following your gaze out into the vast tulip field, before returning back to you.

You almost belonged here.

The entire gorgeous tapestry of you. Blending into the delicate backdrop like a painting. He's seen a few portraits in museums that could at least come close to the vision.

“I want to paint.”

You turn and look at him, Inquisitively, as he says so, almost surprising you.

“Really?”

He fully turns to you, and holds out a flower for you to see.

A carnation.

“What do you want to paint?”

You glance back up at his covered face. He steps a bit closer, and places the flower in your hair, moving a few stray strands from your face as he does so.

“A garden.”

You giggle, and the sound blooms in his heart.

“What kind?”

“A big one. With as many flowers as there can be.”

“Sounds pretty.”

He hums. You are, He thinks.

——

Sunday hates the rain.

There are many things he hates.

Overrun schedules, late appointments, rushed deaths, overbearing contracts, unruly protectees, a bad cup of coffee, bright lights.

And the rain.

Both of you pant and huff – you especially – running to hunt for any cover, the pattering of your feet almost matching the rain's rhythm.

Sunday's hand is tightly grasped around yours as he leads you to a small cover; a small awning, the grip so firm you notice the middle of your palm is still dry when he lets go to check you over.

“Are you alright?”

Sunday scans you over, stepping to the side to examine you more, a supportive hand on your back as you continue to catch your breath. You can predict the next bout of pain is gonna be worse. But you shove that thought aside as you nod, turning to face him, wiping away some of the rainwater dripping from his chin.

“You're soaked.”

He hums, disregarding the obvious nature of your remark, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as he counters,

“You'll get sick.”

He raises his head slightly to glance over you, gauging something.

“We're closeby, let's just run–”

“No.”

Sunday shuts you down firmly. His tone doesn't allow more room for argument.

He sighs, running a hand through his own wet hair as he contemplates on what to do. You try to scrunch up a bit of your clothing to squeeze out the water, and do the same with your hair as you wait for him to continue.

“I'll be fine–”

You try to softly negotiate, but Sunday takes off his blazer, swiftly putting it over your shivering shoulders, before wrapping his arms around you and–

“Ah- Sunday-?”

You breathed out, almost a gasp, as he pulls you in. His shirt is thinner from the water still soaking it, but the warmth of his body (of which you become too aware about) relaxes you almost immediately. You hesitate for a moment, until Sunday quietly sighs into your shoulder. Your arms hesitantly wrap around his waist, tucking your face into his neck as well. Your bodies exchange warmth, and the water seems to help hold the heat better than before.

“I despise the rain.”

Sunday's muffled voice resounds into your clothes and skin, and you giggle at the ticklish sensation of his lips.

“Really?”

He nods

“Why?”

“Alters too many things in the schedule.”

“Ah. I see..”

He sighs again; a puff of breath warming– almost burning your shoulder.

You stay that way for a few moments longer, before you speak again;

“Sunday?”

“Yes?”

“I want to do something.”

He stays silent, as though waiting for your initiative. You loosen your grip, and he pulls away at the indication. You take a moment as you scan his appearance – nothing resembling the once pristine, well kept man you'd seen the first day in your hospital room. Bits of his blue hair stuck to his skin like waves latching onto the shore, the feathers of his wings adorned with raindrops, the blurred effect of his halo under the rain. Your eyes travel a bit lower; his tie is slightly crooked, and his shirt is see through and..

You clear your throat, blinking and turning your gaze away to the pattering rain.

“I've wanted to.. um..”

Sunday's fingers brush against the side of your face, turning your attention back to him.

He brushes away a few strands sticking to your wet skin. His fingers are cold.

Your hands gently grasp his, encasing it, your thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

You slowly turn, and walk backwards, his hand still encased in yours as you step into the rain, watching his hesitant steps follow you.

You both stand under the rain, the water cradling your skin and washing away your previous efforts to dry off. Your hand intertwines with his, and your other hand rests on his shoulder. He places his other hand on your waist.

You smile, but he still seems hesitant. For a moment, you both stand, simply looking at each other.

As if to reassure himself, Sunday leans down, and gently presses his forehead to yours.

Your smile falters for a moment, your expression replaced by that of surprise, but when Sunday grins, your confusion floats away. His hand squeezes yours as both of you sway and dance in the rain.

–––

“Is everything okay?”

Or at least – that's what the curious look on your face might say.

Sunday retracts his hand from the water of the fountain, gently flicks it, before wiping it with a handkerchief, drying it off. He sits half turned to you on the fountain's edge.

You stand with an umbrella and a (familiar) floating eye in tow, changed into warmer clothes and dried hair, washed of the rain's scent.

Sunday had temporarily stepped away while you were showering to visit a smaller fountain closer to where you stayed. He was acutely aware the coin you'd tossed wouldn't be here.

Always standing. Never approaching. That was how he'd describe Gopher Wood.

Right where you are.

Dressed in black like a curse that followed him – ravens in corners of buildings and lurking from above muddied puddles. Always in the distance, fog following him like a haunting widow, the backdrop of the mist etching him further into Sunday's mind. A hollow that spasms like a missing organ.

“These are necessary measures” he'd say. “Are you afraid?” He took delight.

He took delight in it.

“Sunday?”

Your voice, soft and grounding, snapped him out of the small trance he was in.

“My apologies.”

He says, picking up his folded blazer as he stands and walks to you,

“I have to check your temperature and–”

“Stop, stop, stop. Hold on.”

You hand over the umbrella to him, and shuffled through your bag to pull out a warm and fuzzy towel.

Sunday simply observes you for a moment as you hold the towel in your hand. He tries to reach out to take it with his other, but you pull away. He looks at you hesitant and confused, as you motion for him to lean down.

Carefully, your hands bring the towel to his head, and cautious of his wings, you gently dry his damp, blue hair. He hums, his wings shifting and bristling from the contact at first, before relaxing.

“You could have told me.”

“You wouldn't let me.”

“I wouldn't?”

You huff,

“You talk too much.”

“You're the one who cuts me off quite often.”

“Touchè.”

Your hands stop for a moment, looking over at his ruffled hair half dried by the towel. One of your hands brushes away some of the hair that sticks up onto his face.

You wish he'd let you see his eyes.

“What colour are your eyes?”

His throat tightened a bit. He'd hate to deny you if you asked to see them.

“..gold.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

You stayed quiet, simply looking at the soft feathers of his wings, your hand moving from his face to hover around the pairs behind his ear, you look at him, and he nods, giving you silent permission.

Your hand gently cards through one of the wings’ feathers, careful to not poke any of the eyes, wiping away any wet edges of his feathers.

“..You're pretty.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

You back away, your hand retracting and pulling away the towel but Sunday is a bit faster, his hand grabbing your wrist and immediately stilling you. You both stand for a moment, breathless, and silent.

…

“I.. I'll wash the towel.”

“Ah, it's okay..”

He insists, silently, although his originally urgent grip on your wrist loosens a bit.

You end up obliging, letting him take the towel.

He could feel your pulse. Do humans have normally quick heartbeats?

–—

“Brother!”

Robin grins, ear to ear, proud of her handiwork as she holds up her fingers, sticky from the dampness of the water and the sweat of her small, clammy hands. The water dips into the chubby curve of her elbow, threatening to go up further but dripping down into the water instead, rejoining the gentle flow.

“Robin, that could be dangerous! We don't know what those plants are..”

Sunday cautions his sister, voice untethered but soft with naivety and youth. His feet remain hesitantly restless on the muddy edge of the small river bank.

She only offers him a closed eye grin, before trudging her short, stubby legs in the water, walking back to the soil where she descended from, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in concentration as she was cautious not to slip.

“It's for you!”

“M-Me?”

Robin's wet hand reaches out to Sunday's, gently prying his soft palm open and placing a soaked flower, making the water drip from his rounded knuckles. Some of the water seeps into the edges of his sleeves, but not more than a few centimetres.

“It's the flower! From the book!”

“But it's not real..”

“It is! That's why it's white!”

Sunday looks down at the flower again. It looked dreadful, in a way. Like a drowned rat – if he knew he could describe it that way. But from the rambunctious effort of Robin's chubby little fingers having wrestled it out of the water, it looked..

perfect.

It was beautiful in a sense. The white petals were (almost) unmarred, the stamens gently swayed with the soft draft that carried with cloudy weather, and the stem was still slightly rigid.

Robin's handiwork was pretty.

“You mustn't run off like that.”

Robin flinches, and clings to Sunday's back, as he turns to the source of the voice.

His eyes first see shoes. Black, polished, unmarred. Never touched by filth. Then crisply ironed pant legs. Then up, up, and up, until his little neck strained.

Father.

Or what was left of him.

Gold rimmed glasses. A rosemary always adorning his neck.

Sunday's original thoughts, back then, had been none of these incriminating feelings. They'd been quiet. So silent and afraid, as though his father would hear if he thought too loudly.

“What do we have here?”

The man leans down, but it does less to make him non-imposing. He might prefer it, that way. Sunday notices the gentle tinker of his rosemary as it moves forward with his father.

Robin's clammy hands now clenched the soft fabrics draped over Sunday's small back, cowering behind him. His loud, messy sister. His determined, bright sister. Dimmed by the clouds and fear his father brought.

If only he reached out to choke his father with his rosemary right then and there.

—–

“I wish u could have made it ://”

You stare at an old text – probably even forgotten by the sender. The tears make the digital screen a bit hard to read momentarily as it fills up your vision, but it gets easier after they settle on your waterline.

It's these quiet nights you realise how much company you're missing. Like an artist painting the negative spaces in blotches to carve out the image – texts and hidden whispers like these carved out the loneliness you'd fester in yourself.

Something stirred you awake. Maybe it was the constant lingering pain that threatened to push it's usual threshold. Maybe the constant beeping of the heartbeat monitor.

Or that Sunday wasn't here.

Not even his eye. As unsettling as it was – you missed it a little. You sigh, pushing yourself up and sitting on the edge of your familiar hospital bed, careful to not agitate the pain more by accident. You push off the bed, and walk a bit hunched, pulling a shawl over yourself and deciding to go out and search for him for whatever reason.

At least, it's a better way to pass your restlessness than going through old texts. Walking at night didn't seem as bad of an idea – at least within hospital grounds.

––

Sunday remembers the world.

Or what he wishes to remember it as.

Cold, stony alleyways. Unforgiving nights. Merciless fog. A sun that never shines.

Not upon those like him anyway.

His Father – always standing. Never approaching. The fog surrounding him was the same. Always at a standstill.

Until something broke that.

There it was. Blood, seeping through cracks in the broken pavement of the ground. Almost inky from the murkiness and filt that seeped into it.

That was the first time he saw his Father's shoes marred.

“This is necessary, child.”

The Raven perched on his shoulder would bristle a bit, but not more.

No, it wasn't.

“This is our duty.”

It isn't.

“You will have to do what it takes.”

Sunday felt impossibly small that day. Like a fawn's leg caught in a bear trap. As if his surroundings grew a size too big and left him behind like a borrowed sweater. He was always more frailer than the other kids.

He wonders if that's why his father broke him so easily.

His little, golden eyes peered down, lost in thought and terror. He learnt how to ground himself at a tender age.

There was grime under his shoes.

Grime in the cracks of the pavement.

Grime in his father's affections.

He was never pure.

——

You couldn't find Sunday.

Forget that – you couldn't even walk.

Pain shot through you the moment you stood up, making you gasp and breathlessly sit back down onto your bed. Your throat constricted – you couldn't tell if it was from the pain or the frustration.

The frustration that had been ebbing and chipping away at you; second by second, hour by hour.

“I can't make it”, “I'm not feeling well”, “The doctor said..”, “I probably won't.”,..

“It hurts.”

Your lungs tremble, before sucking in a breath. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you hunch forward, glaring through the blur of your festering emotions at the sterile tiles of your hospital room.

The tapered off conversations, friendships fizzled out, disappointed looks.

You weren't blessed. By some being, or some cruel fate, or so on and so forth; it felt like if anything, you were created to be tortured. Like flimsy, rotting meat on a metal rod. Pain was more familiar to you than the crevices of your hand, weak with the trembling in your bones from all the feelings you couldn't even name.

“I wish you could have made it.”

That pulls a sob out of you like a hooked wire piercing and pulling through a fish's throat, making you double over as more continue to bubble past.

You were meant to be tortured; you choke on your spit, and sob past the coughing.

Why? God, just why? Fall to your side and curl up,

Why couldn't you be blessed? What did everyone else have that you didn't? Why weren't you blessed? Why couldn't you be free? What godforsaken sin had your soul committed? What did your fate have in store? What did you do?

Why you?

Burying your screams into the pillow, the ugliness of your reality was softened by it like an interrupted fall from a height.

You cry until your vessel is empty.

Until you feel you've carved a hole out of yourself from the middle.

What it would take to be blessed, you wonder. Your hands clench to your chest, and your heart throbs to live despite.

–

Sunday returns late.

And he returns quietly.

You look up, puffy and tired eyes meeting the wings where his are supposed to be.

He stands idly at the opened door. Blood stains his visage.

You breathe out, your face warm from your previous bout of sobbing, and don't utter a word. Sunday walks– limps to your side, almost paddling his way, before slumping down into the chair beside you. Some of the eyes besotted on his halo look tiredly at you.

You sniffle. He stays still. You presume he's looking down at the tiled floor.

Your hand comes up to rub away at your sticky face, and soon Sunday's own hand comes up to cup your face when yours retracts.

You lean into his gloved hand, disregarding the grime and the strong, metallic scent. He leans forward, and presses his forehead against yours.

His hair are soft against your forehead. You peer into the deft feathers of the wings that firmly shut over his eyes. Your own hands gently cup his face, closing your eyes. After a moment, he shifts, his face moving to bury itself into your neck, his arms moving to wrap around you, a bit too tightly. He stays tense for a minute, then relaxes into your hold.

You both stay like that for a while.

—–

You woke up feeling under the weather the next day. Which was ironic, because the Dawn has never looked as beautiful as it did that morning.

In fact, you don’t even remember how you managed to sleep.

You look down emptily at your hand – as though you awoke from a coma induced dream, reminiscent of the warmth that was under it just a night ago.

Just then, your door creaks open. Sunday enters with a small box, and stills for a moment before his face breaks into a gentle smile.

“Ah, you're already awake.”

He says, softly, careful to not disturb the peaceful atmosphere the morning sunlight had casted in your room with you two. He walks over and sets the box on your bedside table.

“What is that..?”

“Paint.”

“Oh. Wait, what?”

He leaves, and a few moments later, you hear a soft grunt in the distance, followed by some wood creaking. Finally, Sunday seems to be able to maneuver whatever he'd been handling and it comes into view as he brings it in;

An easel, and a canvas already set on it.

You smile, at his struggled and awkward movements as he carefully handles the easel inside.

“You wanted to paint.” You recall, propping up your pillows and lazily leaning back onto them.

“I did.” He says, his smile returning to his face after the slightly troubling task. He pulls a chair and sits in front of the canvas, adjusting and pondering over the position of it until he was satisfied.

“What are you going to paint?”

“You.”

“Something more original please.”

“With lots of care.”

“Hm? What?”

You chuckle a bit, Sunday puffing a smile at your seemingly lightened mood.

“You should rest for today. We have a few necessary tasks to look into, aswell.”

You yawn, turning your head to look at the morning sunlight brightening up your room.

“Sure. What are they?”

You hear a clack – the lid of the box having been pried open with a bit of difficulty, as Sunday rustles with the paintbrushes and paints.

“A few things regarding your previous experiences with The Family, reviews, feedback and complaints..”

Ugh. They wanted you to drop a review?

You sigh, stifling a groan as a hand runs down your face. Sunday chuckles, softly,

“I'll take care of the writing part, just answer the questions.”

——

“Hm, how curious.”

The lavender-haired woman stirs her tea with dainty, carefree rhythm, the spoon clicking against the ceramic of the cup as she peers down at the cards on the table.

Mei sighs, her hands folded on her lap as she stares at the golden liquid, occasional vibrations making it ebb the slightest bit.

“He doesn't seem.. angelic, does he?”

Black Swan ponders out loud, her hand picking up and flicking a few tarot cards,

“There's something about him. It feels off.”

“Relative to his sister, even I'd think so.”

The woman smiles lazily, her dawn colored eyes looking up at the purple haired woman in front of her.

“You're quite worried.”

“..I suppose, it's obvious.”

Mei's eyes flit up as she hears movement, followed by a lazy sigh from the woman across her.

Thin, manicured nails faintly brush against her skin as Black Swan holds her hand, her lithe fingers feeling the ridges of her engagement ring,

“And here I’d have thought you’d been more excited to see me back.”

Mei puffs out a prudent chuckle, her hands manoeuvring to hold her lover’s.

“Alright. Care to give me a reading?”

The dawn-eyed woman flicks up a card.

The Hanged Man.

Acheron’s eyes follow the swift movement.

“Let’s see what’s in store.”

——

Sunday thinks he's cursed.

Dirtied, marred. Absolution is in store for the sinners, and exorcism for the cursed like him.

Who dirties the divine? Who damns the dirtied? Whose hands marr purity?

Gopher Wood was not a man of purity. Grime-stricken hands that crawled up from the depths of hell to pull fragile minds into an abyss.

He inlaid a curse upon Sunday – that must have been it.

Why else would he not be able to look at him?

Head down, child.

Sunday's little feet would shuffle together, sweat would stick to the small flicks of his short hair on the back of his neck, eyes fixated on the grimy, cobblestone path under his polished shoes.

Follow my lead. Do not go astray.

His hand would tightly grasp onto a few fingers, barely gripping onto the firmness of the man's hand with his little, clammy ones.

Do not look.

Sunday stops. His heart beats a bit too fast for his tiny body.

Do not ask.

A bead of sweat tickles his skin as it rushes down the side of his temple.

Do not speak.

Tears would bubble at the corners of his eyes, hands red and swollen from being hit for every verse he got wrong. For every word he could not muster out from his throat that was raw from childish blubbering through cries.

He would not speak of him.

“Sunday?”

He holds his breath.

You scrutinize at the pamphlet in your hands, before aiming it towards him and pointing at a word on it.

His hand remains stiffly held in the air, the tip of the brush barely grazing against the painted canvas.

“What does this mean?”

His chair creaks as he leans aside the canvas to take a look at the word you pointed at.

“Ah. Exorbitant. Something unreasonably pricey.”

You make a small ‘o’ shape with your mouth, looking over the sentence again in better understanding.

“How's the painting coming along?”

“It's..”

Sunday takes a moment to glance over the painting.

The sky is barely painted in – it’s embarrassing how much detail he's put into your figure standing among the flowery field, however. The looser ends of your outfit billow among the sunlit garden, a wide smile etched upon your face, flowers adorning your arms in bunches as you try to hold the huge bundle.

“It'll take some more time.”

“Can I see?”

He hesitates. You smile.

“You.. can, however.. I'd like to keep it a surprise.”

You nod, softly,

“Okay. I'll see it when it's done.”

Sunday returns your smile. You continue reading the pamphlet. Sunday takes the time to admire the curve of your lips against the backdrop of sunlight through the window.

–——

You suppose you should have seen this fever coming.

You curl up further on your side, tapping away at a laptop on your hospital bed, putting on a show and huddling further into your additional blankets provided by the hospital. It helps provide background noise in case you want to zone out.

“Hm.. fever of.. 38°C.”

Sunday plucks out the thermometer from your mouth, before placing it on your bedside. His methodical hands mess with various sachets of medicine before neatly presenting a few of them on his open palm.

“You'll need these.”

He hands them over to you, along with a bottle of water. You eat your pills and settle back into your bed with a forlorn, disappointed sigh. Sunday only fixes your covers and tucks you more into bed.

Your eyes trail over to the canvas behind him, covered by a cloth, as Sunday dabs your sweaty forehead with his handkerchief.

“When can I see it?”

He hums, a bit in thought, as his hands continue to gently dab away the sweat on your skin.

“In a bit. I have to add a few details.”

“Okay.”

You close your eyes, your weakened body pulling you into sleep as you feel the sensation of Sunday's lips press on the corner of your brow.

And that was the last you'd seen from Sunday.

Not that you're upset – of course not. He's a Seraphim. He surely has much better things to be doing, really. You can't imagine it must have been easy gaining such a status in the first place. And then having to look after a sickly human in the last days of their life? Work must be drab to him.

That being said, you do wish he'd at least tell you where he is.

Your eyes drift over to the overcast weather outside your window.

You hope he took an umbrella with him.

——

“Sunday.”

“Mr. Wood.”

Sunday's voice is sharp – he doesn't bother coveting the offensive edge.

“You've been astray for too long.”

…

Silence.

His gloves creak in protest as his fingers dig into his palm, curled fists at his side.

His smile remains stiffly on his face as one of his gloved hands pushes up his glasses.

“Surely, do you think such blasphemy is tolerable within the Family?”

“I–”

“Im asking, child.”

Sunday breathes out, strained.

“I didn't mean to–”

“Such excuses do not work–”

“Stop cutting me off.”

Sunday's voice wavers at the end. He feels his heart pushing into his throat. The raven on the man's shoulder only bristles, the smile on his face unwavering under the shadow of his black umbrella.

“..You haven't changed, little sparrow.”

Sunday's jaw clenches more. But before he can speak, thunder cracks in the background. His head snaps to look at the distant skies covered by heavy clouds.

It smells like rain.

––

“Take responsibility. Take responsibility for all you have done!”

Sunday's voice cracks through the strain on it.

To respond is to acknowledge. He knows that filth won't respond. But he tries anyway.

He and his sister – they weren't sinful. They were children. They weren't filthy, they were confused. They weren't sinners, they were hurt.

They were children.

Through countless tortures and rotting, had Sunday realised his training was nothing but an escapist projection of his Father's own fears.

The fears his Father could not absolve in himself – he would, through the raw, blistered hands of a child that did not know better.

Or perhaps it was enjoyment. Or to fulfill his ego. To bolster his position as the shoe that grinded on dirt like him.

Perhaps all of those reasons.

Children with clammy hands, who plucked flowers and grabbed too tightly onto the swing, with scraped knees and a face that basked in the innocence of an eternal Sun.

Children, who were perfect to hurt, for monsters like him. Monsters like him who revelled in the pain of the innocent in lieu of unproven salvation.

By the time Sunday yells his throat raw, thunder bellows in the background in equal magnitude, the rushing rain doing little to calm his heated face and drowning out the pattering of your feet as you rush to find him in front of the fountain where you both had made a wish.

“Sunday!”

Your voice calls out in the distance, his head snapping to you.

You shouldn't be out here.

He turns to embrace your approaching figure in the distance, his feet thrumming and moving to meet you in the middle, but before he takes a step–

“Do not move.”

The words still his bones. He breathes out, watching your slowing figure, swaying from the fever. Water sloshes lazily along his polished shoes that leaks out from the overfilled fountain. You'd wished for freedom here.

“Do not defy.”

He bites his lip, his teeth gnawing the flesh and drawing blood. He kept his wish in his pocket.

“I have commanded you, child.”

He will always be a sinner.

A sinner who is undeserving of a salvation as beautiful as yours.

“Your thrall is fizzling out.”

He smiles, and Sunday wishes he could rip his teeth out.

You sway, stopping to catch your breath, feeling yourself almost lose balance before steady arms wrap around your body.

“You're soaked!”

You whisper, feeling the dampness of his suit as he pulls you into a hug.

“We need to leave.”

Sunday leads you back, ignoring the weakening tether of his divinity.

Sunday looks back for the final time – a lonely, black umbrella in front of the fountain, it's owner seemingly vanished.

——

You heave, as Sunday helps you back onto the bed. Somewhere along the way, your body only grew weaker. You feared something worse when you could barely feel your pulse, but the way your legs seemed to almost stop working by the time you reached your room, it was already true.

Your figures shuffle as Sunday paces around the room, trying to find extra blankets and covers provided by the hospital, cursing under his breath as he knocks over a few items, some getting caught in his leg. You try not to pay attention to your failing body, but its hard to ignore how much deja vu you're getting right about now. Only this time – the pain is worse. The chill running up your spine at your spike in fever is nothing compared to the cold that's slowly chipping away at your fingers, and the pain in your body is reaching an all time high, making your breaths come out in labored gasps. It feels like a scrawny animal trying to rip out of your body.

He hurries over to you, swaddling you in blankets and sheets in layers, furiously rubbing your arms as he tries to warm up your body from the biting cold of the rain. Thunder strikes through outside your window, and in your fever haze, you catch a glimpse of the painting Sunday had meticulously made. He must have accidentally pulled the cover while pacing around.

Sunday calls out to you, snapping you momentarily out of your haze, but not completely. You were losing consciousness, and fast. His voice is shaking, despite how much he tries to appear calm.

He knows.

But you can't bring yourself to pay attention. Things float over your mind like an ephemeral dream, your eyes only focused on the golden sunlight of the painting.

There's Sunday. And you. The garden is beautiful, and the sun illuminates your hands, reaching out to each other.

The gold is beautiful.

“Hey..”

You call out, making his panicked actions stop abruptly. His hand cups the side of your face, so gently, as if you're porcelain under his hand.

“What is it?”

“Sunday..”

Your hands tremble, moving up to hold his face, your fingers brushing away stray droplets from the edges of the wings over his face. The pain ebbs in you, and you recognize the familiar action as you sense it dimming, coupled with the sweat forming above Sunday's scrunched up eyebrows. He's trying to salvage this pain.

“Can I see your eyes?”

Sunday breathes out, leaning more into your hands. His hands move from supporting your back to your shoulders, gently pushing you back onto the bed, but his forehead presses against yours.

You can feel his trembling, cool breath fan the lower half of your face, his own hands clasping over yours. The pain starts decreasing terrifyingly fast, making you afraid of just how much Sunday is trying to take it from you and into himself.

“Sun..”

Your voice whispers out,

“You don't have to–”

“I love you.”

The words hang between you two. You hear the faint sound of him swallow. There's dried blood on his lips.

“I love you too. The painting is beautiful.”

Sunday sucks in a breath, his wings bristling at your words. You feel your hands slowly lose strength.

His wings move. You see his eyes.

And they hold the most beautiful, striking golden Sun.

You're caught breathless for a moment.

Sunday's hands are still clasped over yours as they loosen and threaten to fall away from his face. You sense the trembling in them as he fosters your pain.

“I'm scared.”

His eyes close, eyebrows scrunched in worry and uncertainty.

“I'm here. I always have been.”

“I don't want to die.”

Sunday shifts, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead,

“Wherever you go, I'll follow you. There is nowhere you will go that I won't reach you.”

You close your eyes, tears roll down the sides, and Sunday kisses them away, continuing to whisper against your skin,

“I promise. I'll find you. In every universe you are painted into.”

You smile, laughing bitterly through your tears, your voice cracking a bit,

“You didn't make a wish, you know..”

Sunday presses his forehead to yours, his hand fishing out the coin he'd kept from his pocket in a hasty manner. He holds your hand, and gently places the coin in the centre of your palm.

“Because this will be a promise. I will follow you unto the borders of fate. Wherever you will lead I shall look to.”

You smile, through your tears,

“It's not fair. It's not your wish.”

“It's mine. And I am yours.”

He kisses you. His lips are soft against yours. You can taste his blood.

“I will always be yours. In death, if not in life.”

His hands encase yours. You feel the ridges of the coin press against the inside of your closed hands.

You die in love.

He is a curse; a man rotten by the grime of his humanity, and thus he turns to you for the salvation of his divinity. But how insignificant such a thing is to him – He cannot bless you, so he curses you. You who were never blessed now face the miracle of an angel like him. A miracle crafted by the defiling hands of a sinner that cursed you for love.

And he shall follow you unto death like one.

——

Acheron thrums her fingers against the cool counter of her desk, her eyes trained on the register in front of her.

She doesn't know how to tell a story.

Not yours, anyway.

Black Swan hums in the background, fixing the frame over the wall,

“You doubt yourself too much.”

Mei stays silent for a moment, then sighs. Her office chair creaks as she leans back in it. A few moments of silence, followed by a soft peck on the bridge of her nose. She opens her eyes to see her wife's, the woman slightly leaned over her.

“I'll be home late. I promise I'll spend more time with you soon. I just..”

Black Swan hushes her, her fingers lazily tangling themselves in the woman's violet hair.

“I know. You have a long day ahead, isn't it?”

Acheron sighs again, closing her eyes, remembering your body in the morgue. Just about a few hours ago, when the rain was hitting it's hardest, she and her wife had taken a relaxed break. Black Swan had drawn some predictions for her, and the sounds of thunder had soothed her troubled mind back to a still pond.

She opens her eyes again, and watches the precipitation on the window, the gentle sunlight peeking through the breaking clouds, the sound of rain coming to a slow halt. She watched a raindrop sliding off of the leaf of a plant right outside her window. Black Swan has already returned to her own devices behind her.

In just a few hours, you'd been alive. By the time the clouds broke apart and the rain stopped, so had your heart.

And here you were – back with a story of your own, instead. Acheron wishes she was better at storytelling. She hopes her wife can do it justice.

She turns halfway in her seat, looking back at her wife.

“..do you mind.. lending me a hand?”

The lavender haired woman only hums in response, the clicking of her heels as she approaches her again. She places three cards on Mei's desk.

“Which one calls to you?”

Mei takes a minute, analysing the duplicate designs of each card's back. She taps on the one on the left. Black swan picks it up.

“that's good.” She hums, closing her eyes for a moment, before opening them and looking back at Mei,

“But I mean, you. Which one really calls to you?”

Acheron hesitates once again, before tapping the middle one.

“Perfect.”

——

“You were right.”

Mei says, before gently blowing on the hot liquid in her teacup,

Black swan hums, lighter at the end, questioning what Mei was mentioning.

“That painting looks better in the centre.”

At this, the lavender-haired woman's mouth makes an ‘o’ shape, before curling into a smile. She flicks a few cards before gathering and tapping the bundle on the table to even them out.

“It does. Aren't you pleased I'm looking after your office decor?”

Mei only hums in response, looking over to the said painting hanging above her office chair, her face hidden by the sunlight of early morning.

“Someone ought to have helped with such a..”

Black Swan trails off, perturbed by the sterile, clean look of Acheron's office where she has yet to make changes.

Mei only laughs under her breath at her words.

“You're right.”

Black Swan's gaze joins her lover's, as she looks to the painting aswell.

The golden sunlight peers through the tender reach of your hands with a certain, blue-haired angel. The same angel who was buried beside you.

“Ah, look.”

Mei looks down at the table, following her wife's fingers, as they tapped on the table.

“What do these cards mean?”

“Take a guess. Tell me what you feel from these.”

Her hand lands on Mei's – slightly coarse from her line of work. Her lithe fingers trace the band of her engagement ring.

“Something.. new. A fresh start.”

She smiles. Her dawn-colored eyes trail to the sidewalk just outside, watching a pair of lovers walk hand in hand under the newly uncovered Sun after the night's rain.

——

“Morning.”

You whisper, leaning down and gently kissing the corner of your husband's brow. He sighs, and shifts, burying his face further into the pillows. It's soon followed by arms that move under the covers to wrap around your waist, forcing you to stay seated beside him. You simply chuckle.

“Goodmorning.”

He replies, his voice soft with sleep. You ruffle the soft tufts of his blue hair.

“Sleep well?”

“Mm. I..”

He opens his eyes, half lidded and blurry with sleep, looking up at you. You both stay silent for a moment.

“I had a long dream.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

He sighs, before slowly sitting up, and burying his face into your neck, and then leaning his body weight onto yours, making you lay down on the bed.

Hm. So this is how it's going to be.

You know your husband too well to know this is going to turn into a drawn out cuddling session. Your hand raises and brushes through the soft, blue locks. You're giving in anyway, because who are you to deny your lover?

He only holds you impossibly closer at that.

“I made coffee. It'll get cold.”

He hums at that.

“It's 10 in the morning, you dork.”

“Ah, didn't notice.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning down to press a chaste kiss on the top of his head. He presses a kiss to your neck in return.

“You haven't shown me your painting yet.”

He stays silent. But then, he shifts, his arms hesitantly letting go of you.

That seems to have gotten him going.

He gets up, and shuffles out of the room. A few moments later, he returns with a small canvas wrapped in a cloth. He hands it to you, then returns to sit beside you, burying his face into your neck once again.

“Wrapped too, hm?”

“It's your birthday.”

You smile. He leans over and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your brow.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“You haven't even seen it yet.”

You unwrap the cloth from the canvas. Your smile only widens at the painting.

There you two are. Your house is behind you two, and there's your garden that you've painstakingly taken care of.

You chuckle, pointing to a few, scattered reds across the greenery,

“You included my carnations.”

His hand comes up to wrap around yours, before bringing it up to his lips, and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Of course I did.”

You set the painting aside, before getting up and stretching, popping a few joints.

“Come on, I'll make you some fresh coffee.”

You reach your hand out, and he takes it, getting up on his feet as he lets you lead to the kitchen.

———

There's a strange shop that you've recently discovered.

It pops up just about whenever, wherever. A strangely elusive personality culminated by the repeated disappearance and the mysterious purpose of the shop tends to pull you in.

You had visited the shop before – but the memory is fuzzy. You don't remember having anything you'd like to buy. Photo Albums, mirrors, tarot cards, polaroid cameras, antique equipment and trinkets, and strange candles. It was when you were on your way home from work that you decided to take such a detour. Perhaps.. that must've been what it was. Regardless, you decided you'd want to visit the shop again with your husband.

The opportunity was pretty perfect; your schedules aligned, the weather was considerably not so miserable, and you managed to find the shop in time.

It's a bit of a chance opportunity, considering how your husband has taken a liking to a bird that recently ended up in your backyard – the poor thing was scuffled. It's wings were broken and it barely survived through the night you two found him.

Ever since, he'd been collecting photos and capturing the little thing's recovery, bit by bit.

You smiled to yourself, humming in contentment as your arm was looped around his snugly, basking in the warm glow of the early Sun, walking in a leisurely pace as your husband continued to flick through photos on his phone.

The weather was especially nice today – the rains had stopped a while ago and the time window was perfectly in between cold breezes and a warm atmosphere. You eyed the gentle swaying of newly sprouted weeds and grasses, a thicket of flowers and so on, at the edge of the sidewalk connecting to the wall of a barrier.

The wall would end a few ways ahead, replaced by (slightly worn) fences, as the rest of the land came into view the more you two walked ahead. Your husband would occasionally fill in the silence with little facts he would remember of, while you scanned the vast scenery of the green land behind the fence.

It was a cemetery. The tombstones were warmed by the Sun – or you at least think so, the way a cat seems to be lazily draped over one. There's a hugely amassed tree a few ways up the tombstones, and there lay two solitary ones, just enough distance from the tree for the light to reach under and illuminate them.

You wonder if they're warm. You wonder if the grass is soft, and the dirt is coldly comforting. You wonder who they were – lovers, spouses, friends. Perhaps they were holding hands through their graves. Another cat sprung from behind one of the tombstones, gracefully approaching the one asleep sunbathing, stomping around the little flowers growing beside the specific tombstone.

You see them greet each other. You see the cat lovingly bathe the sun-kissed one. It's tail lazily draped over the tombstone flicks, drawing your attention to the name. Nico. Below it, reads, Have faith in a tomorrow.

The fence cut the sight a little short as you two walked ahead.

You think for a moment, almost disregarding the smallness of the thought amongst other things in your head.

“Ah, I don't think I've shown you this one.”

Your husband speaks, leaning over to show you a spontaneous photo of you on one of your dates. You both had taken a detour and rested near the fountain. That must have been when, as you smiled, looking at the photo.

But the thought still lingered quietly in your head.

To be woven so delicately and strongly into someone else's tapestry, until the strings frayed long after your deaths.

What it would take, you wonder.

———

Akin to your habits of detours, and keenly aware of your likings, your husband politely guides you to a cafe you two had visited once (he, thankfully, does not mention the audible growling of your stomach. Coffee is not a good, neither a fulling breakfast.)

You two spend a handful of hours there, simply relishing the downtime you two have together. Hushed, soft conversations, hands held over the wooden table that stayed linked as you two finally made your ways to the strange shop.

It was small, but the arrangement of the trinkets (and perhaps the placement of the lighting) made it look more spacious inside. You two talked at the front where, you presume, the owner of the shop was. A lavender haired woman who spoke in a hushed, sweet tone. Nothing else was off about her except her hypnotizing gaze and the knowing look in her eyes. You two would take your time sorting through the shop, and eventually your husband would pick a photo album.

The woman offered to print a few select photos, and you hesitantly agreed. Although technically this was a strange shop in itself, something about it prickled your skin the wrong way.

So, you waited outside for him as he discussed the details, choosing to admire the carefree and relaxed atmosphere of the day outside.

After a moment, your phone buzzed, and that was your signal. You headed inside, and found your husband listening carefully to the lavender-haired woman instructing on how to take care of the album. As soon as you catch her eye, she smiles at you, and waves. You wave back.

“Good to go?” You ask, looking at your lover in blue.

“Sure is. Feel free to drop by anytime you need some more help.” The woman chimes in, smiling lazily at you, her chin cradled on her hands, her elbows propped up on the counter as your husband fiddles around with the album a bit more.

“Alright.” He says, after a moment, satisfied with his inspection. “We can leave.”

You smile at the woman again as a thanks, she simply waves you two off as you leave. The chiming of the little bell over the door resounds for only a moment as she watches you two with a fixed gaze leave and walk away.

“Hm..”

She hums, her fingers grazing over the plethora of cards sprawled in the pop up desk below. Her finger lands on a card.

The Hanged Man.

“Mei was right.” She smiles.

———

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auraisereigh · 3 months ago

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"Healing hands"

Garrick Tavis x Chronicallly ill reader Request: "hi! would you write an angsty one shot with garrick tavis with reader who is injured: chronically ill ? thank you" wc: 1.2k word count ☆ no specific spoilers. - Talk about chronic illness, i used mine which i'm not entirely sure is an actual chronic illness but i thought that using my own struggle with it would give it more of an emotional side. innie minnie tiny bit suggestive, like one comment. Uses pronouns: she/her.

Masterlist ☆ Dragon guide ☆ Star's story ☆ Empyrean guide ☆ Support me

Today was one of the worse days. The knee, hip, and back pain were more painful than usual.

Most days, the ache is there, but it's not much of a pain anymore. I've gotten used to it. But some days… it’s worse—way worse. A pain that doesn't seem to end. A day where all you can do is push through because no medication or anything else can help it.

I'm working through my tasks. About a month ago, I started working in the forge to help Aretia. Making weapons, like swords, daggers, or arrows to help win the inevitable war that will come down upon us one day.

The job is hard work, but it pays off, and to me, that's worth every bit of pain.

Just today, it's reached a level where all I want to do is sit down. My knees tremble and ache. My hips feel the same, slightly better, but the pain is still noticeable. My back is killing me—the pain mostly in my lower back, but it reaches up to my ribs.

My hand reaches to a knot I feel by my ribs. The pain gets worse the longer I stand. I slowly try to massage the knot out of my body. It doesn’t work. It never does. The only thing that helps is sitting or laying down. Letting my body rest.

Garrick walks into the forge. He's still in his flight leathers, and a bag hangs on one of his shoulders.

Two days ago, he left for a patrol that would last a few days.

Our room suddenly felt empty. When he left, I usually spent all my time here.

He walks up to my workstation and drops the bag beside it. I had just been working on some alloy-tipped arrows. The idea came from one of the assembly members after an arrow killed a venin. Turns out, the shooter made the alloy-tipped arrows herself. Ever since, I've been working on the design on how to make them. An easy way, but also a way to make the arrows quickly.

“How are the arrows coming along?” He asks casually as he picks one up and twirls it in his fingers.

I look up to meet his eyes, my hand falls from my back. “Fifty down, fifty to go. Each one I make goes faster,” I say, pointing to the fifty arrows I’ve already finished.

I let out a deep sigh and sit down on my chair. The relief is instant. I let my legs hang. My hands instinctively go to my knees, massaging them slowly.

His gaze focuses on my hands, and his face now holds a hint of worry. “It's bad again, huh?” He walks around my workstation and crouches before me. His hands replace mine and he starts slowly massaging my knees. I lean back in my chair. “Yes,” I sigh. “It's never-ending today.”

“How long have you been up?” He asks with a hint of care. “Since my lunch break. So two hours. And before my break… five or six,” I reply honestly. There is no point in lying. He knows my hours, and he knows me.

He gives me that smile that shows he's frustrated but doesn’t want to take it out on me.

“Positive side is, I’m finished for the day,” I give him my sweet smile, and he lets out a chuckle in disbelief. “Of course you are,” he mutters.

He stands up and takes both of my hands to pull me up.

“Not all that bad. If my back cracks again, it might just light up,” I say sarcastically as I take my bag.

“Cheap nightlight,” he replies with just as much sarcasm.

♤

I lay on his bed. The sheets warm against my back. Soothing the aching more than the chair did.

I eye him as he changes out of his flight clothes and into something more comfortable.

“I swear I was thinking halfway through the day whether I should wrap my knees or not,” I speak as he takes his shirt off to change.

“Why didn’t you?” He asks with a frown. I shrug with a sheepish smile. “Forgot them,” I reply as if it’s the most normal thing to forget in my case. He shakes his head. “Of course you forgot.”

I give him a mocking look of betrayal. He laughs softly as he puts on some sweatpants. Lord, he looks so amazing in those. Those sweats hug him just right.

I let out a shudder. At this rate, I’ll start oogling him with anything he will ever wear.

I need to get up. I know I do. I need to get changed out of my work clothes and into something clean and comfortable. But my knees feel like they’re on fire. That standing up would result in me crumbling completely.

I eye the chair where I left my after-work clothes this morning. It's not far, but it's far enough that a small groan leaves my mouth.

Without a word, Garrick reaches over to the chair, walks three steps to me, and lays them next to me on the bed.

I bite the inside of my cheek. He shouldn’t have to do this. Look after me because I can’t stand on my legs. Yet he always does.

He reaches for the ends of the loose pants I’m wearing, slipping them off easily before throwing them aside. He takes hold of the dark grey sweats and puts them on me with practiced ease. It’s not the first time he’s had to do this.

The same happens to my shirt. He slips it off and replaces it with a looser, more comfortable one.

I let my head hang in my hands once he’s finished. Not only the exhaustion but also the frustration weighing me down.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. His hand finds its way to my hair and tangles in it, gently massaging my scalp and I let my head rest against his stomach.

“I just want to sleep,” I mumble in reply. “Just want my body to stop hurting. Just want to rest.”

He continues to massage my scalp. The touch soothing and calming as my eyes finally shut.

“Lay down,” he breaks the silence. Ever so gently, he picks me up and lays me on my side of the bed. My entire body instantly relaxes. My mind almost shuts off immediately as my head meets the soft pillow. I let out a soft sigh of relief.

I feel the sheets surround me, their warmth surrounding me in a cocoon.

The bed dips slightly at the end. Garrick places a fleece under my back to support it. His hand rests on one of my knees.

This, right here, is what I needed all along. This is what I craved all day. And this is what I look forward to all day, every day.

Him. The care he gives. The comfort and safety I feel with him. Even with the pain, he makes everything a little bit more bearable and breathable.

And for that, I couldn’t be more grateful.

♤

#garrick tavis x reader #garrick tavis #xaden riorson #bodhi durran #fourth wing #iron flame #onyx storm #fourth wing x reader

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ryomens-vixen · 2 years ago

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GrievingSukuna! HEADCANONS

Summary: You passed away from an incurable illness that plagued you almost your entire life, and even as his favorite concubine, his most cherished, hell his only one left since he had disposed of the rest. The one thing he liked, that her genuinely cherished was now withering away in his arms.

⚠Warning⚠ Minors dni, mentions of death, Sadness, idk what else to put.

GrievingSukuna! Who has never once said "I love you" to anyone not even you. The thought of those words ever leaving his lips made him want to gag except right those words meant everything.

GrievingSukuna! Who listened to your frail voice reassure him that your time spent with him was a joyous one, and that your were just another concubine, that he shouldn't mourn the life of someone who was merely brought to his temple over a year ago for his enjoyment alone.

GrievingSukuna! Who silenced you with the most tender, loving, heart stopping kiss to ever grace your soft yet dry lips as he just could not bare to hear another word. You chipped away of his walls, held his cold heart in your warm hand, and yet you had the nerve to utter nonsense? You had become his pride, the air he breathes, almost his wife, and possibly the barrer of his supposed heir.

GrievingSukuna! Who listened to you final goodbye to him after one last kiss to which he finally spoke those three words...

"Oh, Lord Ryomen, Serving you was..was the best thing that life could have ever given me. Every moment I spent serving you.. I spent without regret, my only regret now is being too weak to serve you any longer. What kind of concubine am I? Heh, forgive me..please forgive me, I- I-..."

You had spent all your energy speaking this blasphemy to him. If he could he would have scolded you right then and there, but there was no time that. All he could was catch your fallen hand that reached for him in an attempt to hold him one more time. You didn't have enough energy left to finish your sentence yet he finished it for you in those last moments he uttered for the first and final time.

"I Love You, (Y/N)... You foolish woman."

He said it, he finally said it, those words from him you would carry into the afterlife with you, A tear fell from your beautiful (E/C) eyes. But these words were only meant for your ears, not even his servant that stood outside his chambers could hear him whispering those three words into your delicate ears.

GrievingSukuna! Who's world came crashing down once your chest rose and fell taking your last breath. Oh the heinous things he would do, the sacrifices he would make, the blood he would give to just hear your sweet voice once more. This hurt him, this pain.. It petrified him, it was like no pain he had ever felt before.

GrievingSukuna! Who after hours of holding your cold corpse, finally allowed his servents to come in and ready you for burial. His face was unreadable to them, but on the inside he was ready to explode with rage, he was ready to curse the heavens and hell for taking what was his away.

GrievingSukuna! Who stayed locked away in his chambers for the next few days leading up to your burial. Oh how you wounded him worse than any man or woman ever could. This wound wasn't something he could just easily no, no, this wound would forever be etched into his mind, body, and soul for as long as he lived.

GrievingSukuna! Who's face remained unreadable during the ceremony, you had no family to join him, just his loyal servents who had grew quite fond of you once upon a time.

GrievingSukuna! Who quickly storm away once your casket was lowered into the ground, he felt his eyes were burning... What was this? Tears!? Never in the beginning of time would Sukuna ever shed a pathetic tear, but he heart could not deny the human emotions that came with once being human. He wouldn't dare let anyone see such an ugly sight, him experiencing sadness.

GrievingSukuna! Who's sadness was quickly replaced with pure, unadulterated rage, every village in 100...No a thousand mile radius was fucked. If he couldn't have the one thing he cherished more than anything in the world then why should everyone else?

GrievingSukuna! Who would go days without returning to his temple until he's had his fill of bloodshed, maybe this was his new found way of coping with the loss of his concubine?

GrievingSukuna! After days of slaughter he would return home to your grave absolutely drenched from head to toe in the blood of the innocent and lay at your grave.

GrievingSukuna! Who would stay at you grave for hours, cursing you to the heavens for leaving him in disarray, for not ripping his heart out his chest to take with you so he wouldn't have to FEEL this pain any longer.

GrievingSukuna! Who would soon slaughter all that were loyal to him as he would rather live in solitude, then to be reminded that he has no one to share the servitude of his people with. Sukuna would rather be alone than to enjoy the finer things without you by his side.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #jjk fanfic #jjk drabbles #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #sukuna angst

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astolfofo · 1 year ago

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…I had a thought about the halovians(specifically sunday) and want to know peoples opinions. do u think he has nesting instincts? :3 thank u for listening to my ted talk.

hi (i did say i was gonna answer this 2 weeks ago unfortunately I forgot i'm so sorry.) But anyways, thank you for your ask, and 100% he does.

tw: non-con, forced pregnancy, dark content. truly the unedited sleep deprived trying to write.

Okay i finished writing this i know you didn't ask for acutal writing but i went ahead and did it anyways because why not hope u don't mind

also excuse the fact that thus was posted at 4am and I was half falling asleep already while writing this.

There were three days in your life that you could have called the worst.

The first one was the day when Sunday took your life away from you, and claimed you to be his "wife". The second was when first time he chose to be intimate. The third was when you got pregnant as a result.

Nothing had ever stuck to you like the day after that. You felt like washing the sheets until your hands would bleed. You wanted to submerge yourself in bleach until every fiber of your body burned, shriveled up, and died.

You wanted to forget that it happened. That the events in the previous night ever happened at all.

But the soreness between your legs was a constant reminder. And even though the pain went away after a few days, it was replaced by something much worse. Something you feared.

You saw the signs from the second you got them. Your body felt heavy. You were constantly tired. You had lost interest in eating. It was obvious what was going on.

And for a few days, you tried to hide it. The longer Sunday didn't know, the better it was for you. That way, you could slowly while away your last few moments in peace before everything was taken from you in entirety.

After a few weeks, you couldn't hide it anymore. You remember staring at the double line on the pregnancy test.

You almost instantly broke down into tears. It wasn't anything that you hadn't already know n, but maybe part of you still just believed you were ill, that maybe there was another reason why you had missed your period that month. That the pain you kept experiencing was just from some kind of illness.

The last thing you could keep away from Sunday was taken away from you that day. The sense of freedom you could've had.

To Sunday, you suppose this was the final step he needed to take to bind you to him. Another way to control you. Another way to keep you in his arms, and make sure you wouldn't let go.

And if you didn't want to get murdered by the press, if you didn't want to further sabotage both your own and Sunday's public image, you knew to take it.

You had no choice but to take it. You were no more than an insect trapped under his thumb.

out of the two of you, there was only one person that was particularly enthusiastic about having a child.

It certainly wasn't you.

Ever since you had first found out about the pregnancy, you had felt empty. As if someone directly sucked the soul out of your body.

You weren't yourself anymore. You hadn't been for a long time.

Sunday didn't seem too bothered by it though.

You weren't sure if it was just his own parental instincts, or whether he could tell that it was almost time for you go into labour. Maybe it was a combination of both. You didn't care. You couldn't care less.

All you knew was that his presence was suffocating. Overbearing. Invasive, even.

You couldn't do anything by yourself. Sunday felt the need to assist you with everything you did. Even basic tasks such as grabbing an object, he insisted that he would get for you.

But what set you off the most, was his intense urge to keep the house in order. You had never seen him having such intense urges to organize a room even when just the slightest thing was out of order. He couldn't stand seeing the slightest speck of dust, he couldn't stand seeing the furniture just an inch out of place.

It drove you to madness.

If you had even slightly misplaced something Sunday you would notice Sunday getting slightly agitated.

From the moment he came home, to the moment he would fall asleep, he spent every waking second making sure the house was perfectly in order, before obsessing over you. At some point you just wanted to wave him off. Lock yourself in the bathroom and sleep for a long period of time, until you had no concept of reality anymore.

You didn't have it in you to keep going. week after week, month after month, Sunday's final goal had always to perfect you into an obedient wife that would do as they were told. And no matter how you tried to fight it... you were always forced back into obedience.

There's two cold fingers touching your chin, and lifting your face up, until you're forced to meet a pair of eyes.

They're bright. Everytime you see them, you can't help but try to look away. They were as bright as the sun, and just like the sun, you felt as if you were going to be blinded jfyou looked at them for too long. You guess it could've also been a sentiment to the power he held over you too.

"Dear, did you hear a word I just said?"

It's an obvious answer. But, you know better by now just to answer the question. You slightly shake your head, which supposedly satisfied him enough, to let go of the fi gers holding your head up.

He sighs, you're not sure in annoyance or in disappointment.

"If you keep acting like this, I'm going to need to resort to drastic measures..."

You look at him one more time. You remember how when you first saw him, you thought of him to be beautiful. To be almost ethereal.

You regret falling into that hypnosis. You regret looking at him at all.

Look at where it got you.

#yandere sunday x reader #yandere sunday #sunday x reader #sunday smut #yandere hsr #yandere x reader #hsr smut #hsr x reader #sorry if i butchered your ask its like. late rn. 💀

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hwangism143 · 1 year ago

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𓆩♡𓆪 nicknames. 𓆩♡𓆪

hyung line.

han jisung.

"good morning my pookie wookie snuffle bear."

you look at jisung in confusion, wondering what the hell just came out of jisung's mouth. he was hunched over his cereal when he said, "oh. i couldn't think of one nickname, so i decided to give you them all!"

soon, what seemed like an irritation, became another thing for you to look forward to during your day. you woke up every morning wondering what crazy nickname jisung was going to give you the next day.

the prize however, went to 'better than felix's brownies and any lemon meringue pie.' you really regretted introducing jisung to baking reality tv.

"you do-" jisung hesitated, "you do like these nicknames, right? like they don't annoy you?"

"no," you giggle, "they don't."

placing your forehead on jisung's, you ease his tensions by saying, "i like them. but not as much as i like you."

lee felix.

felix paced around in agitation. "okay, now i feel bad," you whined, "i didn't even put this much thought into a nickname for you. everyone called you sunshine, so i did too!"

"aw, don't feel bad," felix called out in his restless stupor.

you walk over to him and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your chin on his shoulder. initially, he is tense until he relaxes against you and lets out a sigh.

"hey," you say softly, "it's ok."

"no," replies felix, "it's not. it's like a relationship rite of passage."

you roll your eyes at him. "felix. you help me grow and bring out the best in me. that's proof enough of you love. you don't need a nickname to show it as well."

but felix is lost in thought. he mutters something under his breath and he turns to face you, visibly lighting up.

"that's it! i'm sunshine and i help you grow, so that means that you're my..."

you initiate a little drumroll with your feet.

"sunflower!" he finishes triumphantly.

kim seungmin.

"we need to talk."

your heart sunk into your stomach the moment he voiced those four words. nothing ever good came from a conversation succeeding that ill-fated sentence.

"what is it," you ask, hoping he doesn't notice the nervousness in your voice.

"we have to talk about the terms and conditions of our relationship."

"we had a contract?" you ask in confusion.

seungmin looks at you with a glint of mischief in his eyes, "an unspoken one, yes. as per what's prescribed, i need to have a nickname for you. i do not, however, have a nickname for you."

relief washes over you, soon replaced by a little bit of exasperation. who on earth would start a conversation so simple with a sentence so daunting? kim seungmin, that's who.

ah, you were in love.

"well," you ask promptly, "what's my nickname?"

"i have thought a lot and," seungmin smirked, "you don't deserve one."

"hey," you laugh, "that's not fair!"

"but you love me either way, sweetheart."

yang jeongin.

"i have made an extremely important decision," jeongin announced promptly. he walked over to you and sat down, a wide smile adorning his face.

"innie, you said that yesterday when you finally decided between glazed or barbecued chicken after pondering over it for twenty minutes," you reply endearingly. jeongin had a bit of a... indecisiveness problem.

"but, honey, really," a smirk started to play on his lips.

"honey? that's new," you ask in confusion. the way he said it with a low tone made warmth (and ungodly thoughts) seep into your body.

"exactly, yeobo," he said, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest.

"so. what was the decision," you're beginning to get slightly impatient, your curiosity getting the best of you.

"from now onwards," he haughtily proclaims, "you are no longer to be referred to as y/n. you are now christened as honey or yeobo, depending on my mood."

you laugh into his chest, mocking his extremely poor british accent and blushing at his newfound names for you.

#stray kids #skz #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids x reader #i.n #jeongin x you #jeongin fluff #han jisung x you #han jisung fluff #felix x you #felix fluff #seungmin x you #seungmin fluff #- via's fanfics <3

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listen-to-the-inner-walrus · 3 months ago

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Another square (and a half*) crossed off on my bingo card for @batmanisagatewaydrug's 2025 book bingo and my god, Lakewood by Megan Giddings is a fucking incredible book.

*technically I have childhood favourite crossed off because I've finished the book but I've decided to re-read the entire series so I'm waiting to "officially" cross it off by making a tumblr post about it

If you like horror books, specifically body horror and psychological thriller kind of stuff, I could not more highly recommend Lakewood. It got to me in a way that few books in the genre ever had.

It's about Lena, a young black woman whose mom is chronically ill and whose grandma has died. That has left Lena in a whirlpool of debt and bills to pay that she's struggling to keep up with. It seems like a hopeless situation until she gets invited to join a research study team by the government that pays well, provides her an apartment to live in and health insurance for her and her mom.

Said research study is run almost entirely by white people with a sample that is composed of almost entirely people of colour. It evokes things like the Tuskegee Study and all the times in The US's history where people of colour, specifically their bodies, have been exploited by the government.

Which is what the book is about: the exploitation of your body and how far you'd let your body be exploited if what you were doing was helping those you love.

There are moments in the books where my first instinct is that Lena needs to leave the experiment now. Just get in her car and drive off. But then I'd be reminded by how much it's helping Lena's mom, and I'd realise I'd do the same as Lena. If it would pay for my mom to get a knee replacement, to get her private healthcare for her issues, to get her a stair lift, I wouldn't ever leave the experiment. And you know, I'm a white person who lives in a country with universal healthcare (though the NHS has been continually gutted by the Tories for the past 14 years). Lena faces so much more hardship than I do.

Overall, it's a fantastic book that I struggled to put down. It's definitely one of my best reads so far this year which is saying something because The Gilded Crown and Black Water Sister set a very high bar earlier on.

"She wanted to listen to her body and ignore her brain, which kept thinking over Tim’s words: “You give of yourself to make your country a better place. You give of yourself to keep us safe.”"

#kai rambles #bookblr #2025 book bingo

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astariontopofme · 2 years ago

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Hi! I loved your Astarion fic very much!! You really captured him very well! :D I would love to request a fic where Tav/Reader invites Astarion to watch the sunset with them and just have a sweet time together without obligation of anything more. Thank you! ❤️

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐬 🌞 (Astarion x GN!MC)

A/N: I took this prompt and ran too far with a bit of angst, I apologise. There’s still fluff I promise! Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 2.3k

___

Alone and miserable was exactly how Astarion intended to spend his evening.

He was growing a little tired of these long days ending in disappointment. They had been on the receiving end of some particularly brutal attacks that afternoon, each one adding to the ever lengthening delay on their mission to find a cure for their tadpoles.

It seemed there wasn’t an end in sight, their days repeatedly starting and finishing the same way. The worst part about it for him was his confliction when it came to the matter at hand. One minute he was determined and dead set on finding someone or something that could remove the tadpole, and the next minute he was absorbed by the actuality that the tadpole had given him the happiest moments of his prolonged life.

One of those moments being the warmth of the sun on his cold skin.

He couldn’t imagine being stripped of such luxury again, locked in the shadows until the harshly cold moon replaced the flourishing gold beams that it blessed upon the world. The very thought left him in a slight state of panic if ever he dwelled on it long enough. Everyone else was yearning for the solution to their infections, which was fair. It hadn’t brought anyone but himself any joy, just a disruption to their lives.

Which was why these thoughts were always kept to himself. He didn’t want to hear about how ‘everything would be okay’ or the irritating default ‘cheer up’ phrases. It wasn’t as simple as just seeing the bright side of ridding himself of the tadpole. Sure, it would eliminate the chances of being turned into something he didn’t want to become, but removing it would turn him back into his old self, something else he didn’t want to be.

The very thought of avoiding the daylight made him feel ill. He hadn’t expected to be so attached to it when he first realised the warmth on his skin wasn’t cooking him alive. Two hundred years of darkness was what he had no choice but to be used to. He knows how to live out his life that way, but he didn’t want to.

He just wanted to be free.

So as he could hear the rest of the camp making their attempts at cheering each other up, Astarion sat in his lonely little tent, slowly waving his hand in the strip of honey-like light that had invited itself in through the gap of the tent’s entrance. He almost wanted it to start burning him, just to prepare him for his impending intolerance to the beauty cascading a rich bronze hue across his deathly pale skin.

Judging by the deep shade of the soothing beam, the sun was beginning its daily journey to another part of the world. The nights were always a little difficult when he got in his head like this. Every glance at the stars shimmering in contrast to the ebony sky made him wonder if that had been his last day in the warmth before someone excitedly presented him with a cure he only half wanted.

Just as he felt himself starting to spiral uncontrollably, his tent was suddenly deprived of its sliver of warm light. Before he could tell whoever had come to bother him to leave him alone, a familiarly soft yet strong hand clasped itself around his, tugging him out of his solitary as his knees crashed into the hard ground. He was ready to start shouting at whoever had the sheer audacity to pull him around like that, but as he looked up from his knees he was met with a contagiously joyous smile.

Whatever Tav was so happy about must not have reached the others, most of them sitting around the start of a fire and barely looking any happier than he felt. The misplaced display of glee was almost irritating him, but the irritation was fizzling out quickly, as it always seemed to do with his partner.

Gods he was getting soft.

Doing his best to be stern after being so unexpectedly manhandled, he put on his best frown. “What on earth was that for?!”

Still, the look of delight before him did not falter. If anything they looked even more pleased that he was in a bad mood.

The same hand that had kidnapped him from the confines of his tent reached out to help him up. Being the ever so petty man that he could proudly be, Astarion completely ignored it and dragged himself up to his feet, being sure to scoff as he brushed the dirt from his knees.

“Come on,” his over excited companion commanded.

Astarion raised an eyebrow at them. “Come on, what?”

Before his tongue had even hit the roof of his mouth to exaggerate the T at the end of what, he watched his partner turn around quickly, darting off into the woods surrounding the camp.

Although their actions hadn’t exerted any will within him to now go and spend time with them, he wasn’t prepared to let them scurry off into the woods alone before it got dark. He quickly grabbed a small dagger from a stool outside his tent and hastily set forth to catch up to them. Sure, he was a little pissed, but he was too protective of them to retreat back into his tent and stew in his misery.

It didn’t take him long to catch up, despite how quickly his partner was speed walking through the trees. Wherever they were going, they were clearly in some kind of hurry.

“Will you slow down,” Astarion hissed. “Where in the hells are you going?!”

Tav simply continued without a word, stopping very suddenly at the edge of the forest. There was quite a drop only a few feet in front of them, and Astarion found himself automatically reaching out to grab the back of his partner's top, despite the fact that they had already come to a halt.

“I knew this would be the perfect place,” Tav exclaimed with an accomplished grin.

Astarion couldn’t help but hope that this wasn’t what he thought it was. He wasn’t entirely in the mood to try and be interested in sex right at this very moment in time, nor was it the most comfortable looking place for it.

“Look, I enjoy your body a great deal, but I’m not really-”

Tav’s gaze shot straight up to him, the smile dropping from their face. “I…I didn’t bring you here for sex, Astarion,” they explained innocently. “You know that’s not all I want from you…don’t you?”

Astarion didn’t know how to answer this. He had spent so much of his life being used to lure people to their doom with sex that he still couldn’t decipher between being appreciated and being used. It was a difficult area in their new relationship that they both knew would take time and plenty of reassurance. He trusted his partner a great deal, more than he had ever been able to trust a person before in his life.

After a few awkwardly silent minutes went by, Tav cut the tension by pointing out towards a body of water in the distance. “I wanted you to watch with me,” they murmured quietly, crossing one leg over the other to sit on the hard ground.

Astarion watched as the deeply orange sun was slowly approaching the water, reflecting itself on the surface like fire dancing over ice. It was a rather breathtaking sight, one that forced his legs to follow the same crossing motion to sit beside his partner and bask in such a beautiful sight.

Despite the earlier downward spiral into his fear of sun deprivation, he had never felt so soothed and relaxed by such simplicity. He hadn’t yet watched a sunset, which was usually down to missing it whilst journeying back to camp. The brightest star in the sky was sinking away, emanating a golden sheet across everything that surrounded them. It was almost hypnotic just how fascinating the sight truly was.

Any resentment he had for being dragged out of his tent against his will had dissolved almost instantly. This relationship thing was still all very new to him, and his biggest obstacle was understanding, which was difficult as there were so many things he just didn’t understand. The main one being Tav’s interest in him.

Even he couldn’t deny that he could be a bit of a negative bastard at the best of times, and yet this ridiculously patient person he found himself to be enamoured with wanted to share such a beautiful and intimate moment with him without the obligation of intercourse. They really did care about him.

But for how long?

If they were to eventually find a cure, Astarion was almost certain that he’d lose something far more valuable to him than the sun. Why would such a bright soul want to spend the rest of their life with him in the shadows?

He tore his gaze away from the descending sun to glance at his partner, only to find them already looking at him.

“Isn’t it lovely,” they whispered quietly, as if raising their voice would scare the beauty away.

Astarion swallowed a hard lump in his throat, not knowing how to answer that question. It was lovely, but he wasn’t just thinking that of the sunset.

Before he could catch his tongue, he blurted out a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to. “Are you going to leave?”

Once again, Tav’s content smile faded into a small and confused frown. “Leave? Leave what?”

He could hear his conscience shouting at him to just shut up and quit being so pathetic, but his mouth seemed to overrule it. He needed some sense of security.

“Me.”

The hurt look on the face that had recently become his favourite caused his cold heart to squeeze in his chest. He didn’t want to come across so accusingly, but he wasn’t exactly accustomed to loyalty. Nobody had cared for him the way they did, yet as much as he was afraid that they would eventually grow tired of him, he wouldn’t ever be surprised if they did as he just didn’t expect much from people.

Judging by the sudden sadness in those fascinating eyes, Tav hadn’t actually thought about it in the way he had. “You think I’m going to leave you when you can no longer walk in the sun,” they questioned, though it came out as more of a statement.

Astarion didn’t verbally respond, but the way his body tensed up at the thought was enough of an answer for his partner. Tav shuffled over a little, sitting closer to him and placing a comforting hand on his leg. Their piercing stare bored into him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet their eyes with his.

Still, Tav spoke so softly that it almost made Astarion uncomfortable. “If I had plans to leave you after these tadpoles are gone, then I wouldn’t have bothered with you in the first place. I know what you are, Astarion. I know what comes with being a vampire. That’s not going to change how I feel about you.”

He couldn’t suppress the frustrated sigh that escaped him. “That’s easy for you to say now,” he said, surprisingly calm. “But when you’re confined to the darkness-”

“I’ll still love you.”

It was the first use of the word between the couple. A word Astarion didn’t have a lot of experience with, which was why he couldn’t decipher between whether the feeling in his chest when he heard the intimidating word was a reciprocating feeling of love or whether he was dying on the spot. His eyes snapped back to his partner, but they were now staring off towards the water again, watching as the sun disappeared into the horizon and took its warmth with it.

Yet he still felt warmth. It was growing almost painfully in his chest as his heart thumped at an alarming rate. Any time he had heard someone explain what love felt like, the word warmth had almost always come up.

“The sun’s gone,” Tav whispered quietly, taking his hand. “And I don’t feel any differently. I mean it, Astarion. I love you.”

Astarion’s whole mouth felt like cotton. He did love them, he could physically feel it within him. But he was afraid that the words could not form yet. Sure, he’d falsely told people he loved them for manipulation purposes, but real love was a huge step for him, and he felt he needed to truly understand its meaning before he could declare such a thing back.

“You don’t need to say anything,” his partner reassured him softly, picking up on his dilemma.

He swallowed hard. “It’s not that I don’t-”

“I know.”

Their eyes finally met, something different presenting itself between them. It felt as though their relationship had taken on a new meaning, one that slightly soothed that voice in his head telling him he was going to end up alone when their mission was over. He just couldn’t believe he had found such a remarkable soul in such a strange and life threatening situation.

Though he couldn’t use the word love just yet, he couldn’t let this moment end with his silence. He knew that he could feel it, and he needed them to know that.

“I’ve always heard the phrase that home is where the heart is…and I never really understood it before now,” he began to conclude. “Nothing ever felt like home to me. Not Baldur’s Gate, and certainly not Cazador’s palace.”

He reached his free hand up to cup Tav’s cheek, his thumb absentmindedly brushing across their slightly blushed skin as they melted into his touch.

“But you…I have a home in you.”

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this fic! This is my first time writing with a gender neutral character so please be kind if I’ve made any mistakes!

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desertskiespodcast · 11 months ago

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The first half of Desert Skies season 1 was made in a large hollow room, the latter half was made in a very unsturdy uncomfortable blanket fort.

The mic I use goes for $100 brand new which is nothing compared to many, and I’ll replace it with the same one if it ever breaks.

First episodes I ever made were made using free software, and the only reason I use a different software now is because it’s part of the Adobe subscription I have for other products I need. They both do the exact same things.

I never worked in sound engineering and still have no idea what half the things I do to clean up the audio are actually doing. I don’t understand the terms. I press buttons till it sounds right.

I never wrote a fiction script in my life. I didn’t finish college. I’m in recovery from a serious mental illness and have been for many years.

I’m ridiculously unorganized.

I didn’t have time to make a show. I operated at a loss for nearly a year and after that only made enough to pay for my hosting fees and software. I had a family I supported and they’re loud (but I love them).

I did it without a team. I did it without previous voice acting experience or other actors. I did it with massive amounts of self-doubt. I played every character.

I did it anonymously for like the first 6 episodes because of how afraid I was.

I took 3 month breaks between some episodes and then would have 2 episodes release back to back. At multiple points people thought my season had ended. It took me almost a year and a half to finish my 13 episode season

I still made it after some really mean reviews. And after constantly being compared (often kindly. often negatively) to a massive show I’d never heard of.

I made it after all the articles saying I’d never get listens because the podcast world is flooded. I continued making it after I found out I wasn’t doing something new, that there were like 8,000 other shows in the category.

Next month DS is on track to hit 1 million downloads.

I’m so glad I made it. It’s brought me so much joy. And I write none of this to brag, but I’m damn proud of what I’ve accomplished.

I’m just here to tell you this:

THERE ARE NO RULES

You can make one or a hundred shows if you want to, because there are no rules

You can make it by yourself or make your grandma voice act for you, because there are no rules

You can record it on a cassette tape and mail it to random addresses, because there are no rules

You can make it for one person, or for yourself, because there are no rules

You can make it a found footage or a full cast or improvise it or release one episode a year for a decade, because there are no rules

You can advertise it, or make social accounts, or don’t. There are no rules

You can record it into your phone, or your moms phone, or into a Talkboy because there are no rules

The only thing you can’t do is never make it. That’s not allowed

#audio drama #desert skies #science fiction #fantasy #audio fiction #art #podcast #writing

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xxcherrydevilxx · 5 months ago

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Liquid Courage

Pairing & Fandom: Female Lavellan x Solas -Dragon Age Word count: 3,238 Warnings - slight lewd descriptions, otherwise pretty fluffy Summary

Solas keeps denying poor Lavellan's advances after settling into Skyhold, and she is getting a bit tired of it. A night drinking then stumbling into his sad little corner might be the push she needs to finally stop dancing around the question and just ask it, and also admit to herself that she is hopelessly in love despite trying not to be.

Author Notes: More brainrot on my lavellan, just reposting this to my Tumblr so the terminal illness can be seen by everyone everywhere for all time. Not fully proofread, several errors here and there but tada! Banner used below is by CafeKitsune!

“It's sad, he makes me sad when I look at him,” Lumine Lavellan grumbled beside Varric. He snorted as he continued to write down words in a letter, shaking his head lightly at Lumine’s glum expression. They had just settled into Skyhold and he was getting together some notes for his companions in Kirkwall. The casual “No I didn’t die,” and “Yes I’m staying with the Inquisition for a bit longer,”

“That's curiosity, Charmer,” Varric replied with another swish of his quill against parchment and a flourish of gathering ink to begin yet another letter.

“No- well, perhaps, back at Haven…” She mumbles to herself. She was still half-slouched half-stood at the table beside her dwarf companion. He inclined his head to her, continuing to listen to her chatter. The background noise of Lumine was becoming his favorite sound in Skyhold.

“But when he led us here, told me things about our people, I really started to wonder… he's alone, yet still so wise? How? Who taught him? What more does he know that he does not share and why-” she heaved a dramatic sigh, making his stack of papers flutter slightly but not become disarray. “-why he never joins us at the tavern, am I bad company, Varric? I think everyone pretty much likes me, I know he enjoys me when we discuss trivial things here and there- yet he never takes up my invitation for a drink?”

Varric pressed a hand to the back of his neck and let out another laugh at the poor young elf’s questions. He had to tell Hawke about this, it reminded him of her, in a strange way.

“Yes, Charmer, you are horrible company—that's why half of Skyhold follows your every flippant whim. " She shoved her shoulder into his playfully, making his quill slip and the letter he had almost finished being swallowed by ink with no intent. He pushed her back jokingly as he stood to fix her mess.

Really. She was just Hawke but in a different coat of paint. Perhaps more charming too, less prone to fighting as well.

“I'm gonna try again Varric, maybe he’ll play Wicked Grace with us and I will be able to make him let down that icy guard of his,” She began, with new reckless stubbornness. Nobody ever said no to her, especially not the men. Varric had purposefully watched when she charmed Curly, the sight was something to behold. The poor boy, a stuttering mess, and a devilish elf just smiling at him. Then there was The Iron Bull, those two took fast to flirting with one another on the battlefield. Some of the things so salacious he had noted to write it down in his next book, Maker, it felt as if those two were trying to win a battle or something with the sly comments they gave one another.

“Yeah, yeah, you can woo Chuckles after you help me clean up your mess. " Somehow, when Varric uttered those words, the spilled ink and ruined parchment suddenly disappeared and were replaced with fresh and clean versions of both. Huh. Noted.

“I appreciate your invitation, but I must decline once again. I am… studying some things,” Solas rejected her yet again, which made her lean against one of the walls that he had yet to paint. Why was he so stubborn? She knew he liked her—or well, he did. They flirted well enough at Haven. What's so different with Skyhold?

“Oh? Like what! Tell me about it, I like hearing about your studies and things,” she quipped, trying to keep him talking for as long as she could. She knew once he stopped they both would recede into different spaces. She would head to the tavern, drink ale and flirt with Bull for fun, cheat at cards with Varric, and be unabashedly herself for a few short hours before she had to be “inquisitor” again.

It reminded her of when she was shuffled between clans to become the First to clan Lavellen, oh how she had to fold into herself there too. Do not run off, do not explore, pay attention, do not speak with humans, your magic is unchecked, blah blah blah.

Perhaps that's why she desperately wanted for Solas to join her, to see her outside of her inquisitor persona and the real her. He had caught glimpses, she was not as subtle with her personality, never was as her Keeper would confirm. Her flippant attitude to certain problems, her joy in parties and victories, her defiance against the idea that mages were “unsafe”. That still wasn’t enough, she wanted him to know her and in turn, her know him. He was interesting, he reminded her of a Keeper she would actually follow, a Keeper who was actually wise. She found herself seeking his guidance, relishing in their talks, and learning far more than ever before… And perhaps when he spoke of how fascinating it would be to see her dominated it sent shivers down her spine and made her begin thinking about the sage elf differently.

“I could not keep the inquisitor away from her companions, the work would bore you either way,” He evaded smoothly, making a turn to look over a book that was sprawled on his desk. She pushed herself off the wall and walked forward, craning her head over his shoulder to peer at the text- ugh, she didn’t understand a lick of it from her quick glance. Yet she did enjoy seeing the spooked expression on Solas’s face as he stepped away.

“Inquisitor, I assure you its-”

“Lumine, call me Lumine,” She beamed, swaying her hips slightly as she watched him squirm under her gaze. He leaned against his desk, inching farther away as she stood in front of him, blocking an easy escape. Yet, he did not make to push past her, how curious.

“...Inquisitor Lumine, please, do not worry about me, I enjoy my time here,” he spoke curtly, and she scoffed, stepping back and walking towards the door. Perhaps that was a bit mean, well, more so than mean. He had just gotten under her skin so terribly bad.

“Right, of course, If the ale doesn’t make me pass out I shall find you again, Solas,” She called over her shoulder, she gave him a toothy grin as she did. She wasn’t someone who gave up on others, especially one that looked so… alone in that rotunda he called his own. Also, she never gave up on someone who didn’t trip at her feet.

Perhaps he had divulged himself too much with his simple flirting and long looks. The strange, yet charming elf, Lavellen, had sunk her teeth into him and refused to let go despite his constant backwalking on past discussions. He thought after a few days of his somber and humble ploy she would saunter off to find another man to set her sights on. For a short while, he thought he was succeeding, until her incessant pestering about catching a drink or playing cards. He was amused by her, flattered even- despite wishing not to be and had not harshly rejected her. He enjoyed her confident walk into the rotunda, the pout after a soft refusal, and her walking away to lick her wounds.

Yes, he enjoyed the game. He enjoyed seeing her eyes light thinking she might have won, then smoldering the flame with another shake of his head. How he enjoyed watching her new ideas and antics, her walk away with a pang of hunger.

Yet he shouldn’t, which is why he keeps denying her advances to the best of his abilities. He had something much more serious to do than devour Lavellan because of his foolish desire. He needed to stop watching the sway of her hips and the way she licked her lips when she ate honeyed treats. He had fleeting thoughts of how they would taste if instead, he licked them clean. How she would tremble and gasp against him-

Right. Focus. He could not be that man. She would find someone else, there were plenty of them lining up that she only bolstered with her teasing. Which is why, when she stumbled into the rotunda long past when the moon had risen, her skin flushed pink and her hair a mess, well- he just had to make sure she was okay, of course. Yes. it was important to confirm the inquisitor did not drink too much. He was just doing the humble apostate mage thing of leading her by the arm over to his couch and helping her lay down.

The ale flowed plentifully, she had tipped her drink back to nothing so many times during the night that Josephine would most definitely need to place new orders for more drinks. How she stumbled up Skyhold’s steps and into the rotunda where her favorite elf would be is nothing short of a miracle. Perhaps she was Andraste’s chosen, for that's the only fathomable reason she didn’t fall on her face when she ascended the first step.

She must say though, seeing the bewildered look of a man deep in thought, the man she desired, who all but pushed aside his work to stride to her side and take her by the arm.

“Inquisitor-” he began. His voice was rough from not using it for several hours. How she loved the sound, it would sound better if he called her name instead, though.

“Lumine” she slurred to correct him. Hoping to win hearing the syllables slip off his tongue with that gruff and tired voice of his.

“Lumine,” she won. Lovely, the sound struck her heart true and she leaned into him. Smelling the scent of ink, paper, and elfroot on his clothes. She let herself be led by him, perhaps because it gave her more of an excuse to practically nuzzle her way into his chest and then was laid down on the couch that sat in the otherwise sparse space. Her ale-addled mind had several pleasing thoughts of how this would continue, his walking away was not one of them.

She sputtered to call after him, trying to lean up but the whooshing sound of blood in her ears and the spinning of the already very round room made her fall back down.

Oh, rotunda, round, of course. Did she truly only drink ale tonight?

“I’ll acquire you some water, Lumine,” Hearing her name again on his tongue, without that stupid title, made her relax back onto the sofa with a content sigh. Fine, so be it, let him grab her some water.

She dozed as she waited, her eyes closing and opening languidly as she took in the veilfire that lit the space. She found her eyes wandering in wonder at the paintings he had done in their time here. Perhaps she could ask him to give her lessons, another way to get more time with him and slip past his defenses. She heard the door click close and soon, there he was. She should make stopping by his room drunk a habit if it meant he doted on her.

“Why, thank you my dear apostate.” She said, her voice intoxicatingly sweet. He sat the water beside her as he smoothed the hair off her brow.

Yes, this shall become a habit of hers.

“It's the least I can do Lumine… How much did you drink exactly?” he asked, his hand slowly sliding away and into his lap where he folded them together- so composed.

“Cups!” she beamed, her voice echoing off the walls and up to wake some of the sleeping crows. He gave her a wry smile and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Why, yes Lumine, cups,” He joked back to her. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, she saw his sharp canine and felt a sudden flip of her stomach. Was it the drink or the butterflies? Both? Something else?

“Wolfish,” She whispered. She grinned up at the shock that wove across his face. Yes, she was great at this teasing thing even when drunk. At least she knew she still had that effect on him, she was worried truth be told.

“Wolfish and tricky,” she continued. Elated to see the way he shook his head with a bemused expression. She agreed with both her declarations, only now finding the right words to place what he reminded her of. She probably wouldn’t remember it in the morning, how sad she had finally placed the big mystery and she wouldn’t even remember. Perhaps she should write a note down for herself to remember.

“I hope those are compliments, inquisitor,” she groaned at the usage of her stupid title once again. Throwing her arm over her eyes as she pursed her lips, hadn’t they worked past that?

“Please, I beg you, just call me my name, every blasted person in here calls me inquisitor,” she whined, her annoyances at these past few months bubbling up from their hiding place. Maker, she was so tired of it all, how much longer would she have to play yet another act of who the people around her supposed she was? When could she abandon the titles for her own name?

“I am not inquisitor, I am not the First, and I am not a knife-eared mage, I am Lumine Lavellen- witty and charming and whatever other positive words I cannot think of at this moment.” She declared. Yet again making his eyes crinkle and a smile tug at his lips. A shudder of a laugh shook his body as she pouted. Did he find this funny? How rude, she was dead serious.

“Do not laugh, I forbid it, you are a tricky man to get to do anything, did you know? I have been poking and prodding you to come out of that shell of yours,” She babbled on, her train of thought leaving the first thought and jumping to the next as she did. The liquid courage flowing through her veins only allowed her to speak more directly to the apostate sitting beside her.

“You- you do make your intentions noted,” He chuckled, looking away from her as his grip on his folded hands tightened. He was as taut as a bow, why? What had him on the defense so terribly as if he would leap away?

“Well, that's good, I thought my charm had dulled since Haven,” She grumbled, making a move to grab the water and almost tipping the cup over. He practically leaped at the ability to help her, holding the cup for her as she sipped from it. Still, his eyes still seemed to betray his composure. A storm seemed to brew inside of them, and it made her choke on the water that slipped past her lips.

“That's quite impossible, Lumine, you’ve charmed all of the inquisition and half of the Hinterlands, I am no fool to your guile,” He said, his voice low and still carrying edges of roughness from little use during the night. Yet again, her stomach flipped and she felt her skin heat from her face to the tip of her ears.

“Yet you deny my charm, is there- did I misread?” she rushed out, leaning on her elbows and tipping her head closer to him. He tipped back as if getting too close to her could hurt him. Yet she waited, out of spite or fear or something else… She waited to hear his answer.

And that answer took a long time to form, as his eyes flicked back and forth between her and the door.

“You… You did not misread, I just- well, I think… I do not want to distract you from your duties,” He had finally spoken after he gathered his thoughts. She snorted, duties? Can’t he see that's what she wants him to be? A distraction, something to remind her she was still her underneath the heavy weight of saving the world.

She didn’t let her mind wander to the much more dangerous underlying factor that she, in fact, had a crush. It was sickening and she had never gotten one like this before, and well- she liked it, she liked feeling something other than the mounting pressure and the fear of failure.

“You silly man…” She had uttered, which only made him shoot her a confused stare. She grabbed hold of his wrist, running her fingers over the fabric that covered it before dipping it under the sleeve to feel the pulse there. It pounded beneath the pad of her finger, and she pressed down just slightly to see if he would pull away. He didn’t.

“You do not… distract me from my duties, you give me.. A breath of air before I am pulled back under by them,” She began, her finger still rubbing the cool and soft skin of his wrist as she spoke. “If it weren’t for you, Solas, I do not… I cannot see myself coming out of this as well as I have.” She finished, not intending to be so honest about her feelings- about her fears. His other hand softly came up to trace the bones underneath her wrist, before tugging it away from under his sleeve.

She feared he would leave it at that, ignore her silly confession and her soft touches, and say “good night, inquisitor” in that annoying closed-off voice of his that she dreaded. The most beautiful thing occurred instead, for he intertwined his fingers with hers and held her hand. She felt her heart soar as she let out a soft gasp.

The world could end now for all she cared, at this moment she was breathtakingly and maddeningly in love with a man for simply holding her hand. Such a simple act, and yet it broke her.

“I fear for what would happen if we indulged in this, I fear for how it would… look,” He said softly, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. She forgot how to breathe, she was sure of it.

“I do not want to make anything… difficult, I do not want to hinder our plans.” She sighed at his touch, feeling her body relax. She was lovesick, horrible, especially for her. The elf inquisitor who boasts about her flirtations, in love, gods…

“You could never be a hindrance, and if anyone were to say a thing I might just throw them off the highest point in Skyhold,” she spoke back softly, her eyelids drooping as she met his gaze. Longing pooled there, and love so true it made her heart stutter. Then, he smiled and pulled her hand to his lips to give the softest of kisses as she felt herself lull into sleep. His words were the last thing she heard, his face the last thing she saw before sleep overtook her.

“Duly noted Lumine, I will keep your words close to heart… though, please do not throw anyone off any balconies for me, understood?” He said, a soft laugh permeating through his comment. She smiled in her sleep as she felt him again reach to smooth her hair. “No promises..” She mumbled, leaning into his touch that she wondered how she lived without for so long. Never again… She had declared to herself. Never again would she go without him, without this, without love like this.

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