#thread: are you with crab? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

noirscript · 2 months ago

Text

bride of the abyss

Pairing: Yandere Siren x Reader Description: Years after you saved him, Zeiryn returns to drag you beneath the waves—where his love waits, fierce and inescapable. Warning/s: Yandere | Noncon/Dubcon Themes | Kidnapping | Possessive Behavior | Captivity | Obsession | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Violence | Body Morphing/Transformation Note/s: Commissioned on ko-fi! Thabk you for trusting me with your commission! Idk if you've received the email. I hope you enjoy this one! Tags will be added later!

Commissions are still open!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him, the sun was so high it burned your shoulders through your shirt. Your sandals had long been discarded, the soles of your feet pressed against coarse, grainy sand, warmed by the afternoon heat. Vacation meant freedom, and for you—a curious child with scraped knees and untamed hair—that meant wandering far beyond the adults’ lazy eyes and picnic baskets.

You weren’t supposed to be near the cliffs. The locals had told stories, murmured warnings of tides that dragged unsuspecting feet into the undertow. But you were eight, and warnings slid off your ears like water. You’d chased a crab across slick rocks, nearly slipping once—okay, twice—before rounding a jagged stone formation and stopping short.

A glint of silver caught your eye. At first, you thought it was trash—a bit of foil or an abandoned soda can. Then it moved. Just slightly. Enough to catch the sun and reflect a brilliance so blinding it made your eyes water. You stepped closer, heart thudding, and gasped.

He was tangled in a net.

You didn’t know what he was—some strange fish, perhaps? But then he turned his face to you, and your world cracked open.

He had eyes like the sea after a storm—grey, but not dull. There was depth there. Sorrow. His skin, though damp and streaked with grit, shimmered faintly under the sun. Hair, long and tangled with bits of kelp and shell, framed a face that was almost too lovely for this world. And below the waist…

A tail. Silver-scaled, powerful, twitching weakly with every shallow breath he took.

You froze.

He didn’t speak. He just stared. His lips slightly parted. You noticed the way he held himself, cautious and ready to defend. His hand—webbed and claw-tipped—twitched when you shifted your weight.

“I won’t hurt you,” you said, holding out your hands to show you had nothing. No rocks. No spear. Just your palms, scraped and pink from climbing.

He blinked slowly, suspicious still.

“Are you stuck?” you asked.

No reply. But he didn’t back away when you stepped closer. You knelt beside him, the scent of salt and something sharper—like rotting seaweed baking in the sun—invading your nose. It made your stomach twist. But you pushed it aside and began working at the net.

The knots were tight. You pulled and untangled, ignoring the barnacles slicing your fingertips. Time passed, but neither of you spoke. It wasn’t silence. The waves talked, the seagulls screamed above, and your own breath came hard with effort. Still, it felt sacred—like speaking would shatter something delicate between you.

Eventually, the net slackened.

He let out a sharp sound—surprise? Relief?—and pushed himself forward, dragging the last threads free with a flick of his tail. Then, to your astonishment, he touched your arm. A light brush of damp fingers on your skin. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes—raw and electric—said everything.

And then, he was gone. A splash, a spray of saltwater, and silver glimmering beneath the waves.

You never told anyone.

You convinced yourself it was a dream, a fantasy born from too much sun. But you visited that rock again. And again. Just in case.

Years passed. You grew up. He did not fade.

• • — ✦ — • •

Beneath the waves, he remembered everything.

Zeiryn had been young when you saved him, and even then, his mind was unlike the others. While his kin drowned sailors and split hulls for fun, Zeiryn watched the world above with a secret hunger. He had never known mercy—not until you. He thought you were an illusion at first. A sun-struck phantom, kindness shaped like a child.

But you were real. You touched him without fear. You saved him.

And he had never forgotten.

Seasons passed above and below. He grew stronger, his voice deeper, the gift of his lineage blooming in his throat. His tail thickened with muscle, the silver of his scales deepening to something more molten, almost iridescent. His hair, once wild and matted, was now woven with the treasures of the deep—rings of coral, braids of pearl, beads carved from whalebone. He was no longer a drifting child of the tide. He was a leader now.

Yet every dusk, he swam to the same stretch of shore, peering through kelp and coral, waiting for the only face that had ever haunted him.

And then—finally—he saw you.

You stood there, older, but still you. Your eyes held the same wonder, the same distant sadness. He watched from the rocks, heart hammering, the sea rising with every thrum of anticipation. You were holding a bottle. The scent reached him even through the water. Alcohol. Sour and sharp.

You stumbled closer to the edge, barefoot like before. He didn’t understand your tears at first. But when they hit the water, he tasted them.

Bitterness.

He had never tasted sorrow before.

He moved without thinking, cutting through the water with a predator’s grace. When you stepped into the sea—lost, maybe hoping it would take you—he was already there. His arms wrapped around you just before your knees buckled. He caught you. Held you. And for the first time in years, he felt whole again.

He turned to the shore. His eyes, once filled with awe, hardened. There were people there. A town. A world that had allowed you to suffer.

He would never forgive it.

The water closed over your head.

And he took you home.

• • — ✦ — • •

The cold hits you first. It pierces your skin like needles, forcing your eyes open.

Then the pressure—thick and heavy—presses against your chest. You try to gasp and choke instead. The world is liquid. Blurry shapes. Movement. Panic claws through you. You thrash—

Then you notice the shimmer.

Your legs—no. Not legs.

You scream, but no sound comes out. Just bubbles.

The tail is yours. You move, and it moves with you—powerful, golden, alien.

Your lungs don’t ache. You aren’t drowning.

You’re breathing. Underwater.

A presence approaches. You backpedal—awkward, instinctual.

Then he’s there.

The siren.

Older. Towering. Regal in a way that defies language. His eyes widen as you meet his gaze. He reaches for you like a lover, a prayer on his lips without sound.

You float, stunned, your heart racing in your chest.

"You're awake! Welcome home!" he says—somehow, impossibly, the words sliding into your mind like a current. His voice doesn’t echo in your ears. It resonates in your bones. Inside you.

Your lips tremble. “What... what did you do to me?”

He cocks his head, almost confused by the question. “I saved you.”

You glance around. Coral walls. Bioluminescent plants. Faint shadows darting beyond what your eyes can track.

“I didn’t ask to be saved.”

His face falters, just briefly. But then the soft smile returns. “You did, once. When I was dying. You touched me. You gave me your warmth. Your kindness.” He swims closer. “You were the only one who ever did.”

“That was years ago.” You try to back away, but your body is sluggish in this new form. “I was a kid.”

“You remembered me.” His voice is gentle now, like a lullaby. “You returned.”

You shake your head, panicked. “No. I—I was just walking. I didn’t know—”

His hand reaches forward, cupping your cheek. His touch is warm now. Familiar. Like seawater kissed by the sun. “You were hurting. They made you cry. But you don’t have to cry anymore.”

“I want to go back,” you whisper.

“There’s nothing there for you.”

He’s not angry. Not yet. Just... patient. Like he’s waiting for you to understand something you’ve missed.

“You belong here,” he murmurs. “With me.”

You remember the way he looked at you back then—curious and soft. But this is different. There’s devotion in his eyes. A fire born not of gentle affection, but of obsession that has steeped too long.

“You changed me,” you say, voice shaking. You look down at the tail. “How?”

“There’s a pearl,” he says, pointing to your side. You notice now—embedded near your hip is a small, glowing orb, barely visible beneath your skin.

“I couldn’t risk losing you again.”

You turn, frantic now. “No, no, this isn’t right. I can’t—this isn’t real.”

“You are real.” His voice is sharper now. “I dreamed of you so long I thought you were only in my mind. But you’re here. Flesh and spirit. And you’ll never have to suffer again.”

You shake your head. “I’m not your wife.”

Silence.

Then he leans close, his breath warm against your ear even underwater.

“Yet.”

• • — ✦ — • •

Back on the surface, a woman named Marina squints at the shore where she last saw you. She’s a local—grew up with the sea in her lungs and warnings stitched into her grandmother’s lullabies. When she saw you walk into the ocean, something in her gut twisted. She waited hours. You didn’t return.

Now, she’s standing with a fisherman and an old priest, their gazes following the waterline.

“No body,” the man mutters. “Currents here don’t drag far. Should’ve washed up if she drowned.”

“She didn’t drown,” Marina says softly. “She was taken.”

The priest mutters something in an old tongue. The fisherman scoffs.

“By what? Sea spirits? Merfolk?”

“No.” Marina’s eyes don’t leave the water. “A siren.”

“Those don’t exist.”

“They do,” she says. “And if it’s the one I think… she won’t come back.”

And deep beneath the waves, Zeiryn brushes a strand of hair from your face as you lie curled in coral-silk bedding. You’ve cried yourself into a stupor. But your skin is warmer now. The transformation is complete. Soon, you’ll forget what it was like to walk. To speak above the waves. To live without him.

He hums you a song—a melody he’s written over the years, just for you. It wraps around your heart like a net.

You stir in your sleep.

He smiles.

Tomorrow, you’ll love him back.

You have to.

After all… you’re home.

TBC.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans@ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

1K notes · View notes

falesten-iw · 7 months ago

Text

We really have to hand it to kids' drawings. They're like little emotional time bombs, chaotic, pure, and ready to explode with meaning at any second. My son’s masterpiece? It’s got all the feels: hope, resilience, and a superhero vibe that makes you believe a pencil can save the world.

Then there’s my friend’s version, same idea but polished, powerful, and radiating strength and determination. One full of innocence and love, the other showing how far we’ve come in the fight for survival. Together, they remind me that even in the darkest times, there is light.

Maybe these drawings aren’t enough to stop you in your tracks. Maybe they’re not “good enough” to inspire donations or make you share this post. But behind each one, there’s a story of survival, resilience, and unshakable hope. This campaign isn’t just about me. It’s about 26 people, 26 lives hanging by a thread. That includes two orphaned children and a family member who’s suffering from hemiplegia after being hit by shrapnel during a bombing. She urgently needs surgery to replace infected plates in her body. The situation is dire, and every day is a battle. The video showing the injured family member is shared before in this post: Link.

Still waiting for a sign? Well, here it is. Resilience is great, but it doesn’t exactly cover surgeries, medicine, clothes, or food. Please help us ! Donate and reblog this post to spread our story.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Listed on the Butterfly Effect Project, number 957: Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

If, for some reason, you couldn't donate via GoFundMe, you can donate via PayPal instead.

Donate on GoFundMe: Link

Donate on Paypal: Link

Please keep the conversion rates in mind when donating through GoFundMe. Every 100 SEK is equivalent to 10 dollars, and 200 SEK equals 20 dollars and so on.

@dirhwangdaseul @heritageposts @bees-fart-too @andiv3r-reblogging

@ambidextrousarcher @fresh-bed-old-sheets @skunkes @asharestupid @jonpertwee

@fliptop @bell-bones @ragingbullmode @envytheroost @rodent178

@tangledinourstrings @kraigeslist @2kreebs @br-eddrolls

@lakesbian @shadowofmoth @pawberri @stars-and-soda

@longlivepalestina @fanonical @plaidos @metamatar @the-eldritch-it-gay

@sabertoothwalrus @wolstinien @charlott2n @wamly-the-crab-god @cloudedcari

@tachycardial @evileyeamulet @pompompotato @shamemp3 @stealthjet

@pinnyy @chronicowboy @italofobia @amorosebeing @golvio

@hiriaeth @nb-marceline @cicadaland @2blushie @antiauteur

@ungiant @acnologia-is-best-dragon @bitchmael @penelopiaad @laughtracklesbian

@legallymean @b0nkcreat @crapscicle @timetravellingkitty @deathlonging

@briarhips @mazzikah @mahoushojoe @sar-soor @rhubarbspring

@schoolhater @pcktknife @sawasawako @feluka @appsa

@anneemay @commissions4aid-international @wellwaterhysteria @mangocheesecakes @kyra45-helping-others

@7bitter @tortiefrancis @watermotif @stuckinapril @mavigator

@lacecap @determinate-negation @socalgal @chilewithcarnage @ghelgheli

@to00fu

@sayruq @elbiotipo @el-shab-hussein @heritageposts @communistkenobi

@deepspaceboytoy @molsno @mesetacadre @forevergulag @gazafunds

@northgazaupdates2 @freepalestinneee @komsomolka @muppet-sex @nabulsi

@fading-event-608 @buttercuparry @prierepaiienne @just-browsing1222 @interact-if

@solidarityisnotaslogan-blog-blog @unified-multiversal-theory @feministacansada @feministactionsupportnetwork @globalvoices

@save-the-world-but-lose-her @save-the-world-one-day-at-a-time @save-the-world-tonight @wip-wednesday @allthingswordy

@writerscorner-blog @fictionfood @wordsthat-speak @writerscunts-blog @storyshots-blog

@wordsnstories-blog @writeblr @thewritingcaddy @fictionwriting2 @inkstay

@creativepromptsforwriting @humansofnewyork @intersectional-feminist @intersectional-feminists @intersectional-feminism

@intersectional-feminist-killjoy @thepeoplesrecord @socialjusticekitten-blog @socialgoodmoms @nowthisnews

@socialgoofy @fightforhumanity-rpg-blog @fightforhumanity-rp @queerandpresentdanger @90-ghost

@timogsilangan @punkitt-is-here @fox-guardian @komsomolka @hiveswap

@omegaversereloaded @paper-mario-wiki @kawaiite-mage @sexygaywizard @mintaii

@valtsv @apollos-oliv @uwu-pinata @syntheticspades @haruspexism

@briarhips @three-croissants @postanagramgenerator @womenintheirwebs @tamamita

@ot3 @redbuddi @rickybabyboy @danijaci @wrightfamily

@bloodandgutsyippee @beefchurger @booblover1992 @lyctorgideon @lizardbytheriver

@pallegina @the-ending-of-dramamine @mossdeep @redsavesquare @uninvited-eon

@frogbrainedfool @glenbot @ultimateumbreon33 @disastersim @airsigh

@cowboy-queer @lapastelr0sa @sharingresourcesforpalestine @rebel-girl-queen-of-my-world @kropotkindersurprise

@mysweetsageofgrace @la7ma-mafrooma @rosyish @bookskittychad @streakoflavender

@miraclemaya @devilofthepit @gay-yosuke @cometcrystal @corvidkusnos

@nb-marceline @cicadaland @manletwizard @2blushie @antiauteur

@appsa @buttercuparry @turian @timetravellingkitty @schoolhater

@aces-and-angels @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @malcriada @jezior0 @neptunerings

@brokenbackmountain @khanger @determinate-negation @sylvianritual @imjustheretotrytohelp

@bryo-zoan @maaszeltov @heliopixels @zigcarnivorous @abnormalicacid

@armysurplus @princesselise @executing @venus-is-in-bloom @lesbianmaxevans

@trans-to-the-misogyny @brutaliakhoa @furiousfinnstan @paparoach @celadonwanderer

@girlinafairytale @2tbssd @forgetfulrecord @lesbianmaxevans @repulsion

@noncathartic @gusherbug @autisticmudkip @FUCKGIMP @tiredguyswag

@jame7t @u3pxx @ankle-beez @afro-elf

3K notes · View notes

caffeinewitchcraft · 1 year ago

Text

You are a Blacksmith

Set in the universe where your destiny is written on your arm

(The Hero and Hope) (Being Villagers) (You are the Demon King)

You are a Blacksmith.

That’s why the dragon’s fire doesn’t burn you.

“Pretty sure dragon fire is hotter than a forge,” your party’s leader pants. Kent is a veteran adventurer of twenty years to your two years and he’s seen his fair share of dragon fire before today. There are curling scars dragging the corner of his mouth down into a permanent scowl that pairs oddly with how high he has his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He exhales noisily. “I think you’re just a freak, actually.”

“Not nice,” Sella says. The archer is your age with twice your experience. Her leather armor is well-beaten by four years running around with Kent and getting far closer to battle than an archer should. Her red hair is tied with golden thread that matches the golden charms dangling from her necklace. She adds a new one with every successful monster kill. It’s lucky she’s so stealthy or else she’d be jingling with every step. “Mande is an exception, not a freak.”

You’re a party of exceptions. Most adventurers are Villagers or Guards, common destinies that don’t always find a place within a town or village that have so many of each already. There are days you report for a mission, and you’re offered a blacksmith’s job on the spot just because of the mark on your arm.

Kent is a landless Lord. There’s a story there, you know, but it’s not one he’s ever volunteered. You can see his destiny pull at him in the remote reaches of the Kingdom, where no Lord has laid roots and the monsters run roughshod across the barren soil. Nights where you’re too far from civilization find him gazing up into the stars, his fingers curled like claws into the earth. The look on his face then is so hungry that the first time you saw it, you offered him provisions from your own pack. He’d shaken his head wryly, his scarred frown twisting, and walked off into the night by himself, only returning in the morning light.

Sella is a Guardian without anyone to look after. You knew her story before she told it to you, whispering it like a bedtime story before the end of the world. She was part of a traveling theater group. She looked after them, feeding them and retrieving those with wanderlust from their journeys before curtain call. When a monster siege led by a Demon King fell upon the city they were performing in, the Lord called his people into his castle and locked the doors.

The troupe were not his people. But they were Sella’s.

Until they weren’t.

You drag your battle hammer up and over your shoulder. Conveniently, the dragon fire has burned away the wet viscera that had been clinging to it. The metal is dark with soot, but undamaged.

The things you smith can’t be melted by any fire except your own.

The skeletal trees make the scene of this final battle oddly silent. Ash drifts from the sky, carried by a wind too high to feel. You can hear your party sniping at each other behind you and the gentle gurgle of the beast’s body settling comfortably into death.

The red dragon is beautiful. Its scales gleam and sparkle like rubies in the late afternoon sun and its talons shine like obsidian. Each part of the creature could make an average family rich for a month. You consider it from an arm’s reach away. You chew your bottom lip as you think. Your adventures have taken you across the continent from the southern coast you call your home, to the western land of rivers, to the northern desert and then here, to the eastern dry lands. After all your travels, you find yourself still thinking of home often. Crab is a delicacy where you’re from despite being so close to the water. The preparation can be tedious which makes it a dish reserved from significant occasions. Cracking the shell was always your job…

“Oh,” Sella says faintly. She makes an attempt to rise and nearly tips over in the process. If it weren’t for her bow, she’d be on the ground. Her knees shake as she uses a combination of a tree and her bow to pull herself up. “Mande, rest first! In an hour I can help you—”

You bring your hammer down on the jaw of the dragon. The bone shatters after just two blows. It’s best not to think about how beautiful it looked flying overhead or the intelligence in its eyes. You’ve always had a single-minded focus and you rely on that now.

“Leave her to her dismantling,” Kent grumbles. He’s now curled up on the ground is if in his sleeping roll, hands tucked neatly under his chin. It can’t be a comfortable position given his full suit of armor no matter how peaceful his expression. “If she’s got the energy for it, who are we to argue? Just keep the ribs intact. That’s what the client wants.”

Smash!

“It’s our turn to do the dismantling,” Sella says. She glares down at Kent. “Mande already did last week’s gryphon and the hydra. Get up!”

Smash!

“I’m an old man who needs his nap time.”

“You’re an irresponsible leader who needs to do his part.”

Smash!

“Once Mande stops swinging that thing around, I will.”

“She won’t hit you—”

“She hit me last week!”

“And I apologized for that,” you say through gritted teeth. You let your hammer fall by your feet. Your last blow sent tremors through your arms. The dragon’s jaw is like glass compared to its skull. “Sincerely.”

Sella makes a gagging sound when you fall to your knees next to the cracked skull. “Mande, don’t put your hand in there, that’s – oh, that’s so gross.”

“The book I read said it’d be…aha!” Your fingers graze something cool and metallic. You abruptly feel like crying. It’s been seven months. Seven long months of endless missions and danger and being away from home. This entire dragon is priceless, but you’ve forfeited your share for this. You blink rapidly to keep your tears at bay. You aren’t going to cry. Not until you’re sure that you’ve really found it. “Quick, hand me my waterskin.”

Your urgency gets even Kent up and bustling towards the dragon’s corpse. With trembling fingers you accept the water from Stella, pulling out your prize. It’s smaller than you thought, only about the length of your arm or a third the length of the dragon’s skull.

With bated breath, you gently trickle water over the length of it. Your party kneels beside you, watching just as raptly.

“What is it?” Sella breathes.

Kent is wide-eyed as, inch by inch, your treasure reveals itself.

“A dragon’s silver wit,” you say. The silver is mottled by the dragon’s black blood and grey brain matter. “The last ingredient I need for a Hero’s Sword.”

-----.

“You can’t just make a Hero’s Sword,” Kent is still saying a week later. He throws his hands up to the sky. “Heroes make them from air and magic and righteousness. Blacksmiths just repair them!”

You didn’t ask for Sella or Kent to follow you home. In fact, you assumed they wouldn’t. The slaying of the red dragon marked the end of your time in the Adventurer’s Guild. Now you’re ready to return to your position as the southern port’s best blacksmith and you thought they’d be ready to return to the best two adventurers the Capital Guild had.

“I’ve heard legends about it,” Sella says. She’s walking backward. You’ve already warned her that the roads this far away from Capital aren’t as smooth, but she’d scoffed at your concern. Now it’s pure stubbornness to prove you wrong that has her continuing to walk backwards despite nearly tripping twice already. “Excalibur was manmade.”

“The legend of Hero Arthur is manmade,” Kent retorts.

“If you believe that,” you say, “you really don’t need to come home with me.”

Kent blinks. “Well,” he says slowly, “on the off chance it’s not a fairytale, I desperately want to see it.”

“Then shut up and follow Mande,” Sella says. She elbows him and mutters under her breath. “Or else she might not let us stay at her house.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sure the dragon fetched enough coin for the both of you to get your own rooms at the inn.”

“Sure,” Kent agrees. He grins wickedly and the expression makes him look ten years younger. “But we’re not going to do that, are we Sella?”

“Nope,” Sella chirps. She loops an arm through yours before you can protest and squints at the horizon. “Is that your hometown over there?”

A hazy line of blue and white roofs is barely distinguishable in the fading light of day. Sella has better vision than you. You’re sure she can see the masts of ships in port, the green and yellow flag waving over the chief’s house, maybe even the orchard that creeps right up to the edge of the bluffs.

You can’t wait to see it yourself.

You aren’t sure how long you’ve been smiling, but your face hurts by the time you find your voice. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

----------.

Mom hurls a loaf of bread at your head when you walk through the front door, Kent and Sella in tow.

Kent catches it an inch from your face. “Whoa, whoa!” He waves the bread as if unsure whether he should drop it or throw it back. “It’s your daughter! Mande! Put down the bread basket!”

“Mande and friends,” Sella says cheerfully. She waves at your Mom, Dad, and little brother. “Hello! I’m Sella.”

“I threw it because I know who it is,” your mom says. The grey streaks on either side of her temple are wider. Her round, kind face is pale with anger. “We thought you were dead.”

“We got your letters,” your dad says before you can ask. His hair hasn’t changed; he’s bald. He’s wearing his leather apron from the forge at the table. He takes a bite of soup. “All three of them.”

“Not nearly enough,” Mom snaps. Then, “And they could have been forgeries.”

“Who would forge a blacksmith’s letters home?” you ask in exasperation. Is that why she never replied? “Mom, please.”

“Don’t giveme that when you’ve been dead for seven months,” she says. She stands abruptly. “Three of you? Sit down. I don’t have enough soup, but bread will fill anyone’s stomach.”

“I’m Kent,” Kent blurts out before Sella can push him into a chair. He sits with a thud. “Sella, it’s rude to sit before introducing yourself!”

“Ruder than not knocking or coming for dinner without an invitation?” Sella hisses at him. She turns a charming smile on your little brother. “Sorry to intrude. You must be Axton. A pleasure to meet you.”

Axton doesn’t return her greetings. His eyes are fixed to the package strapped to your back. “Is that…?”

You swallow hard as your family’s eyes turn to you. You carefully pull the cloth-wrapped rod from your back. Your little brother isn’t so little anymore. You can see he’s taller than you as he stands in unison with Dad to clear a spot on the table. His long, thin hands make quick work of the ties.

There’s complete silence as the burlap falls away to reveal gleaming silver.

Axton’s throat bobs. He’s barely eighteen with the soft look of a fawn hovering around the edges of his jaw and cheekbones. Mom and Dad have done a good job feeding him while you’ve been gone. Seven months ago your brother looked like a wraith, all the light taken from him as if it all came from his hero’s sword.

“You’re going to make me a sword,” Axton says at last.

You’ve thought about this moment for seven months. You imagined you would say something like it’s okay now or maybe big sister fixed it. When his hero’s sword was taken from him, you thought about all sorts of things. It took a month for you to set out on this quest rather than one of revenge. It wouldn’t have helped Axton if you’d forged a hundred weapons of war to punish those who’d hurt him. It wouldn’t help Axton to pretend you fixed anything.

So instead you tell the truth.

“It won’t be the same,” you say. “It won’t work the way you want it to. Not right away. You’ll need to train with it and learn it as you would any other weapon. Your instincts won’t help you. But…it won’t break when I’m done. It won’t bend or chip. It won’t melt. It will serve you, Axton, until the exact moment you don’t need it anymore.”

Axton flies around the table to throw his arms around you. It’s amazing you came from the same parents. Where you are short and stocky, he’s really like a deer. His long arms could encircle you twice as he lifts you with a hero’s strength. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

And then you’re being hugged all around. Your dad’s strong, Blacksmith arms are crushing you to your brother, your mother’s soft cheek is against your shoulder, and there’s plate mail digging into your spleen while a sharp elbow digs into your spine.

You manage to turn your head just enough to see Kent hugging your from behind and Sella hugging him from behind. It’s her elbow that’s jabbing you.

“This is sweet,” she says. Her voice is a little muffled from how her face is pressed against Kent’s back. “We should hug more.”

“Does this make your brother a Hero?” Kent asks.

“This is a family hug,” you say.

“Duh,” Sella says. “That’s why we joined.”

You really can’t argue with that.

(Patreon)

Next week's story: Everyone in LA has two job. You've got a big smile and a talent for seeing ghosts. It's no surprise what your jobs are.

#my writing #second person #you are a blacksmith #found family merges with first family

2K notes · View notes

heartfullofleeches · 3 months ago

Text

Fish Sticks

Yan Mer Twins [Male and Nonbinary] + Cat Hybrid Fisherman Reader

[Suggestive Humor]

Slow day at the water.

It'd be a miracle if this old, rickety boat of yours could get you off this crummy island and onto drier, more inhabited land. Your gut tells you otherwise, but maybe you'll take that trader's offer the next time they pop up. You don't trust the glint in their smile when they propose you climb aboard, but their products haven't poisoned you or knocked you unconscious long enough for them to kidnapp you so there could be a chance they aren't as sketchy as they seem.

Ah, well. No point in dwelling on it now-

Stretching your legs, the boat rocks with unseen movement. Upon instinct, you immediately retract your extended limbs towards your chest - a giggle mingling with the bubbles and pops of stirring waves.

"Brother? Do you see what I see? My vision has been spotty since that nasty old crab took that precious eye of mine."

Another swarm of laughter joins the chorus, shrill and ear splitting compared to the gentle flow of the predecessor.

"I believe I do. A lost little kitten pawing for fish in our waters. How queer. How delightful-"

Webbed hands snake up the sides of your boat like unkempt veins. Your boat rattles from weight crashed into its walls as your unseen provokers hurl their weights over aged boards. Twin, sharp toothed smiles bare down at you. Intuition kicking into overdrive for a second time, you bat the closest to you in the face with your tail.

"Naughty!" The masculine figure clicks, not a drop of signature anger behind the hiss of his voice. "It's not often our little kitten wants to play. We truly are being spoiled today, my dearest sibling."

The more androgynous of the two yanks their brother by the long, silky threads of his hair. "Don't tease the poor thing more than we already have. Look at our sweetie- They're practically wasting away. Little angel must be starving."

Assa and Thal. You don't quite remember when they made their selves known, but you do know they are the most predominant of your suitors. With their impressive sizes and their custom of working as a team, they managed to keep prey and other predators smaller than them at bay.

"Ah, yes- That is true. As an apology, we will make sure you are well fed, but first - I have a question for you, Darling."

Assa sinks his jagged fangs into his lower lip, hardly fight back a laugh.

"Do you.... like fish sticks?"

It dribbles down your chin before you even realize- You're drooling. Strips of fresh, delicious fish wrapped in a blanket of crunchy goodness. With luck, you still have some flour from your last trade with that wandering seller. Eggs won't be an issue, and you might have some seasoning stashed away for an occasion just like this.

"Should I take that as a yes?" The menace purrs.

You nod your head frantically.

"Mmm. Good to now." Assa reels in closer, smile ever persistent. "I'm guessing that is a rare treat for you. Not often do you have all the components to prepare such a dish. I'm sure you love to savor the taste of them, hm?"

The breading is incredibly filling. If you ration them out, they could last you several nights. If you engorged yourself on them in one go, there would be few to save you from choking despite your many admirers- A fare you've nearly come to before.

You nod once more- ears flicking with the bob of your head.

Ever the more reasonable of them, Thal can't help but join in on the fun. As it stands, you appear to be the only one left out of the party.

"I bet you love the flavor fish sticks leaves on your tongue. Makes me wonder how many you can take in one go."

Counting in your head, you confidently hold up three fingers. You've fit more than that in your mouth, but three is a safe limit.

Thal exclaims in surprise, clapping their hands with glee. "My, My!- We have ourselves a champion. We will have to join you for dinner someday to see your skills in action. As for now- Brother?"

"Right, right!" Shaking off the shackles of temptation brought on by your innocent claims, Assa hurls a large sack onto your boat - his sibling holding it in place from the massive weight as the bag lands with a wet thump.

"Until next time, Dear. You will forever be in our hours. Before we leave, there is one more thing we need from you."

Its too late to run.

Pulled down by the collar of your beat up rain coat, wet, slimy lips dab against your cheeks from both sides. You feel a tongue scrap the traces of drool off your chin as the two finally depart - Assa blowing one more kiss your way before his sibling drags him under water.

A peck on the cheek was a decent trade for the amount of fish they left you. You wonder what their fixation on fish stick was- They seen to prefer their meals raw, but maybe you were wrong.

Sea dwellers are strange creatures.

#Hybrid Reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere oc #male yandere #yandere merman #yandere drabble #yandere x darling #yandere monster

479 notes · View notes

friskwolfiecustoms · 8 months ago

Text

Customizable Horseshoe crabs are now available in my 🛒!

I have 70 different fabric and thread colors you can choose from to make your own custom Horseshoe crab!

#handmade #kawaii #plush #friskwolfiecustoms #sea critters #sea creatures #horseshoe crab #ocean

490 notes · View notes

aventurineswife · 6 days ago

Note

Dan heng, caelus, Aventurine, ratio, sunday, anaxa, jing yuan and Jiaoqiu who are sirens (cuz I'm not a fan of mermaids and they're not mischievous enough) with their s/o who they try to coerce/play with them into pulling them into the water (or any silly or cute mer games/gifts frm sly boys)

Fast forward the next day, they see their fish boyfie is now walking on land and talking to their colleagues or friends and their interactions with their s/o for them keeping this secret from them and the relief of being able to see them out of water whenever they want. Me just want to see fluff

(I apologise if there's too many boys in this request. If it's a lot, you may remove sunday, jing yuan and caelus)

-🍭

Seabound, Lovestruck, Yours

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Caelus x Reader, Fluff, Fantasy AU, Siren!Men, Humor, Established Relationships, Slight Angst (Very Mild), Soft Boys Being Menaces, Sweet Teasing, Gifts, Secret-Keeping, Bittersweet Longing, Happy Endings.

Warnings: Light suggestive teasing (nothing explicit), Minor emotional whiplash (from shock to fluff), Aquatic puns and chaotic flirting, NOBODY drowns, Crabs may or may not have been weaponized.

A/N: I hope you don't mind me removing Jiaoqiu and Anaxa... 🧍‍♀️

The waters were unnaturally calm that afternoon, kissed by golden light and scattered feathers floating gently along the tide. Sunday waited at the edge of the shallows, half-submerged, halo glimmering under the surface like a sunken relic. His wings shimmered beneath the clear water, feathered fins catching the light.

“You never come in,” he said softly, eyes golden and distant. “You stand on the edge like a poem never read.”

You laughed, barefoot on the sun-warmed rock, dangling your feet above him. “You say that every time.”

“And I will continue to,” he murmured, “until you finally do.”

Sunday never tugged—he only invited, tempted with serenity rather than storm. That day, he offered a gift: a scarf made of woven pearl-thread and glinting sea glass, soft as seafoam and cool to the touch.

“For you. To remind you of the peace I see in you... and the chaos I hide beneath.”

You almost slipped. Almost dove in.

But before you could say anything more, he vanished beneath the surface, halo gliding like a moonbeam underwater.

The next morning, you nearly dropped your coffee.

There, standing beside Mr. Yang and engaging in perfectly normal conversation about Star Rail protocol, was Sunday. In a tailored coat, scarf gently draped over his shoulders, halo now a subtle glow behind his head.

He turned and caught your stunned expression with a small, amused smile.

"You kept the secret well," he said gently, brushing a wet strand of hair behind his ear. "Now I don’t have to choose between sea and sky."

You threw your arms around him.

He smelled like salt and warmth and something like lavender tea. And he smiled against your shoulder, wings gently fluttering beneath his coat.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Aventurine purred from the water, swirling just beneath the surface like a living mirage. “Just a little toe in. I won’t bite—unless you're into that.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s what you said last time, and I ended up being chased by a literal school of sea-snake eels.”

“Hey! That was a group activity. I don’t control extracurriculars.”

Today, he offered something new: a pearl dice set, carved with tiny numbers and the tiniest gold inlay. “Lucky charm,” he said, twirling one between clawed fingers. “Bet you can’t roll a seven.”

You scoffed. “There is no seven on a six-sided—”

Splash.

You were in.

He laughed, bright and chaotic, tail flicking like a gambler’s flourish. “That’s my lucky number. And looks like I just rolled you.”

The next day, you nearly choked on your sandwich.

Because Aventurine—your siren boyfriend, glittery-eyed, smug and soaking wet—was now in human form, lounging on a bench outside your workplace in a slick suit.

“Didn’t recognize me without the tail, huh?” he teased, adjusting his rose-tinted glasses.

You blinked. “You—walk now?”

“Oh, honey, I strut.”

And strut he did—right up to you, leaning in close. “I missed the fun. But don’t worry. I can cheat gravity now. You and me? High tide or low. Your call.”

He slipped one of those pearl dice into your hand.

It was a seven.

Ratio did not coerce.

He challenged.

“Statistically, you're overdue for a spontaneous decision,” he remarked, hovering just beyond the tide’s reach, violet hair slicked back, fins glinting like obsidian. “Come in. Observe the sensation. Collect the data.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re making swimming sound like a math test.”

“And yet... you're curious.”

He handed you a shell. Inside was a small, reflective gemstone that glowed faintly in your palm.

“I compressed starlight into a prism for you. Hypothetically, it should shimmer brighter if your heart rate increases in my presence.”

“Ratio, is this just your way of asking if I have a crush on you?”

He smirked. “Hypothetically.”

The next day, you spotted him arguing with The Herta at the café—on dry land. His sculpted features weren’t hidden behind alabaster this time.

You approached, baffled.

He looked over his shoulder, lips twitching into a smile. “There you are. I’ve adjusted my environment to accommodate the subject of my interest.”

“I am not a research subject!”

“You were never just one,” he replied softly, pressing the starlight prism into your palm again. “And now I can verify... you glow even brighter in daylight.”

The moonlight shimmered across the waves, silver trailing like stardust behind the quiet form in the water. You sat by the rocky edge, feet dipped in the cool sea, when a familiar ripple broke the surface.

"You're late," you murmured, but your tone was teasing.

Dan Heng’s dark hair fanned out behind him as he surfaced silently, eyes glowing faintly beneath the night sky. "You came again."

"You make it sound like I have a choice," you replied, playfully nudging water his way. “You always leave that dumb scale on my windowsill.”

He tilted his head slightly. "You kept it."

"You always know when I toss it," you grinned.

Tonight, he was more playful, flicking water at you with a graceful flick of his tail. “You should come in tonight. The moonlight’s strong—we can race the reef edge.”

“I can’t outswim you,” you laughed, leaning closer. "You cheat by being faster."

His eyes softened. “Maybe. But I like catching you.”

He reached out, brushing your hand gently. The water felt like home when he touched you—but still, you hesitated.

The next day, you nearly dropped your drink.

There, calmly browsing books and chatting��chatting!—with March and Himeko, stood Dan Heng. Dry. Walking. Wearing actual clothes.

You stormed over, whisper-shouting, “Are you serious?!”

He turned, calmly sipping tea. “I was going to tell you.”

“Since when do sea cryptids walk on land?!”

He paused. “Since always. I just liked seeing your expression when I pretended I couldn’t.”

You blinked. “You jerk.”

His mouth twitched in a rare smirk. “Want to race the reef again tonight?”

You punched his arm. “Only if you let me win.”

His hand found yours, fingers twining. “I think I already lost.”

You sat on the sun-warmed dock, watching tiny fish flicker below, when a burst of sparkling bubbles tickled your toes.

“Hey!” you gasped.

Caelus popped up with a wide grin, fins catching the sunlight like shards of pearl. “Got you.”

“You splashed me!”

He blinked innocently. “I’m a siren. Mischief is in the job description.”

You leaned over. “What’s in your job description is singing eerie lullabies and luring me underwater.”

“Well, maybe I wanted to try something new.” He offered you a strange, shimmering shell. “It whistles when you blow into it. Took me three coral storms to find one that doesn’t summon eels.”

“...That's romantic?”

“For a fish-boyfriend? Extremely.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you tucked the shell into your pocket. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The next day, he was there—talking with Dan Heng and Welt like it was normal.

“YOU WALK?” you whisper-yelled as he wiggled his fingers at you across the room.

“Hi!” he beamed. “I’m learning dry land stuff. I tripped over a vacuum cleaner earlier.”

You dragged him aside. “You’ve had legs this whole time?”

“Well, they’re a little awkward but—yeah? I didn't want to spoil the mystery!”

“I swear—”

“Hey,” he said, grabbing your hand and twirling you playfully. “Now you don’t have to wait for low tide to see me.”

You melted a little. “Okay, that’s unfairly sweet.”

“Also, I brought more whistling shells.”

“...You’re a menace.”

“But I’m your menace.”

It always started the same. You’d walk the shoreline, hear a soft hum on the breeze, and suddenly—

“Caught you again,” Jing Yuan purred, his tail gleaming like polished moonstone as he lounged across a tide-washed rock. “Were you trying to avoid me?”

“Only a little.”

He pretended to pout. “After all the sea glass I gift-wrapped in kelp for you?”

“You wrapped it?”

“With claws. It’s impressive.”

“You left me a crab last week.”

“A proud guardian of the seas. He’s named Clawbert.”

You groaned.

“Come now,” he chuckled. “Let me braid seaweed in your hair again. You looked magnificent.”

“You looked like you were going to eat me.”

He winked. “Only figuratively.”

The next day, in the plaza, you saw him. Golden eyes. Snow-white hair. Tall and handsome as ever.

You stared as he chatted with Yukong and laughed at something Yanqing said. His gait was graceful, no trace of water to be found.

“You.”

He turned smoothly. “Ah, beloved landwalker. Fancy seeing you out of your tidepool.”

“You’ve been able to do this the whole time?”

“It’s harder to be mysterious when everyone knows you eat dry toast,” he said, brushing his hair back. “Besides, I liked making you wait.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmured, leaning in, “you still came to the water.”

You huffed. “...Fine. But if you bring me one more crab, I’m putting it in your bed.”

He grinned. “Then I’d better make room.”

300 notes · View notes

siffrins-therapist · 3 months ago

Text

🦇 ernrenephandre follow

lordjosephandreispoterianfightme reminded me of THIS batshit ask I got last year, so ofc I now need to inflict it on all my new followers uwu

I'll also go ahead and link my (very correct) meta post about Lady IJK's characterization, and since xe reminded me of this ask, here's Lord's post about why Issue 43.5 should be considered canon, despite what de Plume's forward says. Enjoy!

🫛 howaremysweetiepees follow

[Image description: Screenshot of an anonymous ask sent to ernrenephandretruther that says "Jsyk just BC you're the Savior of Vaugarde, doesn't mean anything you say about The Cursing of Château Castle is canon. Even though de Plume wrote Issue #43.5 with that Thank You in the forward, doesn't mean anything. They just wanted to appease your headcanons about that stupid side character rejoining the team and getting Lady Irene-Janine-Karine all weepy BC you can't handle the complexities of her character!!! I'd say stick to ao3 but if the events of 43.5 are anything to go by you're crab at planning anything, let alone writingg a full meta post or fic. So maybe just stick to your pilgrimage or whatever and spare the rest of us your fangirling." Ernrenephandretruther replies "2/10 anon hate. Too long-winded, de Plume themself says 43.5 is non-canon, and anon, I cannon (sic) stress this enough, I AM NOT MIRABELLE CHEVALIER. I AM LITERALLY MWUDU AND WAS TRAVELING IN KA BUE AND BAKTAN DURING THE FREEZING THERE ARE PICTURES ON MY BLOG, FEATHERS AND THREAD!!! End description]

Didn't like 90% of TCoCC blogs get that copy-pasta last year? Damn, I can't tell if anon's just salty about H. Mirabelle getting a whole-ass book written as a thank-you (FOR SAVING A COUNTRY, WHICH THE AUTHOR LIVES IN, ANON, MAKES CRABBING SENSE TO ME THEY'D WANT TO THANK HER), hated 43.5, or just another Lady IJK white knight who thinks any criticism of her characterization is a direct attack.

🦇 ernrenephandretruther follow

Probably all 3 ngl

🎃 changeoffates follow

Great Change I got the same anon! It's been sitting in my inbox for a year! I am still flabbergasted!!

And jw OP but why's your language set to Poterian?

🦇 ernrenephandretruther follow

Believe me, I'm still confused!

And I'm transferring to university in Poteria so I've been studying the language. I took it in school with Vaugardian but I'm kinda rusty :/ The only reason I know Vaugardian still is cause of ernrenephandre porn LMAO

🧂 lordjosephandreispoterianfightme

Anyone else get this ask since this was posted two days ago???

#fates and wells anon maybe learn to let go or w/e #i dont go here but ist that one of your Change teachings or something? #pretty sure your still going through it and should talk to someone not send out copy-pastas #tbh p sure anon is just a savior mirabelle hater idk why her antis are so fucking annoying #dont you all have anything better to do????

103 Notes

🌠 loop-garou follow

If staff could stop terming me that'd be great

🥐 mysiblinginchange follow

u've literally been posting pictures of squiggles that give everyone a headache????

🌠 loop-garou follow

Skill issue.

382 Notes

☕ hauntedteacup

So was that list where people were trying to figure out which ao3 account belongs to the Savior deleted or...

#cuz i have a theory #dm me if you're interested i don't want to risk getting flagged or something

2 Notes

🎭 anguished-actor follow

Gonna kms that saviorship fic got so popular it was mentioned in the newspaper

🐌snailsforthesnailgod follow

OP don't you live in Ka Bue?

🎭 anguished-actor follow

So you understand my astonishment and horror

🌠 loop-garou follow

Here's the link to the fic for the confused people in the notes :)

🎭 anguished-actor follow

Your never satisfied until my activities page is unusable

🌠 loop-garou follow

You're* :)

#didnt someone print out and bind a bunch of copies of that fic? #and handed them out at cons? #not shocked it got mentioned in the paper ngl #there's even rumors h. euphrasie owns a copy

729 Notes

⚔️ saviors-of-vaugarde-news follow

The latest report from Dormont's House of Change states that people staying there are still seeing ghosts, but most recent accounts put these ghosts mainly in the corridors and common areas. They are no longer being seen in the dorms and classrooms, and reports are becoming few enough that Head Housemaiden Euphrasie told journalists she believes the ghosts should fade by next spring. However, she does admit that she isn't sure why the ghosts have remained for as long as they have but refused to comment on where her first estimation had come from.

-mod castle

🧭 saviorodilewhiteknight follow

"ghosts" when only savior siffrin's ghost is the only one being seen at the house

🏴 chess-cheater-deactivated

Someone posted an explanation here. Basically tl;dr it's Time Craft crab

🧭 saviorodilewhiteknight follow

they fucking got them

#does anyone have screenshots of whatever was in #the link chess-cheater linked? #it's gone now :/ #notes say claude hacked the site and deleted it

2,003 Notes

🧨 defender-offender

Everyone that asks me about Mirabelle is getting blocked. Leave her tf alone, she's been through enough without everyone trying to dig up her meta essays and fics.

#stasis and stagnation i'm this close to deleting everything #claude.exe

638 Notes

🐚 shesellsseashells follow

Disclaimer: I know Savior Siffrin never worked for the K*ng and that Savior Odile didn't actually believe this theory, this is a poll for fun.

#savior posting #voted for he forgot

4,218 Notes

🪭 justafan follow

So. Uh. Anyone else hear about that game coming out? The one about Vaugarde's Saviors fighting the King?

🥚 notreadytohatch follow

Didn't the dev claim to be a vessel for Vaugarde's change god?

🪭 justafan follow

Yeah but. Yeah not touching that one.

🎭 anguished-actor follow

Theres gonna be a what.

#hooboy idc what the game looks like i'll be making popcorn for all the discourse that'll be popping up #is there a kickstarter i wanna donate

🌠 loop-garou follow

🧨 defender-offender

How many accounts do you have?????

🌠 loop-garou follow

You're the one flagging me?? 🥺🥺🥺

🧨 defender-offender

I don't care enough to bother.

🧨 defender-offender

I'll tell everyone to leave you alone if you tell me one thing: Are you the one who gave Euphie a bound version of that fic?

🌠 loop-garou follow

DM me and I'll tell you :3c

🎭 anguished-actor follow

Stars, I swear if that was you...

#this... this is like #proof loop-garou and/or anguished-actor are the saviors #right??? #i'm not insane??? #like it makes sense right??? #and who tf is loop??? who is that in the picture?????? is this some joke from one of the saviorshipping fics?? #are they loop-garou's sona??? #and i swear to change if i only get a bunch of asks that only say 'tee-hee'...

958 Notes

#long post #isat #isat memes #fake tumblr dash #fake dashboard #i wanted to join the fun c:

314 notes · View notes

daheeful · 2 months ago

Text

dahee already had a personal vendetta against places this crowded, but tonight felt like the universe had made her its favorite punchline. fate literally tripped her up in the middle of a scene so mortifying that she began to wonder what grave sin she'd committed in a past life to deserve this. " i'm so sorry . . that's on me. " and of course, to add salt to the wound, she didn't even have the decency of carrying a napkin or handkerchief.

spotting the golden liquid now staining the poor stranger's crisp white shirt, dahee winced, already accepting her villain arc in his story. he probably despised her. the next words out of his mouth made her eyes go wide, " that obvious, huh ? " she asked, wincing a little more. she knew she was socially awkward, sure, but she didn't realize she came with a billboard that said so. " not really, more like . . just wanted to make the most out of my university life for the first time and immediately regretted the decision. " she quipped, tone light, almost self-deprecating, though the sentiment was very real. " didn't mean to drag anyone down with me, really. i'm truly sorry again. " she added, bowing at a full 90-degrees in sincere apology— only for the rest of her drink to tip out and spill beside her. " oh, oops ! waaah, tonight isn't my night . . " she muttered, straightening up with a sheepish look at the small puddle on the club floor.

𐐪 ◞ sawyer finds solace in the cacophony of nightlife more than he would like to admit. heavy rhythms loud enough to pulsate through walls and miles down the street, clinking of bottles from the section he sits amidst, and pieces of conversations he catches from frequent trips to the bar for himself and acquaintances. cellular device situated in his pocket vibrates incessantly, yet calls and messages are disregarded. attendance at father’s charity gala was absolutely mandatory, which was relayed to him that morning in addition to the reminders given nearly every day prior. it wouldn't take a genius to know his old man could be the only one attempting to ruin his high right now.

fishing phone out of jeans, he begins making his way towards the closest exit, attention on illuminated screen as he squeezes through the crowd of drunken partygoers like it were second nature to him. though, something that hadn't been expected was slamming into someone on the outskirts of the horde after believing he was able to make it out scot - free. ❝ ah, shit. ❞ mumbles, fingers reaching to swipe at the recent embellishment added to white button up. ❝ hey, it's no worries. i could always buy a new one. ❞ he looks up then, taking a moment to observe the girl in front of him who resembles a deer in headlights. ❝ you don't look like you'd enjoy this kind of scene. did someone drag you in kicking and yelling ? ❞

#૮꒰ 🖤⠀park dahee : ⠀reply 。 ꒱ა #૮꒰ 🖤⠀thread : ⠀dahee & sawyer。 ꒱ა #feelnot #i'm glad you love socially anxious crabs #she's the big boss JSKDJFDFGDF #like look at her.. absolutely embarrassing #🩷🩷🩷 !!!

4 notes · View notes

inthehouseoffinwe · 2 months ago

Text

I think of all the elves, of all his family, Maglor best understands what it is to be world weary. To want to leave. I feel like there’s this connection which forms between his and his grandmother’s fëa, and over time, she’s even able to reach out. To give him a little comfort. To give him just enough will to keep going, because Maglor would never forgive himself if he didn’t:

Miriel on the ocean’s waves, adding a little tune of her own to Maglor’s lament

Maglor not even fully away of what he’s singing, what part of the Noldolantë is being composed but still picking up the quicksilver thread and turning it into its own tapestry

Miriel’s strangely proud of her singer

Maglor alone and cold and lost in hallucinations and dreams. Miriel reaches out and is able to twist them into good ones. Into memories of Aman, memories with his brothers and cousins from a time less marred

Miriel sees her son in the halls and watches him determinedly walk through each section depicting his sons’ fates, make himself see what he did to his family.

And he manages to make it to the end, soaking each one with his tears

But then he sees his second son alone, screaming his grief to the ocean, he collapses

His other sons he has comforted, he’s held snd assured them of his love. He’s sent them on their way to be healed and released.

But this one… this one he cannot reach

And it breaks her heart. She knows too well what it is to see your son in agony and have no way of comforting him. Of assuring him you don’t hate him, that you want him to move on and live a full life again.

She sings her own grief into the next tapestry of Maglor’s she weaves, and is stunned to hear a song reaching right back

Vairë and Námo tell her Kanafinwë’s power reaches to her threads. She weaves their history and he sings it.

Their fëa which should have connected in life, now connect in each of their deaths.

Námo seems to smile at this development and gently wiping away her tears gestures to the newest tapestry of Maglor clenching his burnt, blood soaked hand. More spirit than elf.

“Call to him.”

She does.

And she finds him responding in his semi awareness.

Maglor is his music. Maglor is his song. What remained of anything else is swept away in the endless tides of his grief and lamentation

He’s fading. Becoming a spectre of the shore because he will not die. Refuses to die.

But this little spark of home, the fire so similar to his father’s but older, more steady and persisting, breaks him from his fading.

And when Fëanor beholds the newest tapestry, his remaining son has more colour to him, tattered robes standing out against the grey backdrop, and his head is tilted as if listening intently to something.

He looks *alive*

The next tapestries solidify Maglor even more. Where he was blue and grey, faded red comes back, his loose hair falls in his favoured braids, eyes clear grey shining tree light rather than milky white.

Maedhros, so like his father, determined to see his little brother fade in a final attempt to atone and keep him company as he’d failed to before, is stunned

And when his grandmother sings his brother’s song, he understands.

Miriel holds his hands warmly.

“I’ll take care of him until he comes home. Go, Maitimo. Heal. Be there when he returns.”

Fëanor sits for years, in front of the weaving of Maglor’s small smile as he beholds a crab crawling along his robe. The first smile since he let go of his twin stars.

Eyes wide. Unblinking. As if turning away would bring everything crashing down and Maglor will be a wraith again

Miriel continues to call out to her grandson, and the spirit that brought Fëanor’s fire to the world slowly revives his son.

She breaks her son from his frozen state and takes him to her weaving room.

“Ammë?” He sounds lost.

She smiles and in a familiar sing song gestures to the loom.

“Look, Fëanaro.”

Because there sits Maglor, singing still but with new robes, a smile creasing his eyes and his foster son leaning into his side.

And behind, a familiar silver haired figure in the ocean mist singing right alongside him

“Ammë… you?” Fëanor’s jaw falls. “How? Why?”

“He is my grandson, yonya,” she says firmly. “As for how…”

She explains the connection, and the song.

Somehow in speaking the Doom, Maglor reached through Mandos’ halls to the one member of his family whose skill lay in the same craft.

“Does he know?” Fëanor finally asks, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Does he know his family love him. They protect him. They long to see him again. That he can come *home*-

To this, Miriel sighs.

“I do not know. But he knows he is not alone.”

Maglor returns with Elrond to Imladris where he meets a little boy called Hope who speaks of ancestors reaching out to him and innocently asks the old elf if his family do the same.

She’s glad to be the one recording Maglor’s stunned face, and for the first time, laughs while weaving. It’s enough to bring Fëanor desperately knocking and Vairë shaking her head.

Some days pass and for the first time, she hears a song reaching out with intent. A hesitant question.

“Atya?” It calls.

She sings back.

“Not quite, my Songbird, though he sends you his love.”

Quicksilver hands and restless humming.

“It cannot be…”

“Hello, grandson of mine.”

Her influence is no longer needed, for Maglor is alive and healthy and keeping the heir of Isildur safe. Teaching him all he knows.

But she sings alongside him as he fights in the final battle by the Black Gate. Song and sword flashing as they haven’t in two ages.

She grabs Fëanor by the hand to show him Maglor singing and laughing at little Estel and Arwen’s wedding. And for the first time, Fëanor’s weeping is for joy.

Then the Doom is officially lifted read: please come back, everyone misses you and Galadriel is to sail.

And Miriel reaches out one last time.

“The Doom is long lifted. It’s time to come home, Makalaurë.”

And when Maglor comes home, he sees a silver haired elf in his periphery, grin flashing white in the afternoon sun before she disappears again

Miriel will never leave the halls.

She doesn’t need to.

Because she’s firmly entrenched in their family now, and Maglor sings to her everyday.

189 notes · View notes

officialaemondtargaryen · 12 days ago

Text

Never Gonna Be Alone - Part Four

Summary: When a friend from college contacts you about renting out your spare bedroom to her brother, you aren't really sure what to expect.

Pairing: Modern!Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Word Count: ~ 4.0k

Author's Note: Sorry I kind of forgot about this one. I'll try and get updates out more quickly. This one is for the anon who asked for an update. Probably would have continued forgetting about this if it weren't for you! Here's to hoping the next update takes less than six months!

Warnings for the entire series: language, drug & alcohol use, sex, possible angst, pining & yearning, miscommunication, bit of a slow burn, and a lot of fluff, plus me attempting to be a comedian.

Masterlist | Playlist

Aegon was right, the wall was empty.

It had been since the day you first moved in. Blank. Beige. Unbothered. Not unlike your love life. It was something that you had become so accustomed to that you didn’t notice just how empty it really was, having passed by it a thousand times without a second glance. You were blind to the void that it represented until suddenly– there it was. Filled, but not just with color, or thread and gold beads, but with him.

Two weeks had passed since you both stumbled home from Helaena’s art show; laughing, drunk, and starving with bags of Jade Garden and snacks from the Freedom Mart up the street.

And he couldn’t wait to hang it for you. He’d insisted on doing it that night, despite your protests, and said that it absolutely could not wait. He had pushed up his sleeves and dug out your dad’s old hand-me-down toolbox that the old man had sworn you would need someday. You watched from the couch, barefoot and grinning with a box of Lo Mein, as he “eyeballed it”.

“There,” he said, stepping back to survey his work. “That wall’s been starin’ at me for weeks.”

Now it stares at you.

It should have meant nothing– but to you, it meant everything.

It meant that somewhere between splitting joints and the last crab rangoon, between the inside jokes and the butterflies, you had begun living in a future that didn’t belong to you. You’d begun daydreaming about forever, when in reality, you were living inside of a bubble– stretching thinner everyday, its walls shimmering and fragile. Deep down, you knew that at any moment, the needle would drop and this whole thing would burst.

And then what?

You’d spiral, obviously. Pack your shit into the same busted suitcases you moved in with, toss your books and your yarn into recycled boxes, and move across the country– never to be seen or heard from again. Leave him the apartment filled with your embarrassment and that goddamned painting.

Was it dramatic? Definitely. Were you still picturing him running after you in the airport and begging you to stay? Absolutely. But none of that mattered– not yet anyway. Because for now, the bubble was still intact. And despite your inner turmoil, you were going to be totally, perfectly, 100% fine.

Probably.

You were sitting on the kitchen counter, cereal bowl in hand, staring at the singular green coffee mug in the sink when someone knocked on the door. You didn’t move at first, too busy staring down that mug as if it were about to grow arms and legs and jump out at you. The knock came again, louder this time, followed by a muffled voice: “Knock, knock!”

You blinked out of your daze, setting your bowl aside with a soft clink against the countertop, and dragged yourself towards the door in the pajamas you hadn’t bothered to change out of yet. When you peeked through the peephole, you instantly recognized the silvery space buns and oversized sunglasses.

“Wasn’t expecting you!” You smiled as you opened the door.

“Hi,” she chirped, as bright as the midday sun itself, holding up your worn copy of Conversations With Friends. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop this off. You were right, it wasn’t as good as Normal People, but I still couldn’t put it down.”

“Told you,” You smiled, taking the book from her hands and stepped aside to let her in. She waltzed into your apartment like she owned the place, but that was how Helaena walked into every room; effortless and cool with her Doc Martens and cute dresses. “Aegon went out for a run.”

“S’okay,” she hummed and crossed the room to where her artwork hung on the wall. “This looks really great here. Catches the light from the window perfectly.”

You glanced at it too, the golden threads gleaming in the morning sun. “Yeah,” a small smile pulled at your lips. “He was adamant we needed something for that wall.”

There was a pause.

“We?” Helaena echoed, one perfectly arched brow lifting as she tilted her head towards you. Her voice wasn’t accusatory, but amused. Amused and curious in a way that made your stomach flutter with dread, like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t have.

“I– uh, by ‘we’ I mean ‘the apartment,’ obviously,” you said quickly, already regretting how fast the explanation left your mouth. You tried to backpedal, make it sound casual, redirect. “Like, as a whole. Collectively. The apartment needed something. You know, Feng Shui or whatever.”

“Feng Shui? You sound just like him.” She said with a smirk.

You could feel her watching you from the side as you tried very hard not to squirm. When you turned to her in protest, it was almost as if you could see the lightbulb clicking on over her head– like she’d just put two and two together and didn’t even need to check the math.

“You like him.” Her tone, as always, was sincere.

She wasn’t being judgmental or catty. Hell, she didn’t even seem all that surprised. She said it in a way that someone would say something obvious like, “the sky is blue”. And that, of course, made it all the more worse for you, because if Helaena had noticed within five minutes of being in your apartment, then you were being way more obvious than intended.

And if she could tell, chances were that Aegon could, too.

Great. Just great.

Your stomach flipped– annoyingly, involuntarily– and you laughed, too quickly. “What? No.”

Helaena didn’t press. She just tilted her head slightly, a knowing curve at the corner of her mouth as she turned her attention back to the painting with her arms folded over her chest.

You sighed in immediate defeat, “It’s that obvious?”

She smiled, but didn’t look at you, “It’s not not obvious.”

And just like that, the floor threatened to swallow you whole.

If Helaena, someone you’d only just begun to know outside the shared orbit of her brother, could figure it out so quickly, what were the chances he hadn’t? What were the odds that ‘Mr-I-Notice-Everything’ was somehow completely oblivious to this one thing? The lingering looks? Your feet brushing against his under the coffee table? You could already feel your cheeks heating, your mind spiraling through every interaction you’d had in the past two weeks, combing for any moment that might’ve cracked the facade.

She must’ve sensed you slipping too far into your own head, because her tone shifted. “Just… be careful,” she said as she pulled her sunglasses back down over her eyes and grabbed her bag. “When I said he was messy, what did you think I meant?”

You shrug, “I don’t know, that he doesn’t pick up after himself?”

She snorted a laugh and crossed the living room towards the front door. “No, I meant that he’s a slut.”

You exhale, shoulders dropping in disappointment.

“I’m just being honest,” she said softly as she pulled the door open. “He crashed on my couch for a month before he moved in here and brought home a different girl every weekend.”

“That hasn’t happened here, thank God,” you mumbled more to yourself than to her.

Helaena leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, her expression unreadable behind her sunglasses, but you could still feel the weight of her gaze. “I’m not trying to scare you off,” she added, adjusting the strap on her shoulder. “I just think you should know what you’re walking into.”

“And what is that, exactly?” You ask as she steps out onto the front stoop.

She turned to you and shrugged, the corner of her mouth twisting into something between a smile and a wince and took a deep breath, “I don’t know. Best case? It’s great. Worst case?” She hesitated, weighing her words. “You sleep together, it gets weird, and then… you never talk again.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s optimistic.”

“Hey, fifty-fifty odds aren’t the worst,” she said, stepping down onto the sidewalk, sunlight catching in the silver strands of her hair. “And for what it’s worth, I do hope you’re the exception.”

You nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Thanks, I think.”

“Good luck, girly!” she called over her shoulder as she started down the block, then turned back, walking backwards a few steps. “Tell him to call me, yeah?”

The door clicked shut behind you and the apartment was quiet, leaving you alone with your thoughts, once again. You pressed your head against the door and sighed, telling yourself over and over again that you were okay. That everything was fine. It was just the proximity and hormones and the slow death of your better judgement, that’s all.

You peeled yourself away from the door slowly and turned to face the living room; your shoes next to his in the foyer, his XBox controller sitting on top of your most recent read on the coffee table, his hoodie hanging next to your raincoat– the arms seemingly entangled. Everything about this place had started to feel like him and the air was suddenly too thin.

Truth be told, you should just go ahead and start packing now. Move to Portland. Change your name. Dye your hair some vibrant shade of magenta. Open a bookstore. Thrift a whole new wardrobe. Become mysterious.

Maybe get a cat.

You’d never have to hear the name Aegon ever again.

Instead, you sank back into your bed with the weight of all your delusions, curled up so tightly in your duvet that it may have just been the only thing holding you together. You opened your laptop and queued up Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, wishing that you could do some erasing of your own. But, you didn’t even make it to Charles River before you fell asleep.

By the time you woke up, your laptop was dead and the sky outside your window was tinged with the dusky colors of an early sunset. You blinked the sleep from your eyes and fumble for your phone only to see that you had been out for over five hours. Shit. Apparently your body needed a rest after quietly crumbling beneath the emotional weight of your one-sided situationship.

You stretched beneath the covers, your limbs stiff and brain foggy. and the ache in your chest blooming fresh all over again now that you were conscious.

Aegon was in the living room. You could hear the faint sound of the evening news on the TV.

For a moment, you contemplated staying in the warmth of your bed. The thought of stepping out into that shared space made your stomach twist. Or maybe it was because you hadn’t eaten anything all day. Hard to tell. The line between physical and emotional hunger had started to blur a while ago.

What if she told him?

Of course she told him– she's his sister. She probably didn’t even make it to the end of the block before she had texted him. Regardless, it didn’t really matter, you’d have to face him eventually. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t hide in your room forever. Besides, you’d already stress-napped through most of the day. The least you could do was pull up your big girl panties and face your problems head on.

The living room was washed in the bluish light of the TV, flickering softly against the walls. The voice of a news anchor droned in the background, dry and detached, “…no official comment from Otto Hightower or other members of the TargCo executive board…”

“Hey,” Aegon says softly as you step into view. He reaches forward for the remote and flips the channel. “You’re alive.”

“Barely,” you croak, voice still thick with residual exhaustion. “Sorry I missed movie night.”

“You didn’t,” he smiles softly. “The night is still young, it’s only half past seven.”

“Feels like midnight,” you told him as you shuffled towards the kitchen to find something to eat.

“You were out cold,” he calls after you and there’s a smirk in his tone. “I checked to make sure you were still breathin’ at one point after you didn’t answer when I said I was orderin’ pizza. Guess you’ll just have to make do with pineapple.”

You padded into the kitchen, still blinking sleep from your eyes, bare feet cold on the tile floor. On the counter, there’s a half-eaten box of Hawaiian-style pizza. It’s still warm– the top propped open like an invitation. He even left the garlic sauce for you. You reached for a slice, folding it lazily as you leaned back against the counter, chewing slowly as your body tries to catch up with the time.

“Thank you,” you told him quietly as you finally join him on the couch.

“Don’t take this personally, but I could not stand for another nigh’ of leftovers,” he laughs softly while clicking through different movie titles.

“What?” You stretch into the cushions, trying to get comfortable. “You’re telling me four straight nights of spaghetti was too much?”

He smirked in response and suddenly the room had gone quiet again. It was the type of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable but said too much– like you both could hear what wasn’t being said and it made you that much more aware of the three inches of cushion between you. He finally lands on a title and tilts the remote towards the screen, quirking an eyebrow at you like a silent question mark. You shrug and nod and it’s settled. You shifted your weight, folding your legs underneath you, then unfurling them just as quickly. Still not comfortable, but not wanting to draw any attention to yourself. You reached behind you for one of the throw pillows and placed it against the arm of the couch, leaning slightly into it. That didn’t feel right either. Too stiff. Too far away. You adjust again, cursing yourself for being all elbows and uncertainty.

His eyes tear away from the TV to check on you, but you’re too busy reaching for another pillow to notice, until you turn and meet his eyes. You were immediately embarrassed, but without a word, you prop the pillow against his side and let yourself ease into him, like it was the only soft place left in the room. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen. Didn’t try to reclaim the space.

“Better?” he asked, barely looking away from the screen, but you caught the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. You settle into place and nod your head, not trusting your voice to be steady enough to say it outloud. “Good,” he replies casually.

But your heart was anything but casual.

You try to force your attention back to the movie, but the heat from his side is seeping into your skin, spreading like a wildfire beneath your ribs. You were closer than you should be, every breath feels like borrowing air from him. You wonder if he’s thinking about it too, but you don’t have the courage to look up at him, as if you’d even be able to tell. He was always so nonchalant, like nothing in the world bothered him.

Maybe he was just being polite, or maybe he was just comfortable. Maybe this meant nothing.

It didn’t feel like nothing.

Your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the pillow, knuckles whitening. Can he feel that same tug? The gravity of something unspoken pulling at the corners of the room. The weight of all the words you’re holding back; thick and heavy like the late summer air outside of the window. His arm rests loosely against the back of the sofa, and you can’t help but think about what it would feel like draped along your frame.

No, bad idea. Get up. Go back to bed.

But you don’t move. You can’t.

The sounds of the movie have become white noise as you spiral– quietly, inwardly– in the space between his silence and your imagination, convincing yourself that it meant something just because he didn’t pull away. Because he’s still here, close and solid. Now all that you can do is focus on his breathing, counting each breath as if you're memorizing the way that he works.

Your eyes flutter shut, just for a second. Just to rest them. You’ll open them again in a minute. You will.

But the moment stretches as exhaustion creeps in.

At some point– maybe two heartbeats later, maybe twenty– you feel it. The faintest shift. The gentle weight of his arm lowering, slow and careful, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you. It rests across your side; warm and tentative. Not demanding. Not possessive. Just there.

Like it was always supposed to be.

When you wake up, the room is dark. “Are you still watching?” on the television screen. It’s early. The sun hasn’t quite peeked over the horizon. Everything is quiet in a sacred kind of way that only exists right before the world remembers it’s supposed to be awake.

You stretch, groaning slightly as you shift your weight, and that’s when you feel it.

Aegon.

Pressed against your back, one arm slung lazily around your waist like it belongs there. His hand twitches against your stomach and everything in your body tenses at once; freezing as you feel him stir beside you. You try your hardest to steady your breathing, but your pulse is betraying you, and you’re sure he can hear it. It’s pounding loud enough to wake the whole city block.

You’re not ready for this moment to end, for when it has to become something else.

He shifts again, just barely, and his nose brushes the back of your shoulder. Then, in the softest murmur he says, “hey.”

“Hey,” your voice catches on the exhale.

You don’t turn to look at him. You can’t. Your face will give you away instantly, if it hasn’t already– that blushing, wide-eyed, heart-pounding you that’s currently screaming into her pillow somewhere in the back of your brain.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he admits.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, afraid that you’ll choke on the tension. “Neither did I.”

He hums in response, settling back into the comfort that was this moment. His arm is still draped over you and you take a moment to remind yourself of that.

Somehow, it felt like a confession.

Taglist

@thhriller, @watercolorskyy, @mrs-starkgaryen, @elllielewiss, @primroseluna, @justmymindandstuff, @louieluvly, @queen-of-elves, @mxauthor, @notsuremarie, @notafairyteen, @hardyshoe, @belovedbastardremus, @bey0nd-1he-stars, @trashbe, @dixie-elocin, @lem0ns77

112 notes · View notes

ilium-ilia · 4 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Eight: elephant in the room

tw: anxiety, vomit

You’re still terribly febrile when you wake up.

Stiff muscles and joints scream as you stir, bleary eyes hardly able to make sense of your surroundings. Faux darkness smothers the room as thick curtains forbid sunlight from raiding your vision with its unforgiving rays. Sediment builds between your bones where they crack and crumble into dust as you sit up, head protesting the movement with several throbs. A bottle jostles next to you on the mattress. A gift, you’re sure. You try to swallow the wooly dryness in your mouth before you greedily uncap it and take a rapacious swig.

It’s dreadful. Briny and falsely sweet; your lips pucker as your tongue shrivels at the nasty flavor. Sea water would have been more appetizing and refreshing, yet your mouth is so dry you drink until half of the bottle is gone anyway. When you’re finished, you cough and it’s wet. Mucus and snot plague your throat, too far back for you to do anything but swallow it—thick, like pudding.

Up your body urges. You sigh as you swing your legs over the side of the bed where sweet Pumpkin stares through you. Pursing your lips, you give her threaded nose a quick poke before standing. You’ve been stagnant for too long, thick blood pooling in your limbs, weighing them down like lead as you drag yourself out of the bedroom, blanket thrown over your shoulders like a hermit crab. You’re a walking mess—a zombie with half a brain.

Lovely aromatics waft through the house as you descend the stairs, and the kitchen is sweltering when you wander in. A heavy wall of heat emanates from the stove as John works away at a cutting board with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his forearms. Carrots, onions, and celery dust the board as a pot of broth boils behind him on the stove. The knife glints in the light, and you will your stomach into submission as your mind begins to buzz. He greets you with a polite smile as you approach the kitchen island, hands fumbling with the barstool as you make room for yourself.

“Morning Chip,” he greets before glancing at his wristwatch. “Or, afternoon.”

Sniffing, you attempt a smile back at him, but your face feels too swollen for it to come across correctly. “You’re making me feel like a bum.”

“Well, considering the circumstances, you deserve to have a few days off,” he chuckles warmly.

John turns, cutting board in hand, where he dumps the contents into the broth. The liquid quells for only a short moment before it begins to boil once more, this time with a vengeance as steam billows from the liquid like mist upon a lake. The sink turns on where smooth water runs over dirty dishes as he works on cleaning up his mess. There’s a slight urge to get up and help—to give something back to the people who housed you for the night—but the very thought alone is enough to make your muscles scream.

Perhaps, just this once, you will allow someone to take care of you.

“Riley bought enough chicken broth to feed a damn army, but I figured I’d spruce it up with some veg. Give it some meat. Unless you fancy plain watered down bone juice,” John teases as he dries his hands.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say, voice cracking.

“Of course I did. This is you we’re talking about.”

Quiet feet tap against the beautiful, dark stained floor as Aelin enters the kitchen swaddled in a fluffy pink bathrobe, freshly showered. Her eyes light up when she catches sight of you curled over the counter, but there’s still that lingering glint of concern as she approaches with outstretched arms. Before you can protest, she envelops you in her arms. Half dried hair presses against your cheek as you’re smothered in the strong sillage of rosewater.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, holding your head tight against her chest. She’s warm—most likely thanks to her shower—and you can’t help but melt into her despite your illness.

“You’re gonna get sick,” you whine.

“Well, you’re feeling good enough to talk back, it seems,” she teases before releasing you.

Just as John turns the stove off, Aelin slides onto the stool next to you, elbow playfully bumping against your arm in the process. You bump her back and attempt to laugh—you’re brutally interrupted by another wet cough.

“Have you taken any medicine?” she questions.

“Row, I just woke up,” you respond with a huff.

“John?” she says as if calling a dog.

He chuckles. “On it.”

“You have to keep up on taking this stuff,” Aelin chastizes. “Remember what the doctors said? You’re going to get an ear infection again if the pressure and fluids build too much, and I don’t think you can afford to lose any more of your hearing. Really, we ought to get you to an audiologist…”

“I’ll be fine,” you assure. “Just… give me the stupid medicine.”

While the soup cools, John vanishes to retrieve whatever sort of medicine Aelin is going to force down your throat, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you look at her. She rests her head in her hand with a cheeky smile, utterly content with herself. She’s glowing, dewy skin illuminated by the bright kitchen light as she assesses you with careful eyes.

“You seem… happy,” you say in an attempt to get the attention off of you and your ailment.

Aelin hums as her feet flutter with girlish glee. “Yeah, guess so. Maybe more excited than anything else.”

“What about?”

“John surprised me this morning with an early Christmas present. He’s got us tickets for a trip to The Maldives over the holiday,” she says, keeping her voice low as if it’s a secret.

It’s impossible to hide the way your eyes widen at her words. Sometimes, you forget exactly how… well off John and Aelin are. Even as a child, Aelin lived a somewhat privileged life due to the status of her father as a Chief Inspector. The man was virtually a pseudo politician, and with his dangerous job, he had a very generous life insurance policy that was paid out when he died. Couple that with John’s establishment in the city, you doubt either of them have known a moment of financial discomfort since they got married.

There is no envy in your realization. You’ve known from the very beginning that their type of life isn’t for you—not with your hands dried from sanitizer and body weak because you don’t know how to scream no loud enough.

“Sounds fancy,” you smile.

“Sounds warm,” Aelin corrects with a chuckle. “I’m tired of the cold. You should come with us. I’m sure I’ve got room in my bag. Think we can fold you up tight enough?”

“Sure, and John can drag me around like a third wheel,” you say with bitter humor. “Think if I shrink myself small enough we can trick them into thinking that I’m your child?”

Aelin’s laughter is stiff. Her smile doesn’t get her eyes to shine as bright as they normally do. “I’ll bring you a souvenir then.”

A pang echoes throughout your chest. “Good idea,” you murmur, gauche.

John returns shortly with cough syrup in hand and he slides it to you across the island countertop like a bartender. It goes down surprisingly easy; too smooth, albeit a tad bitter, you take it like a shot to quickly drown out the menthol burning the back of your nose. Somehow, it seems to clear your mind a little. Or, perhaps you have a proper night’s rest to thank for that.

“Do you have any plans for Christmas this year? And please, don’t say work.” The sweet melody of fresh soup pouring into a bowl accompanies Aelin’s question as John divides the meal before sliding it in front of you. You give him a quick appreciative smile before she continues. “I swear, if you say work I’m going to actually force you on this trip.”

“I’m not working,” you huff, swirling your spoon around your bowl. Thin wisps of steam tickle your chin and nose, melting the congestion that resides deep in your sinuses. “Bruce always takes off the days surrounding Christmas. Still gives us holiday pay, too.”

“Good,” Aelin hums, though she’s yet to be satiated. “Well, since John and I will be gone this year, maybe you can spend the holiday with Riley instead.”

As your eyes close in disbelief, you’re able to recall part of your conversation from last night. How you called Aelin out for her using Simon to keep an eye on you. Ever since that dinner party back in October, she’s been trying to hook you up with the guy, and she’s been less than tactful about it.

Simon isn’t… a bad person. Despite the tattoos, and how he broke Andrei’s nose like he was punching through warm butter, he’s someone you feel surprisingly comfortable around. You’re not sure why. It’s like there’s a lullaby written into his DNA—something to counteract the sheer size and nature of him. Maybe it’s because of the way he took care of you that night; hiding you away in the VIP room when you panicked and blacked out. You woke up not feeling violated or scared—just confused. Or maybe it’s because you’ve felt his heart. How it beats in his chest, steady and strong.

You swallow your embarrassment down with a spoonful of soup.

“I’m sure he’s got a family of his own. Taking a break from babysitting me would probably be lovely,” you say with unforgiving emphasis.

For a moment, Aelin turns her attention to John, who’s already halfway finished with his soup. “Does Riley have any family?”

He pauses. “In Manchester, yeah.”

“See?” you point out. “He’ll leave London far behind, and I’ll most likely watch The Grinch on repeat. Alone.”

A pout forms on Aelin’s rosy lips, but it’s not the playful childishness you’re used to. Legitimate annoyance crosses her features, and you feel something wash over you in a cold mist. You get the feeling this conversation isn’t going the way she wanted it to.

“I just… don’t like the idea of you being alone this time of year,” she finally concedes.

You try not to huff. There’s only true concern for you behind her tone, but that doesn’t make it any less smothering. Buying yourself time, you lift the bowl up to your lips with careful hands and drink the broth as you think of a response that doesn’t make you sound like a child. Or worse; ungrateful. You are appreciative of every kind action that anyone has ever shown you—but the sour taste it leaves on your tongue knowing that you don’t deserve it has become nearly unbearable.

“I’ll be fine,” you attempt to assure. “I’m a grown woman. It’s not like I’m a kid who’s going to be let down because there’s no tree or presents.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Despite the fresh soup in your stomach and the fever ravaging your nerves, everything goes cold. The chill even reaches John, whose attention flickers back and forth between you and his wife, cold eyes attempting to decode the oncoming mess. There’s a twitch in his lips that rustles his facial hair—he wants to speak, but stays silent as his eyes return to his bowl, completely emptied. His spoon still scrapes the bottom anyway.

“Aelin-” you start.

“You promised me on Halloween that you’d be kinder to yourself,” she interrupts. “But look at you. Sick, still trying to work yourself to death… Would you have even asked for help if I hadn’t called last night? You promised me you’d stop punishing yourself but the closer we get to the anniversary of his death, the worse you get.”

“Hey now,” John attempts to intervene—but this isn’t his fight.

“I know it’s not easy to- to talk about stuff like that, and I’m not saying you have to talk to me about it. I… I know why you don’t want to talk to me about it. I just wish you’d share this burden with someone. Chip, none of that was your fault, you were just a kid.”

Metal clinks against pristine china as you drop your spoon in your bowl, head shaking. The antithesis to her statement screeches in your head like nails on a chalkboard. It’s loud enough to cut through the tinnitus in your ears.

He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you.

She always says you were just a kid. A child. As if that absolves you from the hot sin that burns your skin. You might have been a child then, but it’s been twelve years and you haven’t repented. It’s why your hearing is marred and every flash of light seems like it’s reflecting off of the blade of a knife and-

“Please,” Aelin begs, “let me help you. Let someone help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Your feet hit the ground as you slide off the barstool and your vision begins to tunnel. Spots swirl in front of you in a dizzying dance, and you shake your head as you turn away from Aelin.

“I can’t,” you breathe. Your heart leaps into your throat, choking you, but you can’t swallow it. It pounds and writhes inside of you, twisting in ways that it shouldn’t as you stumble along the kitchen island. Despite your vision, you take note of the way John mirrors your movements as he follows you from the other side of the island. He says something, but it doesn’t reach you. “I can’t.”

John’s arm wraps around your front just before your knees collide with the ground. Plastic scrapes against the wood floor with an aching scratch as he lowers you, and you find your hands gripping the side of the bin just in time for your stomach to lurch. All of John’s hard work goes into the bin, and it burns on the way back up as soup mixes with cough syrup and salt. Aelin slides onto the floor next to you, robe pulled taut as she rubs your back with an anxious hand.

“Oh my god, Chip. Chip, I-I’m so sorry, I-”

“Easy now,” John whispers, his voice so deep you nearly can’t register it.

At first, you think he’s saying it to you. Some sort of comfort as you spit the remaining vomit in your mouth into the bin, trying to rid yourself of its rancid taste. When you finally catch your breath and your stomach ceases its unnecessary convulsions, you realize he’s saying it to Aelin. Hot tears mix with her trembling lip as she stares at you with wide, reddened eyes. Overcome with compunction, she mutters apologies between shaky breaths, hands pawing at your back.

Once more, your stomach lurches but you’re able to bite back the bile. You hate seeing her cry. You’d do anything to make her stop.

But you’ve never been good at comforting anyone—especially yourself.

Nothing feels real after that. Not the way John and Aelin help you back into the guest room to get some more rest. Not the way Aelin’s stifled sobs echo in the hallway as they leave. Not John’s attempt at comfort. It tears you apart in a way nothing else has. You don’t know why you’re like this; so broke that you hurt others on the pieces of you in the process. If you could just talk—share that darkness inside of you—do something… but you can’t. The only thing you’ve ever been good at is running away and escaping by the skin of your teeth.

Aelin takes you home later that night after the dust settles, but neither of you talk about the elephant in the room. Its weight sits so heavily on your chest that you can hardly breathe. Neither of you mention her father who’s been long dead and rotted in the ground in a cemetery you can’t bring yourself to visit. She doesn’t ask why you keep everything under tight lock, or why you’ve seemingly thrown away the key. Despite your efforts at hiding, you’re always afraid that you’ll be found out eventually.

Someone will come along and sniff out your secrets like a scavenger with carrion.

For now, you let the flesh rot inside of you and pray that Aelin can’t smell it as she embraces you in the car. If it weren’t for the center console, you’re certain she would pull you into her lap and cradle you against her chest as if you were a child again. She doesn’t whisper anything more than a farewell to you, but you can feel the apology exuding from her body.

You think that’s why—after all these years—you and Aelin are still as close as you are. Both of you are sorry for something, and neither of you know how to say it.

Over the next few days, your symptoms improve. You spend most of your days sleeping and resting in bed where you sip on cold medicine like it’s sugar water. It feels strange doing nothing, and you’re certain your paycheck will feel the effects too, but for once you can’t bring yourself to care.

Eventually, you can breathe unobstructed and you no longer choke every time you try to speak. Your mind clears, but lingering aches still ravage your muscles with vigorous hunger which only begins to worsen throughout the week. Radiating further than just your legs and stomach, you don’t realize until it’s too late that your period is the one to blame.

Out of the pan and into the fire, it hits you while you’re at work. You’ve nearly bled through your pants by the time you’re able to make it to the bathroom, and without any proper sanitary items, you’re stuck using cheap toilet paper for the rest of your shift. Clumped up paper, it feels disgusting shoved between your legs, but you’re unprepared. Still, nothing rivals the discomfort of the cramps that shred your muscles apart, insides twisting and writhing as it expels unwanted blood and tissue—it hurts more than usual.

Another unintended side effect from Marco’s lovely cold. Your body hardly had any time to recover from being sick, and now it’s expending even more energy. Your only saving grace is that you find a handful of pads when you get home. No more tampons. This month, your flow is heavier than usual, and you’re bleeding through them too quickly—you’ll run out by tomorrow. It’s a frustrating realization having just gotten home and knowing you’ll have to force yourself back out.

Tomorrow. You’ll brave the world with blood and endometrium tissue tomorrow, but for now you’re content in bed, curled around a heated rice pack. Its warmth seeps into you but only skin deep. Angry muscles still convulse inside of you, unthwarted by your attempts at satiating its anger. Huffing, you try to distract yourself, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, watching videos, anything to forget the pain.

A message buzzes on your phone, vibration tingling your fingers, and you don’t have to look at the ID to know that it’s Simon. Both of you have the worst sleep schedules due to the hours you work, and with it nearing one in the morning, you know it can’t be anyone else. Or, maybe you’ve just grown to know him too well.

How are you feeling?

Of course he’s checking in. It’s his job, isn’t it?

better thank you! been living off of the soups and drinks you bought.

It’s a slight lie. The soups are great. It’s that perfect canned broth that harbors just the right amount of brine, but you can’t stand those electrolyte drinks. Maybe you would be feeling better right now had you just toughed it out and drank them, but you quickly swapped them out for regular water instead. They’re currently rotting in the back of your fridge.

Glad to hear.

You stare at the message so long you feel your eyes cross and vision blur. Fatigue and pain is finally getting the better of you, and you can feel sleep calling for you, weighing your body down until you feel glued to the bed. It nearly takes you—forces you into the depths of dreams—but you’re jostled awake by another message from Simon:

Going Christmas shopping tomorrow. Wanna join?

It’s fairly easy to sniff out the fact that this is Aelin’s doing. You’re certain the guilt is still eating her alive from last week, and neither of you have really messaged one another beyond a hope you’re feeling better. She loves deeply and strangely; you’re not even sure she understands it herself, and still…

sure! i need to do some shopping anyway

Simon hums when your message pops up on his screen, happy with your answer. It’s frigid in the garage, so much so that he can see his breath. Usually he’s inside by this time, watching a show to put himself to sleep or making a late dinner, but not even that can satiate his insomnia. Instead, he finds himself cleaning his bike. There’s not really a need—he cleaned it last week—but he knows he has to. He has to keep his hands moving, otherwise his mind gets the best of him.

I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon.

As he shoves his phone back in his pocket, he thinks of you curled up in bed again. How warm you were against his hand, yet how you couldn’t seem to stop shivering. It was a painful reminder about how you were the day he found you in that alley, hardly able to stand on your own, overcome with terror. He hates that he can’t get that vision of you out of his head, but he hopes you’re telling the truth when you say you’re doing better than you were before.

Grunting, he gets back to work on his bike while his mind wanders. He still hasn’t forgotten about Andrei or the work Johnny has been putting in to figure out who the bastard really is. The most headway they’ve been able to gain has been thanks to Kyle, who saw him at some sort of political gala the other week. Shady enough to be found lurking in an alleyway, but important enough to be hanging with London’s top 1% is never a good sign.

It doesn’t matter. There’s not a skull in the world Simon Riley doesn’t know how to crack open. He doesn’t think he can rest until he knows you’re safe from whatever monsters are lurking in your shadow.

When his phone vibrates again, he thinks it’s a text back from you until it doesn’t cease. He quickly wipes his hands until they’re free of cleaner before retrieving it once more. The screen flashes brightly, alerting him that his mother is calling.

“Hello?” he answers. There’s slight worry in his tone as he wanders away from his bike, almost as if he’s getting ready to run on foot all the way to Manchester if his mother so requested it.

“Ah, I know you’d be awake. Still working late shifts, I take it?” she asks as if they’re talking over tea.

“There’s no mornin’ shifts at the club, mum,” He cheekily reminds her. “More concerned ‘bout you bein’ up this late.”

She chuckles, and it sounds different from when he was a kid. There’s gravel in her voice now, vocal chords changing with age, but it still fills him with the same warmth that it always has.

“Don’t worry about me, love. Got too carried away with the garden documentaries again,” she assures.

“Let me guess. France?” he asks.

“Italy this time. Their gardens are beautiful. Much more natural,” she explains.

Simon hums. “I’ll take you to see ‘em one day.”

Mrs. Riley laughs at her son, a silly cackle that has a smile pulling at his lips. “Oh, my sweet boy, I’d be plenty happy with just a simple visit. Speaking of, you’re still coming home for the holiday, yes? Little Joey’s excited to see his Uncle Simon again.”

It’s impossible for him not to smile at the thought of his nephew. Sweet tyke is about four years old and he can still envision his toothy grin perfectly. His idiot brother was able to do some sort of good in the world after all.

“Course I am. We’re goin’ Christmas shoppin’ tomorrow. Probably be headed down Christmas Eve, if that works?” he explains.

“We?” she repeats, the lilt of her words giving away her grin.

Simon blinks, Freudian slip having gotten the better of him. “A friend and I, yeah.”

“What kind of friend?” she prods.

“Just a friend.”

There’s no stopping the storm of words brewing up in his mother’s mouth. Even from over the phone he can see them swell with the curve of her lip and tilt of her head.

“Well, there is plenty of space in the guest room if this friend of yours wants to join us for the holiday. Just recently moved a queen sized mattress in there, too. I know how hard it was for you to fit on the twin sized bed…”

“Mum,” Simon sighs, cutting his mother off before she can continue. “It’ll just be me.”

“Oh, alright. Can’t blame an old crone for trying,” she titters. “But, Christmas Eve. Perfect. I’ll make sure to have everything set up.”

The conversation dwindles into small talk before Mrs. Riley eventually gets too tired to continue. Her documentary on European gardens can only entertain her for so long before the night gets the better of her. They wish one another goodnight, with promises of seeing each other soon before the line goes dead. Though the silence is benign, he can’t help but be grateful that he doesn’t have to explain to his mother—yet again—why he never brings any girls home for the holiday.

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Simon checks the time only to get distracted by a glowing notification. You had responded to his text while he was taking that call:

sounds good! see you tomorrow si (:

He stares at the message longer than he should. It’s… cute. The shortened use of his name coupled with the smiley face. Usually, he’s not a fan of nicknames. His last name, Riley, isn’t something he’s proud to carry either, but no one at work seems to call him anything else. Still, he imagines your voice as he rereads your message, and he has to shake his head before his thoughts devolve into a mess he can’t afford to entertain.

See you tomorrow, sweetheart.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

195 notes · View notes