#There's more to a single spool than I thought!!!

[solradguy]

SOON...

[prismarts]

I REDESIGNED THE MANE SIX PONIES!!!

I had so much fun doing these and I really wanna ramble so if you wanna hear about my thought process, click below!

✨️Twilight Sparkle✨️

Twilight was the simplest and arguably the closest to her canon design with a few differences, she is tad taller as an alicorn, while she was a medium height as a unicorn before this

I REALLY wanted to change her colour palette into one of an actual twilight sky and skew darker in terms of colours for that almost dark academia feel.

I added some silver glasses and a collar and some sort of tie for that fantasy almost witch apprentice look as almost a nod to Twilight being Celestia's apprentice.

Her mane is up in a bun to keep it tidy while she studies and her tail is kept short so she doesn't get caught in anything as she runs around looking for books.

I thought it'd be cute for her to have sparkle like freckles to match the sparkles on her wings.

Finally, her cutie mark is all around the same but with more of the twilight colours instead.

🧁Pinkie Pie🧁

Pinkie Pie is now EXTRA fluffy to just fit her extra bubbly personality while also being the second shortest pony.

I decided to give Pinkie heterochromia, I just feel like it suits her really really well! Alongside the lighter rounded patches of fur and darkening the rest of her pink coat.

She got hoof-icures of sprinkles on her light pink hooves!

Her mane and tail are extra fluffy and shorter, making it look a lot more puffed up like the canon mane and tail she has as a filly in canon! She has sprinkles all over her mane and tail and a bow on her tail.

Finally, her cutie mark now has different coloured and shaped balloons as well as a cupcake and party hat, the cupcake referencing her baking talents as well as her party talents!

🦋Fluttershy🦋

Fluttershy has a few changes to her design, she is the third tallest pony of the group.

I gave Fluttershy, dark forest green eyes to contrast with all the pastels in her design.

She has significantly longer mane and tail with a gradient from pastel pink to a pastel leaf green.

I really wanted Fluttershy to have smaller wings, like Scootaloo in canon, she has this disability now and is unable to really fly. I wanted to explore just how much animals and the nature impacted her as a filly by making her a lot more connected to it. An example being the leaves and flowers in Fluttershy's mane and tail is from her climbing trees to help critters, something she LEARNED from her critter friends.

Her smaller wings have a small feather pattern that resembles a butterfly's wings in the inner of her wings and the fluff on her hooves also resemble leaves and butterfly wings.

💎Rarity💎

Rarity has a few changes, mainly to her mane and tail, she is also the fourth tallest among the group.

Rarity has piercing dark blue eyes, I made her eyes a more striking colour than in her canon design.

Her mane and tail now have small curls and waves, decorated with pearls and up in a half bun. With a gradient colours of dark purple to a pastel indigo. I really wanted to give her a very fashionable mane and tail style without it just being a single giant curl.

Rarity's hooves have a gradient into an ice blue.

I gave Rarity so many accessories and jewelry, I really wanted to dress her up in diamonds and pearls and gold.

Rarity's cutie mark is now a big single diamond with a dark purple thread spool and needle. The diamond representing her backstory where she found all those gems and got her cutie mark after using them in her design and the heart shape the dark purple thread makes, represents her big and generous heart.

🍎Applejack🍎

Applejack's coat is now a darker brown with patches of light brown and the orange from her canon design. She is also the second tallest of the group.

Her eyes are now a brighter leafy green.

Her mane and tail are now significantly shorter, in a more orangey tone of blonde as her tail is tied in a braid to help keep it neat and tidy during her farm work.

I added a red ribbon to her hat, which is now a darker shade of brown as well as gave her a handkerchief tied around her neck that has red and green plaid.

Applejack has a slightly bulkier body from all the apple bucking she's done around the farm.

Her cutie mark is now a heart shaped picnic mat with her three apples that are now three different colours to represent Apple Bloom, Big Mac and Granny Smith.

⚡️Rainbow Dash⚡️

Rainbow Dash is the shortest of the group, but of course is absolutely the fastest.

She now has a darker greyish blue coat with a lighter grey blue patches as well as light blue lightning and cloud patches all over.

Her wings are now bigger, this being something that has hindered her flying as a filly and made it hard for her to control her flying and crashing into things as a filly, being given the nickname 'Rainbow Crash'. But now her bigger wings help her fly faster than ever before, even helping her do the impossible Sonic Rainboom.

Her hooves are now a gradient from light blue to white to represent clouds.

She now wears goggles around her neck all of the time.

Her mane and tail are significantly shorter and in a cool swoopy sharp style, the rainbow in her mane and tail are a lot brighter now to make her stand out a lot more.

Her eyes are now a stormy grey to show off her aggressive nature while also being a perfect contrast to the rainbows in her designs.

Her cutie mark is now a giant rainbow lightning bolt in the middle of a ring of clouds and smaller rainbow coloured lightning bolts. This is to represent her ability to create a Sonic Rainboom.

[fallenangels1987]

lets face it. the joker sucks as a batman villain. everybody thinks hes good because hes got a cool character design and hes been around since forever and writers keep trying to make him good, but in concept alone he fails to tap into any of the central themes or intrigue of batman, and nor does he reflect any of bruces internal conflict. really, the only use the joker has ever had was creating harley quinn, but now shes an entirely separate character from him so any short-lived relevance he may have had with her is gone. but contrary to what some may think, i dont think the joker should die. that decision would be a big deal and he'd be so dramatic about it, we'd have an entire plotline dedicated to it.... no one wants that. no one wants to see his stupid joker face for longer than physically necessary. it would also be reversed by the next reboot. no, we need a plan to make him irrelevant. more so than he already is, i mean.

first, we have batmans rogues gallery do a drag race. whos judging? poison ivy and the riddler. its green-themed. but see this is genius. cuz who hates the joker more than poison ivy and the riddler? yeah, harley quinn, who is not in attendance cuz she knows whats about to happen. in fact, she planned this, and shes using this as her cover to mess around with selina and try to convince her to be harley and pams third again. it wont work, but the dedication and jakey-haterism is commendable.

the drag race itself is not the focus, however. see, the entire thing has been set up to generate the most drama possible. everyone except for the joker has received invitations that say the show (which is being live broadcast to an unwilling audience of 150,000, all of whom thought they were watching the morning news up until 5 minutes ago, and found themselves unable to switch the broadcast off) will be recording their every move, so they better be on their worst behavior. the joker, unbeknownst to this, is being his usual asshole self, but not even in a fun conniving way, just in the regular asshole way.

at some point, he starts a fight. tensions are already high and hes the fucking joker. just let him dig his own grave here. he starts a fight and his (already shitty, i should add) outfit gets torn. now he has to spend all of his time that should be spent on makeup on fixing the stitching of this dress, and its going awful, and hes been forcibly removed from the makeup/costume making zone so hes just sitting on the stoop outside with a single spool of thread trying to fix this poofy ass dress. soon enough hes got 5 minutes left on the clock and hes still not finished, so hes like fuck it! im just gonna do my makeup and hope for the best. the makeup is atrocious, predictably, he doesnt even get to finish the eyeliner, but he tries to go back inside nonetheless. oops, he got locked out! thank you, tetch. now hes gotta go through the front, all the while trying not to get dirt on this dress which is falling apart on top of him, knowing full well poison ivy and the riddler and the rest of the queens are making fun of him for being late.

he gets back in. by this point, hes sweating like a damn hog, his makeup is running, but hes HERE. he sees amygdala preparing to go down the runway. no no no, the JOKER cant have that. the joker cant have anyone stealing his rightfully earned spotlight. he pushes amygdala out of the way and waits for the go-ahead.

poison ivy and the riddler look confused and disturbed, then whisper to one another for a moment. they turn back toward him.

"didnt we already escort you off the premises like, half an hour ago?" the riddler asks.

"yeah, you weren't supposed to come back," poison ivy says. "that's the point of having henchmen take you out."

they argue about this for a while until joker is thrown out again. the public vote gives him a pitiful 1%.

after that, hes a laughing stock! nobody likes him! hes just the guy who couldnt take a hint even after he was kicked out of a building! he resigns in disgrace and moves to rural ohio where he becomes a gas station attendant. and THAT is how we get rid of the joker.

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Astarion and Tav spar one another. When flirting starts to take hold, things get heated in more ways than one.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

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Chapter 15: Boundaries

Ao3

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Main Page & Chapter List

Word count: 4.2k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Sexual Language, Violence, Tension, Act 1 Spoilers

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I have come to know many lover’s secrets as they confided them to me while I stole their moans with my cock. But, Tavelle confided in me for other reasons. Frightened and scorned, she knew no chapel would truly redeem her. I told her we could compare our scars, and the laugh she composed, I found myself chasing after in my trance that night.

— Astarion Ancunín, journal entry 2

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Astarion did not miss the conciliatory presence of Tav since she ended their companionship.

He did not grieve the spooling of his argent hair filaments around her bobbined fingertips, yet he lusted after her crimson essence warming his veins—making his cock weep. The absence left behind of the Amen her thighs shuddered closing around his hips like hands in mid prayer, did not fill him with a yearning materialized by Pothos: winged god of desire.

What he missed was the perceived solution to his troubles that had accumulated in the unremarkable epoch of his life, that he now began to feel in the creak of his bones each daybreak. His real appetency only to be satiated by his viable survival; he would sooner die than once again become a whore underneath Cazador.

Perhaps it had been foolhardy to rely entirely on what he knew instead of focusing more to sharpen the skills he did not—namely faking an annoyingly long standing union with the bard—yet, how was he to know these episodes would suddenly appear, bringing him to ruin. As if being one of his Lord’s spawns wasn’t enough, a final departing gift bestowed to Astarion were traumatic illusions distorting his stimuli. Skewed sensations that he was at a loss on how to deal with as they continued to fuck up his manipulative ploys.

Though, it bewildered the pale vamp why Tav had not asked him to leave their entourage indefinitely. She certainly had every right to do so. In the past week, he watched her peep beneath her stays to check on the wound his knifed cuspids left on her skin like lost shadows. Her breath uneven with each glance. A caged vision where her soul mark sat, now tainted by his hallucinations.

And, why hadn’t she confided in someone about the incident? He noticed she purposely refused to seek aid from any of their cohorts; nor had she gobbled down a single drop of a healing potion immediately after he bit her. Instead, she opted to watch the puncture slowly mend itself, day after day, as if it were a potent reminder of the creature she had entangled herself with.

Or could her intentional omission from their friends be her way of still protecting him?

Astarion realized that despite having a keen eye to Tav’s compassionate heart—as she wore it so dangerously on her sleeve—there was much he still didn’t understand about the woman. He caught himself on numerous occasions thinking about these afflictions that seemed to dull his thoughts in the way opium derived from arresting poppy flowers clouded the mind.

Even now, while she tied her brown waves back into a low ponytail at the base of her neck in preparation to spar with him, he wondered about the hieroglyphs painted inside the shell of her skull he nearly wanted to crack open and decipher.

“Have you finished dawdling? We’re starting to lose light and I promised myself to a rather savory hunt for the evening.”

Tugging a set of dark leather gloves up her artful hands, the songstress briefly paused. “We don’t need to do this, especially if it’s keeping you from a meal. Besides, I’m not even sure why you suggested we spar in the first place.”

“Isn’t it quite obvious?” He goaded with a tilt of his chin. “Our regular means to relieve stress have been halted by your ruling, not to mention, we can hardly agree on your compulsory pursuits. So, all we have left are our blades to steer the conversation instead of our bodies.”

“Or,” he continued with a suggestive smirk, twirling a set of twin daggers in his hands. “Could it really be that I wanted to see just how much I manage to excite you—even to your own oversight.”

Tav flushed, her vision wandering to the rapier at her side. Judging by the battering of her heartbeats, Astarion surmised she was equally vexed and embarrassed at his frankness. His smirk grew wider as he watched the redness spread to her ears. No amount of fighting with the bard could ever snuff out the enjoyment of watching her squirm with a roused state when he stirred her with his coquettish disposition.

It was almost impious teasing her in this way. Taking advantage of the purity in her coy glances. Basking in the trophies of her rhythmic pulses—

CLANG!

Without due warning, she had managed to smoothly unsheath her blade and feint it agilely towards his pale chest. Had his senses not been attuned as they were, a gaping hole could possibly exist where the tip of her weapon now met the side of his dagger.

“Ah, there she is! I do so ever admire this gusto in you,” he growled, pushing his dagger back against her steel.

“Speaking of oversights: you should never leave your vitals open like this,” she pointed out.

Astarion darkly chuckled. “Are you going to teach me how to properly use my blade?”

Her eyes fluttered mischievously, presenting him with her best innocent smile. “Now, why would I need to do that? I think you’ve proven that you’re very proficient with your thrusts already.”

A double entendre? Oh, she certainly didn’t disappoint in placating his amusements.

Forcefully, he shoved her away, allowing him to flip backwards to gain better footing for their next attack.

“If you wanted to turn this spar into a contest of flirting, all you had to do was ask.”

Tav swished her rapier through the air several times before deciding on stocatta lunga stance. “But Astarion, what is sparring if not the ultimate form of flirting?”

Suddenly, she pushed off of her rear shank, providing momentum to her front leg for a direct thrust towards his belly. Quick. Unfettered. Elegant in her movement.

“Touché darling,” the spawn complimented, using both knives to knock the end of her blade off to the side.

Being on the receiving end of her blade, Astarion understood how complementary their light-weighted weapons were to one another. The rapier and the dagger. Enemies and lovers. One prolonging mercy; the other granting it immediately. Both capable of a piercing death.

They danced; they lanced their chests.

Blades aglow, hardened hearts.

Rites performed, faith unseen.

In the name of the steel, the hilt, and the devout thrusts.

Should have brought a short sword, he thought when she countered with a redoublement from a vertical angle. He parried the edge of the weapon, short-stepping out of the way with a balance on the ball of his right foot, narrowly missing contact.

He lifted a brow, marveling at her precision. Gods, she was good. Really good.

This was unlike scrapping around with Lae’zel. While the gith preceded her talent at swinging her sword at a decent speed, Astarion had been capable enough to get within her personal space to demonstrate an icepick thrust at several intervals. He could easily switch between offensive and defensive motions at no cost to his dexterous caliber.

But, he was not prepared for the agile footwork Tav worked to push and push and push him further out into the carpet of wheat stalks. His only ally would be to defend against her passes.

Time to switch tactics.

The vampire brought one of his weapons up in the air at a 45 degree angle, whilst holding the other pointing out towards her at chin level. He crossed one foot over the other, slowly circling around her.

“Tav,” he started in feigned concern, sweat runlets now rolling down his naked torso in a race to his defined abdominal muscles.

The bard retracted into a slip pose, disengaging enough to stall her blitz. “Yes?”

An opening.

Catching her off guard, he falsified an attack, causing her to lift her blade into a shielding position with an audible gasp.

Upon his shifting feet, like airy strides transitioning from one cumulus cloud to the other, Astarion emerged behind her. He wrapped a single arm around her hips into an impenetrable hold, during which the edge of a knife found casual repose at her silken throat.

The bard theatrically laughed, the muscles in her neck contracting against the cool metal. “Like the first time we met. How nostalgic of you.”

She was exceptionally cheeky today. Wordy. Taunting. As if it had instead been her that invited him to a soirée of abandoned gods. Leaving them isolated in a garden. Tempting their playful demons to unleash.

He squeezed her tighter, aligning her kindling rear into his narrow hips. Provoking lips found their way to gravelly reply near her lobe. “I’m a man that favors the classics, what can I say?”

Remaining stationary, her blade arm tarried vertically to her left flank. She carefully turned her head, almost nicking ivory flesh with the sharp temper of his dagger. The apple of her cheek brushed along the tip of his nose as she adjusted the angle of her neck. Part of her intense malcontent with him, evident in the light pink splotches on the top heap of her bosom like stamps of dainty animal paws.

Tav’s heated lips partially opened into a sultry cadence, muted eyes half-lidded. “Having fun?”

Having fun.

It was such a simple question that held more weight to him than she knew. He couldn’t recall a time when he was allowed to have fun at his own leisure. No commands. No conquests. No sex. Thrilling adrenaline reminding him vaguely of who he used to be: man, son, magistrate, human.

He thought back to the past couple of hours out in the rocky field. The rush of avoiding Lae’zel’s gluttonous pendulates with her longsword. Then, the rapt thrill of being kept constantly on his feet by Tav’s slender steel as they both seemed to perform a bourrée dance with their weapons quick successions.

Yes, he was thoroughly and genuinely having a good time.

Within these bounds, he inferred that this must be part of what it was like being treated as an equal. Actually, hadn’t that been true since he joined up with the group? And hadn’t that been largely because of Tav’s influence?

To think, she had initially been selected by him to be part of the key intended to eke together his body and soul back under his own control anew!

She had been the only figure to encourage everyone’s voice to be heard since the beginning. That their individual presence be required when making decisions—even over frivolous matters. Incessantly, she infuriated him and somehow with his knife now capriciously at her throat, he found himself feeling a bout of guilt.

Still, his aspirations to use whatever means necessary to cling to this unripened salvation and murder Baldur’s Gate only vampire lord, took precedence. No amount of regretful twinges rumbling in the occupied borderlands in the casket of his deadened organs—where unsettled thoughts frequently went to be repressed—over swaying her emotions for his personal benefit, would change his due course.

“It’s hard not to with you,” he teasingly whispered.

The undeath draft he exhaled into her skin, caused an invasive shiver down the architecture of her body. The engine behind her living ribs heated the stagnant liquid in its ventricles. Pumping, pumping, pumping to boil fervidly through cylindrical valves.

Astarion’s eyes flickered down to the effervescent aria humming through the sequences of her quivering neck veins. A savage groan balling in the pits of his diaphragm.

Oh, how he continued to crave her blood like an immature young man that had barely gotten his cock wet. Intoxicating murals painted the walls in his mind. Teeth: forming latticework along the untamed heaven across her skin. Rutting perversely into her as his fangs sank in, just so he could again taste forbidden sunlight on his tongue that only arose when she came.

He closed his lids, inhaling her scent deeply. Floral wood and fresh with perspiration. Lost in the boughs of his gluttonous predation. Drowning in memories of his stomach reeling and drunk with her life nectar.

“Hmm. Just like that minor ordeal when you refused to see reason with Gale’s Netherese orb. Were you having fun then?”

“Your loyalty to your convictions is astounding,” Astarion snidely snorted. He drew back the blade from the curve of her neck, only to nestle the point mischievously in the hollow of her throat. “Gale should have long been a blip on the horizon. The man’s more accident prone than a drunk patriar trying to compete in a ribbon pole dance.”

Tav sharply took in a breath, arching her back further into the brisk planes of his chest. “That may be, but he is a good man. Well-mannered and devoted to whatever he puts his mind to. He has been an asset to our team. If you all want to continue on without him, then you’ll have to do so without me as well.”

With newfound freedom to better move, she slanted her neck in such a way that he was able to visibly notice a single bead of sweat trailing down the stem of her head, disappearing underneath the collar of her shirt. “...and my blood,” she added.

Astarion swallowed thickly, his tongue tickling the roof of his mouth as he imagined worrying that sweat drop back up the length of her taut flesh, discovering readied blood vessels along the way.

His bruising fingertips slid from her hip to the thick strap of her leather belt, tracing to the front buckle at a slow pace. “Have you perchance developed a crush on our bumbling wizard? Fancy yourself being lost in the weave alongside him? How romantic.”

Rolling her eyes in frustration, she grumbled through pursed lips. “How silly of me to forget how I’ve longed to be in his arms since the first time he boiled a kettle of water! And being nothing but another tart to you, has finally made me realize who I truly should have bedded this entire time.”

Gods, was she ever bitter!

Though, he wondered if he could lasso back her tender affections for him that were still jutting out of her heart like shards of glass. Tie the finest thread around her body, intending to stitch the distance between them, knowing sometimes desire—her desires—can make people do things they professed to never repeat.

The Knight of Cups arrives reversed, A warning to heed actions that bind a curse. Hallelujah passes their lips as they sup, For only their cracked walls can fill the cup.

By the scent of her torrent arousal, Astarion decided to test the waters.

He placed the faintest touch of his lips upon the moderately faded bite marks inches below her ear lobe, eliciting a shallow catch of air in her mouth. “Oh? At least you haven’t forgotten that I did have you first,” he countered with a smokey pitch.

Elbow in the air, she reached around to the back of his head with her usable hand and lazily slid it through his curls resting peacefully at his nape. “You didn’t have all of me,” she rasped, with a gentle tug at his tendrils.

Finger pads coursed from her hip strap up to her underbust corset belt, examining the sewn edging that sat just below her bust. “Are you offering for me to take more of you, songbird?”

Tav melted in his arms, now firmly gripping the back of his neck to steady her cobbling legs. “I don’t know if we should…”

Astarion glided his digits under the curvature of her breasts, outlining the band of her bra through her shirt. “Shall I make the decision for you?”

“What about Lae’zel?”

Now which answer would she wish to hear, he questioned inwardly. Relying on his devil’s tongue to prolong her want for him through accustomed seduction, did have its advantages. However, telling the truth could give her instant reassurance and would be what she probably preferred.

Though the outcome was uncertain, he decided to drop his mask with her to demonstrate a rare moment of honesty.

“What about her? I told her my interests had only been held by one woman,” he breathed into the pointed shell of her ear. “And if I changed my mind for a more exotic taste, I would find her.”

Well, it was somewhat the truth. He just decided to forego the clause mentioning how he really felt about the bard.

Tav lifted her head to stare straight ahead. Unable to read her expression, Astarion surmised by the saliva clearing in her pharynx and the sudden warmth that shot down her back, he made the correct choice.

“And what about our duel? Giving up already?”

“It would seem I ran into a distraction,” the vampire cooed, reaching up to cup her chin gently, prodding her to keep her eyes forward.

The rapier dropped to the ground, landing with muffled thuds. She placed her hand directly on top of the one that had begun dragging the knife vertically down her sternum, gooseflesh raising to meet their creator.

Voice a rough timbre, he spoke in elvish. ”Kerradun salen seharan, evael’dil?”

”Astarion,” Tav panted out.

He trailed the dagger down a zealous pathway of her pale skin to the lacings of her shirt, slowly pulling the cord out of the first eyelets with the very tip. Kerradun hinual salen lahr?

Nehel thro sal kerradun nehel. Sen kar nehel kerradun?”

Another row of lacings were tugged out. ”Kerradun tel’quiet?”

”Hinual tel’quiet sen nehel kerradun,” she bid him quietly. Her gloved hand moved from his spindly fingers closed around the blade hilt, down to clasp his wrist. Thumb rubbing a lulling circle into the pellicle over his inner wrist veins.

Ignoring her inquiry, he peppered compelling dabs into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. The spawn told himself she didn’t want to know what he truly wanted. No, what she most likely wanted to hear was if he wanted her. If he would affix her name in blood to the inside of his mouth, so that whenever he stirred the cant of his tongue, a piece of her was there to contest his lips.

”Astarion. Neshanas…”

The dagger turned, flipping out the final bit of cording. With the edge, he gradually folded back the deep v-cut of her blouse, revealing an eyeful of cleavage nestled in her brassiere.

Almost there. A bit more divergence from her meandering grievances. A subtle lick. A feathered touch. Soon she would rip off her halo and pray for him to—

”Neshanas! Stop,” she cried out, pulling the weapon away from her and nudging him backwards with the force of her hips.

Astarion stumbled, a quick yowl from the rash jerk. He threw his blade straight into the ground, viewing her with dissatisfied red orbits. “Urgh. What’s wrong?”

“Stop pretending you don’t know,’ she angrily announced, pacing before him. “Gods, I really thought for a split moment that I had been wrong about asking us to quash our relations. I’m sorry, but this was a mistake.” The bard mitigated her route, turning to face him. “You don’t really want this—or me—and you haven’t since the beginning.”

“I never said that…”

“And that’s just it; you didn’t need to! A lack of a reply to someone’s worries, is a reply by its own volition,” Tav seethed like a mustang galloping through torrid climates. “I want to know what’s going on with you. Please.”

He stood up straight, flouncing his hand at her. “Darling, I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

Wasting no time, she paraded up to him, collar torn out of the way to show him the imprinted teeth marks fencing in her soul mark. Unwrapped and on display.

“Fine. Out of all the places you could have chosen, why did you choose to bite me there?”

Astarion tried to sheepishly look away. “Don’t—“

She softened her penetrating gaze. “What was going through your head at the time? You can talk about this with me. I want to listen—“

Acknowledging the wound, meant acknowledging the hold Cazador still had over him. Recollections surfacing of shaking bones as his tongue licked the floor for leftover rat’s blood. The weakness that no compassionate word could help him fight.

“I said DON’T,” he harshly interjected, blurred movements firmly gripping her wrists and pinning them to the small of her back.

The woman conceded to him without so much as a lone jolt of fear. Her dutiful blue eyes searched his own, picking out the shifting red shades his emotions relayed. A fabled story she sifted through to understand the narrative of his tragic life.

“If you’re unwilling to answer, then until you—we—figure this out, I think it’s best you don’t feed from me in private anymore,” she calmly decided.

The truth nipped at his tongue like frostbite. He felt like he was being choked, detached from airflow. To acknowledge the living manifesto of his master he still carried within each nerve ending in his brain.

And Tav: his soulmate; his victim. All unbeknownst to her. The one whose light he didn’t want bleeding all over his darkness.

“You mean to put on a show in front of the whole camp? I’d prefer it if we continued to use a more secluded place,” Astarion disputed.

“Let me repeat myself: I said we shouldn’t do it in private anymore.”

He narrowed his eyes at her skeptically. “So, you don’t believe in my honor anymore?”

“It isn’t that. I don’t feel comfortable in case…something happens again,” Tav remarked, viewing him cautiously. “I do trust you are not trying to intentionally harm me, but Astarion, your episodes are powerful enough to where you currently lack control over them.”

“You can’t be serious,” he agitatedly huffed.

Listless breaths filled her lungs, then released ghostly currents that fanned along the framework of his pectorals. Her persistence in setting a boundary, could capture the tide of any moon.

“Okay, so you are serious. Why do you insist on playing dumb? You already know why,” he whispered when she didn’t respond.

And she did know. Though he would not deny the sexual lust that attached itself to the act, the intimacy shared in private when he drank from her, made her poor heart nearly bleed out. He could hear each sacred ode humming to him as he held in his arms to indulge his ache. It was an experience Astarion did not share with anyone else. Tav had been chosen solely alone to feed him: the only person his fangs were not used as a weapon on.

She squared her shoulders, raising her head confidently. “I just want both of us to be safe. I know what events like that can do to a person. What it’s like to go through trauma. What it’s like to experience the aftermath of it all. We don’t get a choice in that regard.”

Blinks corroded his surveillance of her. He released his hold, allowing her to roll her wrists around to soothe the stiffness.

“Come now, you’ve never been through hardships like I have. How would you know?” He openly mocked, avoiding eye contact.

“What makes you think that?”

“Look at you! Had you experienced even a fraction of horror, there is no way you’d still be able to carry on with this big heart of yours,” Astarion exclaimed. “Your kindness would have dulled and expired.”

The bard scrunched her brows. A breeze cascaded her bangs to the side of her forehead, unveiling a hallmark glare that he thought resembled subdued ire.

“We’ve only slept together twice. Do not presume to know me,” Tav murmured.

The vampire watched as she crossed her arms defiantly.

“I don’t know everything there is to know about you, no, but I have learned enough,” he tried to establish, combing fingers through his long white strands.

Poking deeper into their already opened contusions, she extended her advancement to gain clarity. “What does ‘enough’ mean, ‘Starion? Tell me something about myself that you’ve learned—by interest alone. I’ll even take feigned interest at this point.”

Sighing, he pinched the skin between his brows. “I’m not going to continue fighting with you, Tavelle.”

“You can’t even answer, can you?” She challenged. Lip bitten. Gape unwavering.

Astarion seized the length of her jaw, thumb landing on her bottom vermillion, parting the bow of her lips.

“Alright, let me paint a picture for you: When have you ever offered up something about yourself to me that digs under that reticent surface you want everyone else to see? A part of you that’s viscerally raw,” he gruffly asserted.“I’ve told you about my past, the vile acts Cazador inflicted on me, and while I haven’t divulged everything, I haven’t shied away from them either.”

Hoisting her face up towards him, he leaned down, mouth inches from hers. “Nothing is holding you hostage except yourself, Tav.”

Her heartbeat paused. And then he heard it beat again.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Notes:

Here is a rough outline of the elvish dialogue Astarion and Tav were saying to one another.

Astarion: ”Kerradun salen seharan, evael’dil?” = Do you miss/want my touch, lover?

Astarion: “Kerradun hinual salen lahr? = Do you miss/want to sing my name?”

Tav: “Nehel thro sal kerradun nehel. Sen kar nehel kerradun?” = You know I miss you. What do you want?

Astarion: ”Kerradun tel’quiet?” = Do you want me?

Tav: ”Hinual tel’quiet sen nehel kerradun.” = Tell me what you want.

Tav: Neshanas. = Stop

[husk-not-whiskers]

“Tonight’s gonna be different”

♥️♠️♦️♣️ 🂱 ╰ ─┉─¡! • !¡─┉─ ╯ 🂱 ♣️♦️♠️♥️

Husk nervously went through every suit he boxed up. None of them fit quite right and he couldn’t tell what color they were. Yes, most of his suits were black or grey with orange or yellow accents but he couldn’t tell. When he managed to bring his things over to the hotel he hadn’t had time to mark them.

“Fuuuck” the cat mumbled to himself, “how am I s’posta find somethin’ ta wear?” He dragged his paws across his face, letting them sit over his eyes for a few seconds.

It had been ages since Husk went on a date… wait… had he even dated after he died? How long had it been? Pushing the thought out his mind he returned to the suits.

“I could ask Charlie…?” After thinking about for more than a few seconds he came to the conclusion that Charlie would have a stroke if he asked her for… romantic advice, or any kind of help frankly. And it’s not like he wanted anyone else in the hotel to know he was going on a date with Angel Dust. I mean.. he could always ask the man himself. Even if Angel had more of feminine style, he definitely knew how to dress. If Husk was going to be out in public, which he was, he wanted to look good.

He paced around in his room thinking it over and over. “Angel probably has some kinda fuckn 5 hour long routine if I go and ask em’ for help, he’ll probably fuckn’… fuck somthn’ up” Husk wanted to bash his head against the wall.

“I’ll just wear a wear a fuckn blouse an’ a vest.”

╾┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╼

Husk wore a white blouse with a waterfall ruffles across the front. The sleeves went out and were a silky texture, if not for the cuffs at the end they could’ve easily drooped to the bottom of his wings. On top of that he had black double breasted vest with three orange buttons and other orange accents across the fabric. It was a slight hint, as if a single spool of an orange was cautiously woven across the very surface. At a glance you wouldn’t notice, but if you were close enough it was something you had to admire. Matching the pockets and buttons his bow tie was also a vibrant orange. (Atleast Husk hoped they were, they looked more like a grayish yellow to him) He finished the outfit with solid black dress pants. His belt was also black, save for the golden clubs and spades across the belt. Husk wasn’t sure if they were actually made out of real gold or not, but they looked nice. Finally he popped on a golden heart and a golden diamond cufflink on his sleeves.

He walked over to the mirror in his room. It was small and cracked. He hadn’t really cared to well… take care of his space or himself. He inspected himself, not a hair was out of place. And he needed it to stay that way. He grabbed a bottle of cologne out from one of his various boxes scattered across his room. Holding his breath he sprayed it on his chest, inner arms and wrists. The smell was strong to him. It overwhelmed his sense of smell, it didn’t matter though. He needed to be on top tonight.

With one final twist and shake he brushed off his nerves and started walking towards Angel’s room

╾┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╼

Walking to Angel’s room was strange, it’s not like he hadn’t been there before but this time was different.

Husk felt a lot of the same feelings he did when walked to Alastor for help…however it wasn’t complete and utter fear. He was scared no doubt, but there was a touch of joy underneath. Whimsy? No. But there was definitely an excitement to the anxiety.

His heart raced as he prepared to knock on the spider’s door. “One two three four, one two three four…” he mumbled, remembering one of Charlie’s previous exercises. Something about counting to calm you down? He had brushed it off before but it worked surprisingly well.

*knock knock*

With a slight hesitation he said, “Hey Legs, I’m ready whenever you are”

// @angeldust-real

Sorry for making this so long oml I just had to English this. I think it’s like 700 words???

[wing-ed-thing]

Magpie (Kakuzu x Reader)

Synopsis: Originally sent to assassinate you for hunting down low-level Akatsuki sympathizers, Kakuzu finds that you and him have much more in common than he would have thought.

Word Count: 1.3k

Tags/Warnings: LoanShark!Reader, Canon-Typical Violence, No Reader Pronouns, Laughably Fake Finance Talk

Notes: These two panels are really funny out of context.

Just because Kakuzu liked money doesn’t mean he liked to be showy about it.

But you…

You sat among your riches, draped in expensive silks. The room almost made Kakuzu scoff, with the surrounding clutter of treasures almost matching the ornaments that littered your body. Intricately embroidered patterns were adorned with precious jewels that swooped from shiny chains. You decorated yourself like a shrine to a famed deity and sat among your wealth like the royalty of old.

It was a waste, Kakuzu thought. The artifacts weren’t even sold for ryō, not to mention you kept everything in one place. He stood on a mountain of gold coins, one booted foot propped up onto the incline. 

“I’ve been sent to kill you,” he said curtly. You frowned, studying him up and down, your cheek resting elegantly against your knuckles. 

“So I’ve been told.” You leaned forward, plucking a large, bound book from next to your ornate chair. Kakuzu watched silently as you flipped through the wide pages of handwritten lines. “Thirteen-thousand, forty-one-thousand, sixty-eight-thousand, ninety-five-thousand, your men owe me over one-hundred-ten-thousand ryō, and your leader sends an assassin rather than payment for my gracious loan?”

You let the heavy book slap closed, the sound sharper than it should have been for a book. 

“You’re pitiful magpie, aren’t you?” Kakuzu stepped up the amassment of treasure, sliding as the precious metals shuffled downward. “If you had allowed time for repayment rather than slaughtering mere ants and thrusting an accumulated debt onto the organization, perhaps I wouldn’t be standing here.” He took another step with a dangerous dip of his head. “The organization hadn’t been pleased that a loan shark has been snatching our boots on the ground. When I’m finished, I will be taking your collection and the price on your head to make up for it.”

Kakuzu lunged at you, launching his thread-like tendrils from his hand. You stood instantly, intercepting and spooling the dark threads around an encrusted scepter. You held it under your arm, one hand on the far end to leverage it. 

“My money, huh?” you spat with a crinkled nose. “A bounty hunter. Of course, they would send a bottom feeder like you.” 

“Says the loan shark.”

“But you know what, bounty hunter?” You released the scepter, allowing the broken tension to send Kakuzu sliding a meter down the mountain of gold, his boot sinking up to his calf into the coins. You were on him faster than he could blink. Kakuzu recoiled as a long slit opened on his cheek right under his eye. Your gaze darkened with raging fury. “You’re not going to touch a single ryō of my money!”

You charged at him with a qiang spear, twirling the weapon's length over your wrist to counter Kakuzu’s attack. And then you struck with a strength disproportionate to your physique. Over and over, you lunged at him with your spear, and Kakuzu suddenly found himself on the offense.

He slipped again on the pile, and you took advantage of his vulnerability. You moved to strike him directly in the chest, but he dropped to his knees to slide to the bottom of the treasure, raking his fingers through your riches as he went.

You scowled down at him, legs bent to steady yourself from where you stood on the high ground. Kakuzu rose, a few coins cascading from his fingers. He huffed with a noticeable rise and lowering of his shoulders.

“What a waste,” he muttered as they clattered to the ground. “You don’t even deserve what you have.” Kakuzu barely had time to speak. You kicked over a nearby mirror, using it to skate down the amalgamation of gold with increasing velocity.

You were engaged again, slashing at him only to be blocked. You maneuvered around each other, exchanging blows and looking for an opening. Kakuzu drew a kunai, tendrils weaving around your spear to land a shallow slash across your stomach. You recoiled, stumbling back to land against the riches behind you.

Kakuzu observed you as you stood, using your spear to bring yourself to your feet. 

“You shouldn’t be so careless when it comes to a resource as precious as money,” he lectured, looking on in disdain as a few drops of blood trickled down onto the gold. “You’re lucky that you haven’t been robbed blind before. But don’t worry—” Kakuzu’s skin broke apart to reveal the raving sea of black threads that wriggled within his limbs. —“I will take very good care of your fortune, pitiful magpie.” 

Kakuzu rushed you, and you quickly assumed the defensive, straining against the force laid on your spear as you fought him off with unceasing fury.

“You think this is all I have? Don’t make me laugh!” Your voice strained as you fought to push forward. “As if the real good stuff wouldn’t be in a 108-Keikaku!” You slashed forward but only met air. Kakuzu had recoiled with a conflicted glint in his eye.

“You have a 108-Keikaku?” His brows knitted together, confused. You shrugged almost sheepishly, spear still in hand, and pointed toward the ceiling.

“I thought I’d be in trouble if I didn’t have one. I can’t say it’s my finest investment, but it’s far more practical than the—”

— “Tsurugi Plan,” you said in unison. Kakuzu nodded, almost adamantly. His limbs had reverted to their normal appearance. You matched his furrowed brow as your head jerked skeptically to the side.  

“You invest?” 

Kakuzu scoffed as if you should’ve known better than to ask. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Of course I do,” he said as if it were obvious. “I wouldn’t have expected a lowly loan shark to have a 108-Keikaku.” You rolled your eyes, now holding your spear away as you leaned on your back leg. 

“I prefer to invest in small businesses.”

“Small businesses, please.” Kakuzu shifted where he stood in disbelief, and another shake of his head. “Hardly practical for someone in your line of work.” At this point, Kakuzu had sat down, and you had nearly set down your weapon altogether. 

“Side hobby, I guess. To sate the restlessness,” you said with a semblance of a laugh, almost in thought. “We used to have a different culture before the Five Nation Treaty and shinobi work—”

“It’s truly a dying art form, isn’t it?” 

You plopped down on the floor with crossed legs, flinching as the movement irritated your wound. Your spear clattered down in front of you as you hummed to yourself. Kakuzu kicked his boots up on a small chest, intertwined fingers resting on his lap. 

“What’s a bounty hunter doing with a terrorist organization?” 

“The Akatsuki allow for quite the moneymaking opportunities.” 

“Is that so?” You glanced around the room, taking a moment to ponder to yourself before you stood, settling your gaze back on Kakuzu. “Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll double it.” Kakuzu barked out a laugh. His boots kicked over the chest in front of him and his soles settled into the coins on the ground below.

“Oh really?” He leaned forward with eyes narrowed in intrigue. 

“You can go on any collection that you’d like and take a cut. I won’t interfere or collect on any bounties you pursue in your spare time.” You moved forward, meeting his stare as you dared to approach him. Kakuzu cocked his head.

“What cut?”

“Eighty-twenty.”

“Ha!” He barked again, the laugh making his chest jump. “I hope you’re the one taking the twenty percent.” You stopped in front of him with a scowl.

“I hope you’re not expecting fifty-fifty on my collections?” Kakuzu admired the dip of your lip. Yes, you were serious about money. “I’ll pay you double. Outside of collections, you may do as you please. You’ll get twenty-five. It’s more than generous.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Thirty.”

“Deal.”

Kakuzu stood with a start and your two palms came together with a firm clap. 

“You have a firm shake,” Kakuzu commented.

“Anything less is an insult to my partners,” you said, and Kakuzu fell in love instantly.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: There's a reason I rebloged the "just according to Keikaku" meme earlier this week. I was thinking to myself, "what's a fake finance plan" and I knew immediately what needed to be done.

For any fans of Mob Wife, while not "canon" haha I'd like to think that this is how Kakuzu and Mob Wife met. I think it's funny to consider how easily recruited so many of the Akatsuki members were haha

[whumpwillow]

Demon's Haven 14

💥Flashback chapter💥

he isn't the most powerful demon, he just likes to think he is (or he did...)

—  

masterlist

warnings: blood, torture, past whipping, partial nudity (he's just not wearing a shirt), weird thoughts on purity and sin that isn't specifically mentioned as religion but pretty close, light gore (not described much), clawing at own throat, scratching

—

The angel came back.

Envy had spent an uncomfortable amount of time in these blasted chains, which left his arms without feeling from the position he found himself trapped in. The holy water used to clean his wounds had dried, but the sting hadn’t dissipated. Like the aftereffects of eating overly spicy food, it lingered on after the original offender was gone. He’d suffered through what he thought must have been a day and a night before the angel returned, brightly burning in her righteousness.

Maybe if he begged her to wash the holy water off, she’d listen. He was disgusted with himself for the thought.

The angel stepped inside the cell with the same damned crystal bowl as yesterday, or the day before, or whenever his last torture session had been. It irked him not to be able to tell the time, but he knew he had more pressing concerns.

“I’m still clean,” he said by way of greeting. “Didn’t get up to any trouble, don’t need a bath.”

He waggled his eyebrows in a way that he hoped was condescending. The smile he plastered on his face was a forced effort; he didn’t want the angel to catch how scared he was. Knowing the bite of holy water on his skin and in his open wounds did nothing to diminish his fear of it. If anything, it made it worse. He clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking and rattling the chains.

“This is for that mouth of yours,” the angel intoned.

She didn’t look at him, only set down the bowl on a small wooden table that looked to be not a table at all but a giant wooden spool turned on its side. It came up to her hips. She set a white cloth into the water and pressed down, letting it soak up what would surely be Envy’s future pain.

He tried again. “I’m sure I can think of better uses for it, if you give me a chance.”

His voice shook a little on the delivery and he cursed himself for it. The angel wrung out her pristine cloth and Envy watched every single drop of water that came from it fall back into bowl, sending ripples across the surface.

“I need to fix that attitude of yours. Then you be made pure.”

The angel spoke with perfectly even intonation, not a drop of cadence out of place or showing any emotion at all. She strode over to him and stood directly in front this time, rather than moving behind him where the lashes where. At least he wouldn’t be going through that again, though he was sure whatever else she had planned for him was equally as terrible. He hated the anticipation. The unknowing.

Envy tried a different tactic, seeing his options wearing thin and time running out. Water dripped from in between the angels slim fingers. It mixed with his blood on the floor.

“Listen here you little bitch, when I get out of here, I’m going to rip you to fucking shreds. You hear me? I’m the most powerful demon there is, I could compel you to—”

The angel slapped the cloth to his neck. It was so sudden that it cut off the entire tirade he’d constructed in his head and all he could manage was a weak gurgle as the holy water ate through the fragile skin at his throat. He gasped, and the motion alone was enough to bring tears to his eyes. No. He would not cry again. No.

The angel wrapped the cloth around his neck and smoothed it out, then stepped away to admire her work.

“Hck—”

Envy opened his mouth, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t even scream. The holy water ate through the skin at his throat and into the tissue and muscle. He didn’t know where the water started and where the blood began, where he started and where the pain ended. The pain never ended. Tears streamed down his face, and those, at least, washed some of it away.

It burned it burned it burned.

“Ple—ack—ples!” he yelled, coughing in the middle.

The angel watched him impassively. Envy thrashed in his chains, trying in vain to move his arms down to rip the offending cloth off his skin and only succeeding in bloodying them more than he already had.

After what seemed like an eternity, the angel made a satisfied “hm” and took him down from the chains. Envy fell to the ground in a pathetic heap, his limbs not strong enough to support him under the weight of his pain. He wrenched the cloth from his throat and lunged, a feral gleam in his eyes.

He was free he could kill her he could compel her—

The angel kicked him in the face, one shiny shoe connecting with his nose and Envy was back on the floor. A sickening crack reverberated through his skull and lights flashed in the darkness behind his eyes, bright and twinkling like stars. He cried out and raised his hands to his nose. Blood already began to seep from in between them.

The angel put a foot on his chest to keep him down, and he would have been indignant about it if he weren’t so fixated on the bowl in her hands. She poured the remaining holy water over his exposed throat and he screamed. He bucked under her hold, his back arching fruitlessly under her heel, but the angel stayed in place regardless of his efforts. Envy’s hands went from his face to his neck. Fingers scratching, tearing, clawing desperately at the skin to try and remove the source of the pain but there was none he could grasp.

He made a loud keening sound like that of a dying animal, half-gurgle and half scream. Fog filled his vision while a wretched smell invaded his nostrils. He realized it was him—the smell and smoke of his flesh being burned away. He rolled on the ground, ripping up the wounds on his back, grasping at his damaged throat.

He didn’t even realize the angel had already left. When he finally did, he spat weakly on the floor, wishing that it was enough to say he still had the upper hand. He knew that he’d never had it to begin with.

—

next

(taglist in reblogs)

[quins-whump-stuff]

Embroidery

CW: Noncon body mods, restraints, mouth whump, creepy whumper

"You'll be better," Whumper said softly as they strapped Whumpee down. Whumpee could barely struggle, limbs heavy with exhaustion, but they still tried. "You'll look prettier and be so much quieter."

Whumpee's ankles and wrists were strapped firmly to the table with soft but tight leather. They knew that their fighting and pleas were worse than useless now, but they couldn't help it. "Nonononono! Please! Don't do this! I can be quiet! I'll be quiet. Don't, please, I promise I-"

"If that were true, you'd be quiet right now," Whumper said quietly, as though they were disappointed. It didn't matter. Whumpee couldn't help but beg for mercy, even as their cries cemented their fate all the more.

Whumper was still securing Whumpee in place. Metal clamped around their ears and pulled painfully. More straps tightened against their throat and forehead. By the time Whumper stepped away, Whumpee couldn't so much as turn their head.

A few moments later, a sharp, bright light flicked on, and Whumper began holding different spools of thread to Whumpee's face. No, not thread, wire. Wire almost as fine as a human hair, made of gold and silver and coppery materials. Eventually, Whumper chose a soft rose gold colored wire.

Then the terrible work began. Whumper started at the outer corner of Whumpee's eyebrow, painstakingly embroidering a single stitch at a time. Despite the small size of the needle, the pain was immense. Every few stitches, Whumper would pause to wipe away the blood with a cold, damp cloth that stung almost as much as the needle.

"Don't furrow your brow like that," Whumper said, mildly displeased, "you'll rip the stitches back out and I'll have to start all over." They didn't say it like a threat.

Whumpee was still begging for it to stop, but Whumper ignored their pleas entirely. Eventually Whumpee gave up on words, but couldn't be quiet through the pain. When Whumper reached the end of the opposite eyebrow, Whumpee could barely think. "That was the easiest part," Whumper tutted.

Whumpee felt a slight but excruciating tug at their brow as Whumper tied the wire off. Whumpee's respite was brief. If they had thought their suffering thus far was bad, they had no words for what came next.

Unlike their eyebrows, Whumper went all the way through for the lips. The needle poked through their lip, and Whumpee couldn't help but scream in agony, which tore at the hole that had just been made. The needle would tear against their lip and scrape against their teeth. Then the wire was dragged all the way through, and Whumpee pushed the needle through the other lip. Then came the stinging cloth to wipe away the blood, and it started all over again. Over and over and over, until Whumpee could no longer open their mouth at all, their screams muffled by their own flesh.

[dinitride-art]

Mike and Will - Relationship Analysis (How they talk to each other)

There’s something about the way Mike and Will talk to each other. Sure, we can say that Mike has a ‘Will voice’ and while he does, Mike’s ‘Will voice’ is a spool of thread used in a very complex tapestry that shows Mike and Will’s relationship. Mike speaks softly to Will, unlike how he speaks to most people. His tone changes from witty and defensive, to kind and vulnerable. There is more than care and love in his voice; there is an equal partnership. Mike is giving Will a safe person, but he’s also trusting Will to be safe as well. The voice Mike has for Will tells us a lot about their relationship. It displays the vulnerability, care and trust in their relationship.

But there’s so much more.

Mike and Will get mad at each other. They do. In ways they never would with anyone else. When they fight it can’t be easily resolved. It’s not the same as Lucas not trusting El, or Max becoming a member of the party, or El lying to Mike in California. It’s Mike and Will, and they’re a partnership. When Max and Mike were at odds about whether or not they should be friends, they were on two distinctly different sides. They argued independently from the other person. Mike and Max’s arguments were not affected by their relationship to each other.

Lucas and Mike do have a strong relationship, and when they fought it was still different than Mike and Will. There was still a separation between Mike’s argument in favour of El, and Lucas’ argument against her. They got mad at each other. Lucas left Dustin, El, and Mike for a bit. It was a very different situation than Max and Mike, who didn’t know each other very well. Still, it’s set apart from Mike and Will.

Mike and Will fight with vulnerability. It’s deeply ingrained into their relationship, and unlike with Lucas or Max, Mike can’t defend himself without his words holding weight as they drop- and neither can Will.

Will argues far more subtly than Mike does-unless he’s arguing with Mike. When Will and Jonathan talk about being a freak is a good thing, Will is arguing with him. He’s not yelling, but he does take up a defensive position. He asks Jonathan, “is that why you don’t have any friends?” as a way of pushing back. Similarly, with El at the airport, he asks, “friends? What friends?” They’re arguing about El lying to Mike. However, Will lying to Mike is very different than El lying to Mike, because of the trust in their relationship. Mike doesn’t get angry at El for lying to him like Will thought he would. He talks to her, and then he gets defensive- like he did with Max and Lucas- about the letters. They have two different sides that don’t affect each other’s positions as they’re arguing.

Mike and Will constantly affect each other’s arguments.

When Max joins them trick or treating, Mike asks Will about it. They aren’t fighting really, they’re having a somewhat accusatory conversation. Mike says, “you should have checked with me first”because they’re a partnership. They are conscious of the fact that their decisions affect one another. They’re arguing because there was a lapse in communication. But Will doesn’t do what Max would do, or what Lucas would, or what El would. He says, “[I didn’t think it would’ve mattered]” and by saying it like that, he gives Mike permission to continue this conversation as a discussion. Will didn’t think that it mattered, and that’s exactly what he told Mike. Will didn’t think that this decision affected Mike, and Mike is telling him that it is. And Will is letting him talk.

Their arguments are not two novels they’re reading from. It’s a single notebook with two pens. They’re not arguing for the sake of arguing- they’re trying to find a solution.

The rain fight still operates within those bounds. While it’s far more charged, and has more damning implications- from both sides- they’re still writing on the same page.

Unlike Will and Jonathan talking about being freaks, or Lucas and Mike fighting about El, the rain fight doesn’t have two conflicting positions on an issue. It has a problem that needs to be fixed, with no clear stance stated from Mike or Will. The conflict has to do with Mike pushing Will and the things he has been told he can’t like anymore away, and Will resisting that. Another added layer is that Mike is dating El, and consistently has been choosing her over the rest of his friends. Including Will. Mike and Will are closer than the rest of their friends. For Mike to put someone above Will, is a threat to the trust in their relationship. It’s why Mike was angry that Will didn’t tell him about Max. And it’s why Will is angry that Mike is choosing El over him.

Statements and questions have different meanings. When Mike states, “it’s not my fault you don’t like girls” there is no room for discussion. He’s defending himself, like Will does with Jonathan and El- latching onto them not having friends. This is not normal for them. Will’s shock and Mike’s immediate regret tells us that. Which is why Mike follows it up with a question, “did you think that we’d never get girlfriends?… for the rest of our lives?” He’s putting them back into discussion mode. But Will ignores it. He says, “yeah. I guess I really did” and leaves. Mike says, “you can’t leave it’s raining” because this isn’t how they talk about things.

But it is how they talk about things when they’re not being honest with each other.

This fight is still distinctly Mike and Will. When Mike tells Max, “because you're annoying” there isn’t the same regret that there is when he hurts Will. It’s different because Mike and Will have different expectations for each other. Will isn’t Max, the new person who’s trying to be in the party who Mike doesn’t trust. Will is the person Mike trusts the most. The reason they’re fighting in the first place is because Mike’s been pulling away from Will and putting the importance of their relationship into question.

But that’s not an option for either of them.

There’s too much vulnerability in their relationship to disregard it in any way. It’s why they fight the way they do. They don’t want to hurt each other. It’s not allowed. Hurting each other would mean a fracture in their trust, which would mean the possibility of losing each other, which means they lose a very important relationship. Neither of them can afford to lose that relationship.

They need each other because what they’ve decided on isn’t just a friendship. It’s an equal partnership between two people, built to sustain trust and emotional vulnerability.

After six months of little to no communication, Mike and Will’s relationship is very strained. It doesn’t help that they’re both keeping things from each other and they know it. At Rink O’ Mania Will is the one to ask, “[is that why you’re mad, because I didn’t talk to you?]” and he’s letting the fight turn into a discussion. Mike brushes him off and walks away. And he doesn’t talk to Will for a lot of the next day- or at least doesn’t talk to him at all at breakfast.

Instead, Mike talks to El. And they fight. They fight in the way that they are throwing statements and accusations around without leaving room for explanations. There isn’t a discussion happening. Mike attempts to start one, but El is the one to brush him off, and everything falls apart. Mike and El don’t fight like Mike and Will. They don’t have the same stakes.

Which is why Mike apologizes to Will the way he does. It’s honest, and vulnerable, and Mike is giving Will what he refused to at Rink O’ Mania. Will wanted to talk, and Mike walked away. Now Mike is answering Will’s questions, and reassuring both of them of the stability of their relationship. Those reassurances continue on from that point. They’re vague. Will says, “but what if they don’t like the truth” to Mike and they’re on the same page. But more so than that, this conversation was reassuring the presence of emotional vulnerability within their relationship- building back the trust they have in each other.

In the van scene, Mike reaches out to Will. He’s trusting him with his thoughts and emotions, and Will answers him exactly how he needs to. Mike’s admitting that his relationship with El is unbalanced, and Will is telling him why. What Mike wants to have with El, he already has with Will. Mike and Will’s relationship is inreplicable. So the way that Will answers Mike, under the guise of El, is answering to not only Mike, but to the reality of Mike and El’s relationship.

Mike and Will talk to each other differently than they talk to anyone else, or fight with anyone else, or reach out to anyone else- because their relationship is different than any other relationship they have.

The Will voice exists because Mike and Will’s relationship exists in a constant state of vulnerability and trust. They are gentle with each other because they need to be.

If they aren’t, they’ll lose a lot more than a friendship. They’ll lose each other. And who they have decided they are to each other is a team. Co-leaders of the party. They’re partners. They need each other because that’s how they’ve built their relationship.

They chose who they are to each other. And they continue to chose it. Mike started with asking Will to be his friend. Will said yes. With every discussion and apology and vulnerable moment, they are choosing each other.

Losing each other isn’t an option anymore. They haven’t allowed it to be one. Mike lost Will once in the quarry, twice upon being possessed, and the third time when he moved to California. Will lost Mike when El arrived at the Snow Ball, and when Mike and El started dating, and when the Byers left everything behind. When all that happened, Mike and Will started to crumble. Troy told Mike to jump off a cliff and he did, Will destroyed Castle Byers, Mike broke when Will was possessed and could’ve died.

Mike and Will both weren’t doing well after the Byers and El moved. Mike told Will that, “Hawkins, it’s not the same without you.”

They didn’t build their relationship to break. Or to become less meaningful over time. Or to stop being exactly what it is.

They built it to last for the rest of their lives.

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [18] chapter iv, part ii

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : astrid starts to get to work, right under shield’s watchful gaze.

recommended listening : supermassive nation army

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His tone was quick and low and urgent, but unpanicked, controlled.

Relief screamed through her, and for a brief second, Astrid felt every hour of lost sleep over the past week.

"A set of precision tools," she said softly, snapping herself back into focus. "Micro wire cutters, forceps, fine-tipped welding wands. A spool of one-point-two millimetre copper wire. Six minutes to work. And the spare parts that I included in the manufacture list but didn't include anywhere in the blueprints."

"Knew it," Stark muttered, striding briskly away to collect the implements.

The shock of a smile broke across her face before she could think. Astrid hastily diffused it, its warmth lingering.

"Again, I apologise. I- did wonder if you would rewire the entire design out of sheer frustration-"

"The big guy vetoed me," Tony groused. "You know, I told you that configuration made no sense-"

"And I said that there was probably a good reason for it, and we could address the issue during quality control," Banner replied, quietly exasperated.

The mechanic versus the biologist, Astrid mused, observing their exchange from the sidelines, pulling her lower lip into her mouth. The two were complimentary contrasts, burgeoning camaraderie forming between them like precipitate in a test tube.

"And look at that," Stark rejoined as he returned to the bench, handing a small toolkit to Astrid and almost absently setting up the precision welding gear for her. Oddly touched by the gesture, Astrid dipped her head to hide a smile, setting the kit down and shuffling the device back by its cradle, giving herself space to lean in against the table to work. "We were both right. The design was convoluted hot garbage, and there was a good reason."

"Tony-"

Astrid would have been offended by the assessment, if convoluted hot garbage hadn't been the distillation of her intentions. It was better to seem incompetent than wilfully deceptive, and Astrid's engineering skills were limited to begin with.

"A partial truth is often as good as a lie," she commented simply, snapping open the toolkit with a single hand and a flick of her fingers. "Especially if it is presumed to be the whole."

"And is that how you operate?" Banner asked. The question was a placidly-framed provocation, but less accusatory than Astrid had expected. Instead, he sounded more curious, and cautious.

Regardless, Astrid felt herself harden as she plucked a set of forceps from the kit, twisting them over into the light, examining the width of their delicate-tipped grip.

"I can't lie, so that means I'm obliged to vomit out every truth I perceive?" She asked blandly, bare as a wash of predawn light. "Imagine never being able to lie. Imagine your mind being regarded as public property, your thoughts to be dispensed on demand, with the turn of a crank. Your secrets do not belong to you, they are not yours to keep. You cannot lie. Your silence is interpreted as guilt. Your only defence is to tell the truth, and be clever with it. Like shining a light directly into someone's eyes."

Banner's expression flinched into tension, reluctantly sympathetic.

Astrid wanted to tell him not to bother with the sentiment. She had no use for it.

Threading her thumbs through the handle of the forceps, taking up the wire cutters in her other hand, Astrid leaned onto the bench on her elbows, eyes level with the wiring, and began snipping.

"Up to temp," Stark said quietly, setting one of the welding wands down in its cradle with a gentle tink of metal upon metal. "The hardware is pretty delicate, you sure you can freehand it?"

Astrid smiled wryly.

"Relax," she said, amused, flipping her wrist over to drop a splinter of copper wire onto the bench. "I have steady hands."

Stark abruptly turned eerily silent, as though something that she had said had struck a nerve.

Astrid couldn't begin to guess what it was. For a moment, she was afraid she had made a horrible misstep.

He leaned against the bench beside her, not quite unobtrusive.

"You seriously didn't want this tech in SHIELD's hands," he observed in a murmur.

Leveraging the wire cutters under a seam, Astrid pried up one of the decoy components. "Hmn."

"And what if they find out?"

"Oh, they will." The component popped out of its setting, clattering away, and Astrid picked up its replacement, snapping it into the vacated recess. "They're not stupid. And that is what makes them so infuriating. But they only have one card to play against me, and it's too valuable to waste on a reprimand."

"How many cards do you have to waste?"

Astrid smiled bitterly, unspooling a length of copper wire.

"Not that many, honestly. But truth never tires, at least."

Stark made a soft noise of acknowledgement, and shifted.

The gesture should have been casual, unthinking.

It wasn't.

When Astrid's gaze cut across to gage why, she realised that Stark was blocking the view of one of the surveillance cameras. The plane of his back was obscuring her hands- and the device- from its capture.

She felt Stark meet Banner's gaze over the top of her head.

Banner glanced over his shoulder, and- with less natural subtlety- leaned his hip against the table, mirroring Stark and blocking in her other side, shielding her from a second camera.

Astrid lifted her eyes, scanning this new configuration.

Between the two scientists flanking her, the angle of the device, and the screen of her own hands, none of the cameras in the laboratory had a clear view of the alterations she was making.

She released a deep sigh, letting her shoulders drop slightly.

Setting the precision tools back to the wires, Astrid hummed a soft refrain in the back of her throat- you, you set my soul alight- glaciers melting in the dead of night, and superstars sucked into the supermassive- hoping that neither of them would notice the slight golden glow emanating from the tips of her fingers, sinking into and reflecting off the dull metal.

-

Thirteen minutes. Not bad.

Astrid alighted from the laboratory with a pleasant ache in her fingers, muscles and ligaments flexed and tensed in finely-tuned concert. It had been too long since she had performed such delicate work. It left her with a nostalgic pang of longing for the crispness of sterile theatre blues and the smell of fresh latex and opened living flesh.

She paused mid-stride, an eyebrow tensing inwards.

Even in her own mind, that had sounded- somewhat unhinged.

Combing a few stray wisps of hair behind the shell of her ear, Astrid ignored herself, setting off the hallway, recalibrating.

"Hang on, not-agent. You got a moment?"

Stalling on one foot, Astrid repurposed her momentum with a twist of her shoulders and hips. Braking with the drag of her free leg as it swept behind her, she swivelled to face Stark as he followed her out of the laboratory.

As he approached, barely striking a leisurely pace, she let her awareness bleed out- like pressing her fingers to the pulse of the universe.

Finding no one approaching, or within hearing distance, Astrid withdrew at the warning throb behind her browbone.

It wasn't wise to press at her limits here. The pain from the overuse never came from exertion- that was the easy part, tireless and natural as seeing the truth. It was from the stress of using while holding back, holding her power tense and controlled, as though keeping a pail of water aloft with one extended arm.

And if she dropped the pail- well.

It had been bad enough over the past three days, splitting her attention and perpetually keeping track of exactly who and what was monitoring the detention chamber at any given moment, silently forcing the surveillance systems to waver intermittently, veiling the already densely encrypted conversations. Between Loki's deft deflections and feints, the indeterminate time limit on their engagement, and the accumulating physical and mental stress- her mana searing in her veins, enough to almost make her eyes water- Astrid had snapped, and impulsively sung the cameras and microphones out of operation during her morning shower on that second day.

Reflecting on it from a safe distance, Astrid knew that she had overextended herself. If she pushed any further within the next few hours, she risked revealing something that would give SHIELD a reason to retain her services indefinitely.

And then she would have to run.

At least it was Stark. Decades of swimming with corporate and military sharks seemed to have honed both caution and cleverness, when he chose to engage it. He wouldn't say anything explicit that she would need to conceal from SHIELD.

Probably.

"Of course," she answered. Consciously, Astrid honed in on the sentiment that she had sincerely liked talking with him, and allowed it to cloud her surface, concealing anything else. "What can I do for you, Dr Stark?"

Stark halted in front of her- a single inch of strain beyond arm's length, his posture slightly too rigid.

"Truth in all things, and cannot tell a lie." He said briskly, polished pretences wearing away under the friction of a quick mind and tamped agitation. "I have a thought experiment. Humour me."

Astrid's eyebrow twitched into a slight arch.

"Alright. I'm listening."

"Someone tells you something." Stark posited, the dark of his eyes hard and bright. "As far as they know, it's true. In fact, they're convinced that it's true. But if you look into it, do some research, it's not. Factually, it's not true. They don't know that it's not true. So what do you see? That they're telling the truth, or that it's a factual falsehood?"

"Both," Astrid replied easily, "if I am paying attention. And I usually am. Truths rarely exist in isolation, so I've learned to look beyond the obvious."

"And you always look beyond the obvious?"

"I endeavour to," she said, a touch impatiently.

"So it's not just knowing," he inferred. "It's- observation. Reasoning."

"Information without intellect is worthless."

For a moment, Stark held her stare, quietly frenetic in a way that Astrid had witnessed before.

She had seen it gaze back at her from her reflection, after the Tesseract had bought her to Loki, after-

It was the look of someone who had been gazing into the maw of despair, and had suddenly seen another possibility.

"Loki wasn't working alone," he stated.

Astrid gazed back at him, not quite expressionless.

"We weren't fighting an army in New York," Stark continued tightly, "actually- I don't even think we were fighting a vanguard, or at least not all of it. No, that first wave- we were fighting a scouting party. On the other side of the portal- out there- I saw an armada. One that could have crushed New York, and finished us, if Loki had decided to go full scorched-earth instead of playing with his food. Hell knows why he didn't, when we started putting up a fight. And when Thor arrived, he told us that these aliens weren't of any world known, so how the hell did Loki get hold of it? How did he know about it? How did he get control of an army that big? Was it his attention that SHIELD got, poking at the Tesseract, or was it someone else? Someone with an army big enough that they could loan out a chunk of it to conquer some backwater planet over a long weekend, because that's what we are, at least compared to other worlds out there, if Thor's comments were in any way accurate. Which we have to assume they are, since his people apparently had space travel on lock while our ancestors were somewhere between figuring out paper and iron. Meanwhile, the rest of that army is still out there, and there might be a bigger fish wanting in this pond than an egotistical Norse demigod with a big brother willing to help us out. Which- is a terrifying prospect."

She hummed in vague agreement, biting into the inside of her cheek. Watching him unspool his conclusions, showing his work as though she would deduct marks for omissions, Stark was brittle, as tightly wound as clockwork, his breaths coming on a serrated edge of barely strangled anxiety.

Astrid almost felt guilty, for liking his reaction. It was adjacent to relief that she had felt, at seeing Loki's agony- proof of the soul, a part of her had thought.

"Loki wasn't working alone," Stark stated, plainly challenging, "there is a Chitauri armada out there that outguns anything Earth has right now, and they're going to be coming back. And you'd know if I was wrong."

Astrid dipped her chin, lashes lowering with the motion.

"Yes," she said, soft and dulcet, like the pain of fire, "yes, I would."

Stark exhaled shakily, looking away, gaze cast high.

After a long moment, Astrid slowly pulled her shoulders back, lifting her head to the overhead lights.

"I have a suggestion."

His head snapped towards her.

"I'm all ears."

It was nice to be listened to, Astrid thought ironically. To be deemed worth hearing out, with sincerity.

"Create a non-profit organisation for the Avengers." She said. "An entity to own merchandising rights, provide a PR team and legal liaison, manufacture and repair equipment, run fundraisers, manage and dispense funding for future operations, relief and clean-up. The Avengers Initiative. Make it official. And visible."

Stark narrowed an appraising look at her.

"Didn't think SHIELD's pocketbook was hurting that much," he quipped.

Astrid exhaled quietly.

"The Avenger Initiative is Fury's darling," she said, reframing carefully, "but as of three days ago, the Avengers are a highly visible team of superheroes who saved the world from an alien invasion. Meanwhile, SHIELD remains a highly covert intelligence organisation, unknown to the general public." Astrid paused, sinking into a humourless smile. "There are issues of transparency. Accountability. Of who's running the show, and why. And who answers for any fallout."

That she was echoing the sentiments underpinning Stark's infamous press conference, three years and one week ago precisely- and I saw that I had become part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability- was not a coincidence.

Nor was the fact that Stark recognised it.

"People will want to know where the buck stops," Stark murmured. "They need to know. And so do we. Especially since we just wrecked up Midtown. Well, that was mostly the- armoured space whales-"

"Leviathans," Astrid provided.

"Leviathans," he assented absently, "but, news coverage is already asking questions. Nobody expects space invaders to be responsible and civically conscious. But- superheroes- that's a different matter."

She pinned down a smouldering smile.

"It's a brave new world, you know." She confided. "SHIELD may choose to remain in the shadows, but those that it had been managing- the things that it has been keeping quiet, and unknown- won't. The Avengers are already in the limelight. The first in the limelight," she stressed delicately. "It might be better for the team to stand on its own. A template. Imperfect, untested, but- something to aspire to. Something to inspire."

Stark loosed a sharp exhale.

"Brave new world," he echoed with forced levity. "So. Where are you standing?"

"Hm?"

"Well, you're obviously not loyal to SHIELD, so."

"No," she agreed candidly, "and they are aware of that. It's why nothing I do can be classed as betrayal. No matter how hard they try to make me feel guilty about it."

"So where does your loyalty lie?"

Astrid clamped her lower lip between her teeth, the sting like spice in her blood.

It was a dangerous question.

More so for the fact that Stark had earned the courtesy of a clear truth, even while Astrid knew that entrusting him with everything, unfiltered, wouldn't be wise. There were things that he wouldn't understand- and, more dangerously, things that he would.

It was all in the timing.

Less a leap of faith, then. And more a- measured step.

"Five years."

Stark blinked at the quiet, abrupt declaration.

"What?"

"I can give you five years," Astrid told him, before hesitating. "Maybe- six, seven. Before-"

She lifted a hand just enough to flick a pointed finger upwards.

Stark stared at the direction of her hand, and met her eyes.

Through the primal terror, Astrid could already see resolve gathering, looking forward. Futurist.

"You're sure?"

"January of 2017 is all that I can guarantee you-"

"But you can guarantee it? Five years, you're certain?"

"Yes. It is a rarity," she added, dropping her hand with a flick of her wrist, before he could extrapolate in the wrong direction, "vanishingly rare, actually, but- yes. I can say it. Until the end of 2016, the only threats to this planet will be of this planet, and manageable. After that, I just- don't know."

Stark swallowed noiselessly, absorbing the shock.

There, Astrid thought, her heart thrumming against her sternum. Risk taken.

After a long moment, Stark nodded.

"That's- more than I expected, honestly," he said tightly. "Hell, having an actual timeline is- have you told Fury?"

"Of course not."

"What, are you kidding me, why not?"

"If there was a realistic chance that he would listen-"

"The guy is paranoia personified, he's the one who put the Avengers together, you think he wouldn't hear threat to global security and break the emergency glass on every-"

"Did he listen to me regarding the Tesseract?" Astrid asked coolly.

Stark stilled.

"So why tell me?"

Astrid bit the inside of her lip, feeling the tissue crackle with her lymph nodes.

"When you took that nuclear missile through the portal, what were you thinking?"

Stark held perfectly motionless before her, unblinking.

His conviction was paradoxically laid bare in his lack of expression.

"That a lot of people were gonna die if I didn't."

"They are going to die anyway," Astrid remarked neutrally. "That is the fate of everything that lives."

She watched Stark's features subtly sour.

Astrid let it last for a moment, before turning her head aside and twitching her shoulders with a faint, rueful smile, like stars fading into morning.

"But just because something is fated to end," she added, "doesn't mean it isn't worth trying to make it last. And just because the cosmos doesn't care doesn't mean that we shouldn't."

Astrid sighed, fatigue pressing back in behind her closed eyelids.

"I'm selfish, you know," she confessed wearily. "Far more so than you- no, I am," she pre-emptively cut him off, hearing a scuff of jeans and cotton and raising a palm to halt him. "Truth in all things, remember? I am. It's just that there are people that I love. Things that I am invested in. And they make the universe feel beautiful enough to be worth- living in. Living for. That's all."

They were the things that she kept gathered close, spoken as a mantra when she most needed them, fingers pressed to her lips as thought to catch them like sun-warmed pearls.

Surgical scars. Greenwich Village in the bloom of spring. Rain over a cityscape. Freshly brewed tea. The crowded streets of Kathmandu. Centuries-old carved stone. Daddy's smile. Crisp heels on marble and asphalt. The way that the structure of neuron webs in the brain resembles networks of galaxies. A conversation with a stranger. Light on water of the floating markets in Madripoor. The hum of string instruments. The taste of magic as it snaps into place. Billions upon billions of worlds, and lives, and souls.

And now-

For a moment, dangerously, Astrid let herself think of him.

She summoned up the shifting colour of his eyes, his marble-cool skin against hers, the spine-melting tenor of his voice, as intimate as lips against her cheek- a smile as sharp and bright as the crescent moon, eyebrows winging up when he was trying and succeeding to be clever, the subtle break of vulnerability like a cracked oyster shell when he softened, revealing the ugly vulnerable parts that his armour hid.

Most beloved. Darling prince. My infinity. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.

"I'm selfish. But I try to be- fair. I don't ask for something with giving something of equal value." Astrid looked up at Stark. "What I have just told you is a truth that no one should know. It's a rule being bent. It is a weapon to wield and a source of power to be tapped, just as much as the Tesseract."

Stark smirked humourlessly.

"Nuclear power. A bomb or a generator."

She canted her head. "Well." Astrid dropped her gaze to his chest, where his arc reactor glowed through the dark cotton. "I have a fair guess at which you would choose, Dr Stark."

And we both know what Fury chose.

"Is that the reason you told me?"

"Mm, not the only reason," she conceded with a wry grin. "Maybe someday I'll tell you all of them."

"But not today?"

Like a dull needle against her back, Astrid felt something press into her awareness.

"Not today." Her eyes slid aside, indicating the hallway behind her, dropping into an ominous whisper. "Time's up."

Stark's brow creased faintly, following her line of sight.

Astrid saw the moment that the newcomer turned the corner. Stark's mask pressed seamlessly back into place, flush against his features.

"Agent Romanoff," he called, in an amiable lilt that slanted towards mockery, sharp as vinegar.

Astrid smiled briefly, before glancing over her shoulder, falling into a serene inscrutability.

A set of neat, balletic footsteps- toe, heel, toe, heel- suddenly became audible, as though they always had been.

Astrid barely refrained from rolling her eyes, tongue pressed against the back of her teeth.

Natasha Romanoff, Natalia Romanova, had performed a costume change since she had last seen her. The flexible, reinforced armour of her sleek bodysuit had been replaced with civilian threads, the fitted jeans, ankle boots, scoop-neck shirt, and open camel leather jacket coordinated into an ensemble of generic city chic. The neutral palette was formulated to set off the iron-oxide gloss of her cropped curls, flouncing with each turn of her head, framing porcelain features, large sage eyes hemmed with mascara, and a full, plush mouth- casting her somewhere between sultry and doll-like, velvet and marble, espresso and caramel.

Natasha Romanoff was whatever the observer preferred to see.

Astrid could not fathom why SHIELD thought that she was a good choice as her handler.

"Stark."

Romanoff's voice was low, warm, textured, like the silken rasp of a sugar scrub. Her expression held a mirror to Stark's, maintaining just enough pleasantry to convey slight derision, before turning her chin towards Astrid.

Her eyes brightened slightly, like a natural spring struck by sunlight.

Astrid gazed back, unimpressed.

"Alethia." Natasha greeted her with the bright tentativeness of someone handling an antique glass artifact. "You ready?"

"I know my way to the bridge, Agent Romanoff," Astrid said, light as silk, turning in place to stand side-on between the two Avengers, "you didn't have to come and collect me."

"You still have to examine the Tesseract device," Romanoff replied, with that coy half-quirk of her lips that Astrid assumed that others found enigmatic and alluring. All that she could see was a breathing blankness, an automated response, the person behind it somewhere else entirely. "We can head up as soon as you're done."

"You're a little late to the party, Agent," Stark interjected, crisp as fresh paper.

Astrid turned her head towards him, a bubble of glee threatening to crack through her fragile calm.

"It's a wrap." Stark bought his hands together for emphasis, like a clapperboard at the end of shooting a scene. "We're done."

Astrid glanced back at Romanoff, who arched an eyebrow.

She could see her scenting for blood in the water.

Too late.

"That was fast."

"She is," Stark agreed easily, unasked. "Took her for a test drive. The not-agent handles well. Was actually wondering if Fury might be willing to lease her out, maybe on a weekend basis."

Astrid felt her mouth twitch at the provocation- one that was clearly not intended for her.

The offhand comment was a fistful of ignited firecrackers, lit up into a flash-bang smokescreen. She could already feel the attention glancing off her, deflected, leaving her uninterrogated.

It was- generous of him. A sleight of hand that tucked the missing card up Astrid's sleeve.

This one. I am going to look out for this one.

"Don't go scaring her, Stark," Romanoff reproached, retaining a lilt of playful levity that smoothed its course. "We'll end up having words."

"Dr Stark was a perfect gentleman," Astrid found herself saying, a little too sharply. Romanoff turned to her with a blink, and she quickly reined her tongue in. "He and Dr Banner were very gracious about my intruding."

Romanoff gazed into her, mouth slightly pursed, the flick of her irises calculating.

Not for the first time, Astrid mused that Romanoff was far more assassin than spy.

Another, less familiar thought crossed her mind, of how different green eyes could be. Romanoff's verdigris tones were dusted out closer to grey, like the stems of a lavender plant- and where his caught into clear malachite with the shifting of light and a dash of mana, Romanoff's were a flat plate, save for a tiny irregular pinwheel of hazel near her pupil.

When Astrid was in a generous mood, she could find a way to call it endearingly human.

"Well. I know you well enough to know you're not just being polite," Romanoff conceded, an impish glitter in her expression.

Which has absolutely nothing to do with what your boss kidnapped me for, naturally. No, Natalia- it's not my inability to speak anything but truth, it's all you taking the time to get to know me. How blessed I am by your care and perceptiveness and stars above, I cannot wait to crawl into bed, I am done with the entirety of SHIELD for the day-

"Guess you're off the hook, Stark," Romanoff continued, raising her eyebrows in his direction, before resettling on Astrid. "In that case- you ready to head up? I'm sure you want to get some rest in your own bed."

My own bed. Hilarious.

Rather than dignify the thoughtless faux pas with a response, Astrid turned back to Stark, projecting as much bland graciousness as she dared.

"A pleasure to meet you, Dr Stark."

"Likewise," he replied, eyes steady and careful, the lilt in his words disingenuously flippant. "And, hey. If you're ever in business for a career change- hit up Stark Tower. Midtown Manhattan. Can't miss it, even if it's missing a few letters from the signage these days."

Astrid let her mien warm, just barely, like the thawing rays of morning.

"I will bear that in mind."

With a slight nod of farewell, and without waiting for Romanoff, Astrid stepped out from between the two Avengers, and cut towards the closest lift with access to the bridge- one that was, quite coincidentally, suddenly back in full working order.

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[starswornoaths]

FFXIVWrite 2023 Prompt#1: Emissary

heelies in late with Starbucks with a oneshot laying out the groundwork for a childhood sweethearts-to-strangers-to-lovers pipeline between my WoL and Miounne, leaves without elaborating.

No spoilers for MSQ, just playing with the idea of anyone with the Echo that awoke during the Calamity being forgotten by everyone that Hydaelyn decided they would be Plot Relevant Later:tm: just like what happened with 1.0 WoL :')

word count: 1,128

When Serella had put Gridania behind her, she had thought she had made peace with it. Left it behind with all the other dead things it had inside it. Left it with the home it had taken from her. A pragmatic part of her had accepted that she would return in some capacity, even if in passing through. 

She just thought she would be more ready for it. That she would feel like more than the girl that fled the Carline Canopy shivering into the rain after rising from the ashes of Calamity. Like more than the barely-grown thing wrapped in an adult’s rite of passage that stepped too confidently onto a carriage to the outside world. Like more than the instinct that made her run.

All that running, and here she was: Serella Arcbane, stood beneath the awning of the Carline Canopy, drying from the rain again.

But her cloak was about her shoulders this time, at least. No shivering this time. Small mercies.

Knowing that Miounne was behind the counter—was always behind the counter—did not making seeing her any easier. Did not make her feel less small and lost. 

From her spot at the entryway she watched, off to the side and unobtrusive to the flow of patrons and adventurers. Miounne was the eye of a storm and as much in her element as she had always been, a warm smile and a spot of radiance in the chaos of the room. 

I’m an emissary come from Ul’Dah, she practiced for the thousandth time since she boarded the airship to Gridania. I have a message for the Elder Seedseer from the Sultana herself.

Making herself taller than she felt, Serella drew herself up to her full height and stepped inside.

Just beyond the threshold, the air became immediately heavier with the warmth of a roaring hearth and the scent of the pastries baking within it. She knew without looking that the source of that rich, sweet scent was a batch or two of Miounne’s special butter biscuits. 

She swallowed around the rapid tightening in her throat and only stepped into line for the counter when she was somewhat confident that she could properly work her jaw. It still conspired to strangle her every word by the time the person in front of her concluded their business with the guild. 

“My, my! A new face to the Carline Canopy!” Miounne said before she had even reached the counter. “I thought I saw you hovering by the door—” 

In spite of herself, Serella smiled and thought, of course you did with an old and dust-covered fondness. Miounne was never one to miss when a wayward soul hesitated in the threshold. don’t be shy! Come, come, let’s get you registered—”

Serella had never been a new face to the Canopy—could not be—

When she finds her voice it’s a rusty thing, and it scrapes her throat on the way out as she croaks, “Oh, I’ve been here before.”

“Have you?” Miounne startles, a well-worn leather tome balanced in her hand. “I’ve never forgotten a single face that’s made it to Carline Canopy, surely—”

“Serella Arcbane. I came here—” 

I was always here. My name is carved on one of the spools of the waterwheel outside, right next to yours. We put it on the underside so it was no one’s secret but ours.

In the gap of the sentence, Miounne had cast a simple incantation and watched the pages flutter to an earlier entry in the book, her name writ neatly in Miounne’s own hand. “—Goodness, but it has been a while since you’ve been here!” she gasped when she saw the date. “That was, goodness that was mere days after the Calamity! There were so many to tend to in those days—”

“A lot was happening back then.” Serella rasped. “It’s fine.”

“Yes…” Miounne said, soft and distant, her eyes drifting for a moment in search of a thing she couldn’t name. 

The moment was over before it had a chance to settle, Miounne deliberately brightening as she said, “Please, let me reintroduce myself, then: I am Mother Miounne, proprietess of the Carline Canopy! And it is an honor and a privilege to work with you!”

With a flourish, the book was tucked away under the counter and she returned the whole of her focus to the person in front of her. She held out her hand to shake, the picture of warmth and geniality. 

Same as Miounne always was. The sunshine in the eye of a storm.

In the instant that their hands touched, Serella felt herself in patchwork, the stitches coming undone and leaving her in the fraying pieces of herself. Every little quilt of memory with Miounne’s hand in hers fell into a messy little pile in her mind.  

She was five summers old, with a wicker basket of blackberries sat between them, sticky hands and purple-tinted smiles with Miounne as they watched the sunset from the top of the treeline, the berries and the climb their little secrets. 

She was nine summers old, and she can’t make her voice work around the stitches on her neck and face. Still, she keeps trying to sign an apology to Miounne for upsetting her so. It’s hard to sign when her hands are held so, so tightly.

She was ten and seven summers old, and she feels the tremor in Miounne through their laced fingers long before it’s felt through the timid kiss they share. It’s not the first time they’ve done it, but it was the first time it felt like both a promise and a choice.

She was twenty and one summers old, and Miounne tells her, “No matter what happens, what you face out there…you can come to me. You know that, right?” It feels like the truth. She accepts the offer with tangled fingers and kisses pressed to pristine knuckles. Together, they become the promise and the choice. 

She was twenty and five summers old, and when she stumbles out of the tree canopy and into Carline she does so yelling her beloved’s name around a soot-choked sob. As Miounne bandages her burned hands and asks for her name, only to be confused to find it already there, she understands that she lost more than a few days when Dalamud fell.

She was thirty summers when she shook Miounne’s hand as a stranger and nearly forgot her rehearsed line and why she was back here to even begin with until she reluctantly took her hand back.

“I’m an emissary come from Ul’Dah. I have a message for the Elder Seedseer from the Sultana herself.” she recited aloud, an announcement and reminder both.

She is a stranger here. She can never go home again.

[deputy-buck]

@sleepy-maya you know what this isn't too bad for my usual BoB writing (even though I've never posted any bc it always felt so lacking lol) and I hope you like it!! Thanks for the patience and prompt!

-

"Docile Alpha"

All the downtime in Austria has lulled Speirs' body into a sense of safety, the routine of paperwork and strongly advising soldiers “not to drink too much” allowed his body to push for its neglected needs… in arguably the worst way. His rut is a surprise, waking up at the usual 05:15, only this morning drenched in sweat and a hard-on that was beginning to hurt. Speirs let out an exhausted sigh, knowing the following four days would be hell in a handbasket if he didn’t get something to treat it soon.

Getting dressed felt like crash landing from a short jump: not enough height to deploy his shoot properly, and too much hard ground coming up too fast, it’s nearly identical. Speirs tries to muscle through it without making too much noise, legs aching, boner not willing to leave (he knows jacking off is near-futile), and fuck why does his jaw hurt so bad. Where the fuck is a medic when you can’t yell for one? Ron thinks about forgoing his jacket and leaving his hair a wreck, but his appearance means more to his men than his own comfort so he buttons his jacket and wets his hair down, runs some pomade through it and combs it all back, letting gravity do the rest. 

Now to find Doc.

-

“Supply sent all the suppressants an Omega could ask for but none for Alpha’s, sorry, Captain.” Roe sounds slightly sympathetic for Speirs and very frustrated with whoever sent so many OSPs (Omega Suppressant Pack) and not a single ASP (Alpha Suppressant Pack) to a Company made up of 97% Alphas. Still rooting through crates and boxes in hopes of finding at least one sleeve of pills for his commanding officer, Roe suddenly feels hot breath on the back of his neck. Eugene’s hackles rise for a brief moment before he thinks of how Ron must feel at the moment, hormones running rampant through his body. 

“You smell good,” Speirs says accusatively, struggling to keep his hands to himself even though every thought in his head is screaming at him to never get close to an enlisted man. Instead, he places his hands on the wood crate in front of Doc, leaving them relaxed on the rough-milled boards so as not to make the younger man feel caged in. You can always say no. Speirs hopes Eugene understands

“What?” Roe deadpans with tensed hands full of useless OSPs and neatly spooled IV tubing. He feels a wash of possessiveness roll down his body, already knowing what Speirs is about to say.

“You smell good,” Ron repeats, taking an audible deep breath of Eugene’s scent. “Nobody smells good to me in rut.” His exhale trembles as he lets Eugene’s scent go.

Through all Speirs' ruts, he never had the scent-induced lust craze, never had the overwhelming need to KnotFuckBreed the way his peers always described. Ron wanted to be alone. He took suppressants and exercised extensively to relieve the pent-up energy, running for miles into densely wooded areas to find some privacy in order to relieve himself in a different way. That’s really all Alpha suppressants do: allow Alphas to get themselves off without having to be tied to someone. 

This is different. Ron can’t pinpoint any particular notes, Eugene just smells like sweat and skin, maybe a little antiseptic but it’s purely Eugene that he smells. The young medic’s scent is thick and heady to him nonetheless, clouding his senses and making Ron’s head swim with thoughts no officer should ever have about a subordinate.

“Think you should get back to your room, Sir. Ain’t the best idea to be around other Alphas while you're in rut.” Roe says firmly, not allowing any traces of want slip into his voice, he doesn’t need to launch Speirs into a spiral out here for everyone to see. “I’ll come check on you later, maybe have something to help you too.”

-

Fuck, this shouldn’t feel so good. Shouldn’t be so close already. Where did Doc learn to do this?

Speirs lays supine on the plush mattress, stripped down to only his undershirt -which is rucked up to his armpits- chest heaving with every labored breath, back arching up off the sweat soaked sheets. 

Eugene keeps his right hand tightly gripped around Speirs’ aching, half-popped knot, slowly twisting side to side and rubbing the pad of his thumb up the shaft as far as he can reach. Pulling sickly sweet whimpers and moans from the man feared by every Easy Company trooper sends a surge of power through the Omega’s core, rendering the most dangerous man breathless would intoxicate anyone. Tempted to lean down to lick the beads of precum oozing from Speirs’ cock, Roe tempers it by gently cupping his left hand over the tip, drawing a nearly pained whine from the older man’s throat as Roe slides his palm across and around the over-sensitive head.

“Fucking Christ, Doc,” Speirs mewled through gritted teeth. With pleasure clouding his mind, Ron lifts his hand out of the twisted sheets, reaching to touch the medic in some way, eager to know what Doc’s skin feels like aside from the single firm handshake they’ve shared. He stops himself short, thinking of how this is already bad enough and would only worsen if he were to make contact. Speirs should have never stepped into Doc’s personal space back in the med bay, should have never lingered long enough to take another deep breath of his addictive scent, and definitely never should have allowed the Omega into this room. But he did, and now the least he can do to preserve his innocence is to keep this clinical.

All those thoughts of professionalism fly out the window when Doc speaks.

“Don’t think I ever seen an Alpha act like such an Omega before.” Roe grins, eyes sweeping down the Alpha’s trembling body, a low purr building in his chest at the sight. “Surprised you’re not leakin' slick.”

With that, the floodgates open from Speirs’ brain to mouth. 

“Let me cum, ‘Gene, please let me cum. Swear I’ll be good if you let me cum. Do anything you want, I’ll let you fuck me if you want, ‘Gene just please let me cum.” It would sound so pathetic coming from any other Alpha’s mouth, but Speirs sounds genuine, like this is who he really is deep down. He sounds so desperate it’s cute.

“You know it ain’t smart to fuck an alpha when he’s in rut, ya might rip my throat out, cher.” Doc chuckles and twists his hand around Speir’s knot a little fast, tightening his pinky beneath the swell of it emulating a hole clenching down. Roe decides he’s tortured the poor man enough, pulling his left hand away from polishing the head of Speirs’ cock to slide down and back up the shaft. “Let go, knot my hand ‘n make a mess. You’ll clean it up like a good boy for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, ‘Gene.” Ron gasps as his orgasm washes through his body, cock pulsing in Eugene’s firm hold, pearly white strings coating his own heaving belly and chest. Speirs’ legs hitch up to get away from the gentle strokes of Doc’s other hand but Roe persists, milking every last drop of cum from his docile Alpha. The final dribbles of cum leak over Doc’s pale knuckles, making his hand even more slight around Speirs’ now fully inflated knot. Swiping some of the slick fluid up with his left thumb, Eugene finally allows himself a taste of Speirs, outright laughing at the breathless whimper the Alpha lets out at the sight.

“You’re real pretty when you cum, you know that?” Eugene murmurs softly, eyes soft and full of a newfound love for his Captain. Eugene lets his hand go slack on Ron’s softening cock but keeps it there for his own possessive reasons.

It takes a few moments for Speirs to respond, head fuzzy with a new surge of arousal and safety, his voice slightly slurred as he says, “Thank you, ‘Gene.”

-

(WC: 1,348)

I don't know how it got so long... :)

[360iris]

Backroom of a bad dream (marc spector x reader)

Marc is dreaming, he knows that. He knows it as soon as the clip starts rolling, frayed, fuzzy and worn around the edges. He can practically hear the feed spools of the movie projector turning as the lens focuses the film’s images onto the imaginary screen in his mind’s eye. 

A single ticket sold for admittance to a private showing of his early life, featuring people he wishes he could forget. Forgive, hah. Forget. Just let him forget. 

He wishes she’d allow him to omit the moments in time like this one, but bad memories latch onto him, into him. And this body holds them together like stitches sewn into flesh—and faintly he recalls you saying something to that effect once. During one of the many, painfully kind conversations the two of you have when the tide of emotions inside him is particularly high, to the point where it’s brimming to the surface and bubbling right over the edge. 

You’re always there to catch the splashes and beaded droplets of information, gathering what meager scraps he gives away, whether it’s done so intentionally or not. Lining up every detail like puzzle pieces, locating the edges first and then steadily working your way inward. 

He knows how tightly he guards the truth of his past, because he’s skeptical of what good it could do. Because he’s afraid to face the consequences if the iniquity of his actions see light and find a way to retake root. He doesn’t think he could handle Layla’s soft touches turning stiff and rigid, and he knows he would not recover if those doting and thoughtful eyes of yours ever dimmed when they fell onto him– like his mother’s had.

‘A means to hurt can also bring about healing, and growth.’ You’d said that particular evening, speaking more to the brim of the water bottle on its way to your lips, than to anything else. He’d guessed he must have looked as confused as he’d felt internally because you hurried to swallow the mouthful before elaborating on your thought. 

‘If you know the story of Joseph, his brothers plotted several times to murder him, resolving finally to strip him naked and sale him to the Egyptians, with the intention for him to be taken leagues away from his home, never to be seen again. Little did they know, they were pushing him closer to fulfilling his life’s purpose, he would become the most influential and powerful man in the land, second only to the Pharaoh himself.’ —his eyebrows were still raised quizzically and you’re reminded that with everything he's gone through, memorizing religious stories hadn’t remotely been on his list of priorities. 

‘He’s reunited with his brothers as a wealthy and respected man, utterly unrecognizable as their own flesh and blood by then, and instead of letting the great famine consume them for their past indiscretions, he shows them forgiveness. Though the most important part in all of it, to me, is what he says to them as they stand in fear of what he’ll do to them. He says ‘What you meant for evil, God meant for good.’ and that’s a quote I find myself thinking back on very often. The notion that perhaps, from every wrongdoing, every single nefarious lapse of humanity, behind the scenes something good and righteous is gradually weaving itself and taking hold. A greater plan, coming into play.’

But you’re not in his head as this scene of her drunkenly sauntering over to the dinner table plays, the frames clicking in and out of view cheaply. 

He can see her coal-black hair, long and neglected, flowing past her shoulders like curtains. Can make out the glass bottle of beer in her hand and the dark circles from lack of restful sleep. Eyes overshadowed, hateful and watching, scrutinizing his every movement. Inwardly and outwardly cursing him for every breath he took.

He could smell the alcohol, the sickly sweet sugaryness of the icing and burning candles on top of the cake which sat in front of him. 

Can hear the words that slip past her lips–and he’s sorry, he’s regretful and he hates her as she drills those same fucking words into his psyche. 

Her hostility churned, it burbled and seeped into the fabric of everything like thick, black ink. It festered and clung to him, a dripping, oozing sludge as he watched her hands grip the glass, her lips sneering and her eyes glaring emptily. There was no attainable sign of recompense for what he’d done because he’d survived yet another year, and she’d all but sworn to make this particular day hell on earth for him. It was his birthday.

Lying on his back, he jolts awake. Eyes wide and chest heaving as he registers his labored breathing, forehead drenched with sweat and knuckles stiff from how hard they gripped at the sheets beneath him. 

“We’re okay.” Steven’s voice comes out unusually hoarse, bringing up a sore hand to dab at the corners of their eyes and apples of their cheeks with a crooked wrist. Tears, he’d been drawn to tears. “We’re alright. We’re safe. And look, it's morning now.”

Beams of sunlight slipped through the open cracks and crevices made by the somewhat-drawn curtains, allowing golden slivers to illuminate the wooden plank flooring, filling the space with a warm, genial air. 

The sizable studio apartment his system shares with yourself and Layla is quiet and still. Not a single sign of Khonshu darkening his path with his towering visage presents itself as he looks over the empty space— but as Marc hastily props himself onto his elbows, he realizes that the same could be said for both of his girls. 

A wave of paranoia washes over him as he looks at the empty spaces beside him on the bed, the white sheets lay void of the bodily warmth he’d grown used to and spoiled by. Though just as he moves to sit up to continue his search, he spots you quietly exiting the dressing room which leads to the bathroom. 

Absentmindedly toweling wet hair with one rotating hand, you clicked the door shut behind you as quietly as possible, moving further into the general space before seemingly feeling his gaze and looking up to inadvertently meet his eye. 

You’re dressed in an ankle length, satin creme slip dress, the one you often wore to bed because of the lace detailing it had sewn along the collar and how softly it glided across the skin. Blanketing your shoulders and falling to your feet was a matching, ankle-grazer cardigan which you hauled with you almost everywhere, the snug material always plush to the touch.

“You’re up, baby?” With bare feet, you paddled over to where he lay, speaking softly even though he was awake now. 

He nodded wordlessly, peering up at you. Unable to read the slight, upward crook resting between your brows as you approached as anything other than disappointment towards him, because of him.

“We’d hoped you’d sleep a little longer, thought the extra rest might help some.” You said fondly, sinking into the mattress beside him. “Do you know what you might want for breakfast? Or, do you want one of us to choose? Layla just got back from the market, she's in the shower now– bought a bit too much if you ask me.” An amused chuckle gets peppered between your words. But other than the way he fiddles with the fingers of your free hand, he doesn’t speak. 

His eyes were hooded and preoccupied with a misty, glazed look about them; lips pressed into a line. He wasn’t completely still, as was typically characteristic of Marc, but the man in front of you was too withdrawn and remote for it to be Steven currently fronting. You surveyed him with a look of repose, pinpointing what giveaways were present to help clue you in on who it was you were dealing with, so you could act accordingly.

Twisting and tucking the towel back to keep it wrapped around your head, you laid down atop of the covers beside him. Resting an open-palmed hand across his chest which he continued to fiddle with as you nuzzled your face alongside his. “Where are you right now, baby? Can you tell me?”

He didn't answer immediately, swallowing thickly as he stared up at the ceiling. 

“It’s my birthday.” It wasn’t a question or announcement, just a despondent statement.

“Yes, it is.”

“She– She’d always make today unbearable.” And you’re well aware of who he’s referencing, his hands grasping yours a hair tighter as he speaks, your own grip firming as well. “She made me hate ever being born. I would wonder why this day just kept coming, why it never stopped.”

There wasn’t a way to broach the topic of his mother, no tactical approach to institute, to speak on her behalf regarding her grief, her anger and her pain. At one point you’re fairly certain she loved her first born son. 

Your own personal, and very secret theory was that her abuse angled towards Marc was her way of keeping her lost son alive, because perhaps forgiving him for his part to play in the tragedy would have felt too much like relinquishing the love that, which in her eyes, no longer had anywhere else to go. But that didn’t even remotely justify her cruelty, or unwavering devotion towards making Marc’s life as isolating and haunted as she possibly could.

Holding him inbetween your arms now, as tortured and mournful of a man as he is, you press your forehead into his cheek and think further on a certain comforting but dismal branch of thought. 

Though she’d been none the wiser, and truthfully did not deserve any of the credit, all of her unrelenting fury had given birth to Steven– well intentioned, delightful and unbelievably quick-witted Steven Grant. Where would any of you be without him, or your love for him? You scarcely dared to entertain the possibility.

The truth was that one utterly good thing had been unearthed from the soot and grime of her profoundly misguided actions, and you would nurture the little boy she’d left behind and support the men he’d grown into.

Nudging him closer, if that could even be possible at this point with the way the two of you were so intertwined, you tenderly massage his shoulder. “Every single day I’m grateful that you were created and placed along my path. And I know that you’re hurting, and I understand that I can’t carry that burden for you–or claim to always perfectly understand where you’re at in your journey, but I mean it when I say that I fully intend to be here when you need or just want me to be present. I’m here for you, and for Steven.”

You don’t expect him to respond exactly, having just wanted to know that he had heard those specific words from someone who genuinely cared about him. And when he rolls onto his side to face you, softly scooping you up into his arms like a well loved teddy bear, you audibly laugh as he speaks into your hair– because it’s a start to the day, and it’s enough. “Whatever you decide to make, Steven and I will have two plates of it.”

[romanarose]

The Times, They are A-Changing

Just a drabble that came to mind while I tried to find Hanukah decorations. I looked at Hobby Lobby, Party City, Walmart, Joanne Fabrics, and TARGET which I thought was supposed to have them?!?! BUT NOT IN FUCKING WISCONSIN I GUESS!!!! Finally, I went to Michaels and they got me <3

Marc Spector x Jewish!Reader

Winter fic number 1 (full list to come)

*****************

"This is the last store, right baby? We won't have and more room in the car, I'll have to put you on the roof." Marc teased you as you strolled through Michael's craft store.

"Ohhhhh, you gonna tie me up?" You tease back, the hand you were holding being used to pull him and nudge him as he pushed the cart. you had filled with the buy one get one yarn that was sure to wreak havoc on Marc's. He liked this neat, minimal, and you genuinely tried to keep things clean for the sake of his sanity and to combate Steven and Jake's mess, the yarn could... get out of hand. You bought 6 giant spools.

Marc whispered in your ear so the quiet store wouldn't hear. "How can you possibly function being this horny all the time"

"I'm gonna let you in on a secret; I don't" You whisper back.

Marc laughs loudly, a sound you don't get to hear too much. He laughs, sure, but a joyful, carefree laugh isn't common. It's becoming more so, however, as you, Jake and Steven help him. You'd do whatever you could to hear that sound.

Marc watches you stroll the aisles. 'Just yarn!' you had sworn, but he knew that while your intentions were good, you'd end up buying much more than just yarn. That was okay with him. He'd already resigned himself to carrying most of the gift loads in from the car, knowing full well as soon as you brought one bag in, you'd get excited gushing over what you had picked out for everyone's Christmas and Hannukah gifts. Whatever made you happy, he'd do.

And god, everything just made you happy. Tiny little things excited you. Growing up in a house where nothing was enough, it genuinely took time to get used to you. You, who saw him cooking diner when you came home and started crying saying how much you loved him. You, who he took to the zoo and watched you squeal over every new animal, every single one. You, who always massaged his scalp and uttered praise as he ate you out, who more than once even told him 'thank you' while he fucked you into the mattress.

Marc was distracted from that particularly hot daydream to your hand squeezing him tight, your other hand smacking his arm as you called his name. Marc was immediately on edge, looking or danger or a concern or fucking spider, if that's what the problem was.

"Marc... look..." Your eyes were wide, mouth parted. Not scared, not nervous just... surprised?

He followed your line of sight to a display. What, was it going to be an obscene amount of Mandalorian decorations you were about to beg him to- oh.

The display wasn't Star Wars. It was blue and white. It was Hanukah decorations.

"Marc..." You let go of his hand to peruse the decorations on the display. "I've never really seen Hannukah decorations before... usually just a few things here and there... and some blue and white Christmas decorations... but that's about it..."

Marc hadn't much either. Not that he was particularly looking. Decorating his place hasn't exactly been on the for front of his mind the last few decades, and if he was being honest, he straight up hadn't been practicing. But since you came into his life... Well it started with Shabbat. You always tried to cook a nice diner and say the prayers. Then he started joining you for the High Holy Days, then it just took off from there. He had grown to love his heritage and it helped him feel connected with his community, his people, and his, and he can't believe he's saying this, his family. The ones he wanted to be connected to, anyway. His dad was over the moon (ha) when he had called to tell him he was seeing someone, and someone Jewish at that. He was over the moon when Marc called anyway, since it was pretty rare. That was another thing about you. You made him want to make peace with his past. He called more often now.

He noticed tears in your eyes. "Baby, are you okay?" Marc wrapped his arms around you as you looked at the "Happy Challah Days" sign.

"Yeah" You smiled and sniffled. "It's just been a long few years, you know? With everything with Qanon and Kanye and Majorie Taylor Green, all the attacks recently, and feeling like I couldn't be Jewish with my ex..." You took a steadying breath "It's just really nice to see. There's so much, it doesn't feel like a few shitty items thrown in to get diversity points."

"Yeah" Marc agreed, in a bit of shock himself to see it in such a major store. "It's beautiful, I guess things do change..." He kissed the side of your head. "You can buy the whole rack if you want, baby."

You didn't, but you damn near came close.

***************

THANK YOU FOR READING I LOVE YOU!!!!!

In my head, this takes place within the Seattle universe, so if you read that fic, imagine it's Marc and Rebecca after they settle down <3

I am not Jewish, but I am converting, so if I said anything offensive r in correct, please tell me!

Also, thank you to everyone who has been SO NICE!!!! After the troll the other day. It really hurt my feelings but everyone has been so so so sweet <3

tagging a few people who might enjoy <3

@milkymoon2483 @apollo-enthusiast @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

[majorxmaggiexboy]

&& hold the nail (for the hammer stroke) || (1/?) a Jopving episode

source: the terror amc centric character: John Irving relationships: pre John Irving/Thomas Jopson  chapter warning/tags: Escalates Quickly, those Victorians and their damn ankles, light canon-typical internalized homophobia from Irving, excessive use of “John” and “Jopson” bc i couldn’t be bothered to avoid repetition overall heads-up: Some toxic behavior from Irving, truly obnoxious thought process from Irving, canon-typical homophobia, vaguely questionable relationship dynamic but we gotta trust Jop’s judgement on this one lads he knows what he’s about additional tags: aroace!Jopson, Irving’s Gay Panic, mutual appreciation for Miss Jacko, Irving’s Gay Panic gets an uno reverse card in chapter 2, Jopson has the patience of a literal saint but he also has standards, Irving astral projecting to avoid taking accountability for the Gay, Crozier lowkey keeping an eye on the situation, Irving going from “awww” to “Oh god. Oh no” in the space of a single paragraph.

additional heads-up: i ship hard but i have genuinely no idea how romance or any of that even works so i’m literally just throwing darts with my eyes closed here.

summary: When a misunderstanding creates tension between himself and Lieutenant Irving, Jopson’s attempt to restore harmony leads to a different understanding entirely.

It happens like this:

John comes in from the cold, into the slightly less cold. He’s grumbling to himself, and doesn’t notice the captain’s steward until the man’s polite greeting almost makes him jump out of his skin. 

Jopson is too professional to look more than a little amused, but there’s humor in his eyes, and John gives a short laugh in spite of himself. 

They are not friends, but they’ve always been amiable enough. John can respect a man who works hard, and few if any can rival Jopson’s dedication to the captain. He’s a pleasant sort of person, steady and generally cheerful; John’s never heard a word of complaint from him, even when the expedition’s events would warrant it. Their rare conversations are simple, but enjoyable.

Reliably, Jopson soon notices the source of John’s own complaints. 

“Snagged on a nail,” John replies to the questioning look. Indeed, concerned look. Jopson is looking at the tear in the leg of John’s trouser as if it’s a minor wound. He huffs in irritation. “I’ll have to ask Gibson to-”

“-I can do it, sir,” Jopson interrupts, with a gesture toward the coat on his lap. “I’ve needle and thread already to hand, it wouldn’t take a minute.

Truth be told, John would rather be stabbed than speak to the other steward any more than absolutely necessary after their last interaction, and in any case he is aware of the quality of Jopson’s stitching. He readily agrees. 

Jopson smiles again and sets his other work neatly aside, rises and motions for John to take the vacated chair. 

While John settles with an appreciative sigh, more tired than he’d realized, Jopson deftly threads a needle, grinning softly over the spool. “Miss Jacko stole this earlier,” he says, “Had to bribe her with a spare button to get it back.”

“Perhaps she wanted to join in your sewing,” the thought amuses John, and pulls a laugh from Jopson. 

“I wonder if she could,” the steward muses. He takes a knee before John, grimacing briefly before bending to inspect the damage. “She has the hands for it. She could make a career in small mending.”

The notion is wonderfully absurd. He may have to sketch it, later, a capuchin seamstress-in-training, mischievous but astute under the gentle tutelage of a black cat with curiously clever paws. 

On the note of clever paws, the occasional feather-light pull at the fabric of his trouser leg brings John’s attention back to the ones currently making good on their promise of quick work. 

Jopson’s head is bowed, but John still catches the occasional glimpse of his face - not quite frowning in concentration, but very much focused. He is, John knows, one to give every task complete attention, even something so simple as this. The stitching is finer than strictly required, meant to be all but invisible in addition to holding well. The garment will be, rather than simply repaired, nearly like new. Something like fondness grips him. He opens his mouth, meaning to express gratitude he already knows the steward will call unneeded.

And then Jopson’s hands brush close enough as he fiddles with the lower part of the tear, lifting the cuff minutely for access, that Irving notes the mild pressure of it and, for a moment, thinks he can feel the warmth of those hands even with his boots in the way. Fondness dissipates in an instant. 

Oblivious, Jopson continues his stitching. He gives the fabric an experimental tug at the end and nods, satisfied. He spares Irving a quick glance, brushes back stray hair. “There we are, sir,” he smiles, “Good as new.”

Lieutenant Irving is not sure at what point he began clutching the sides of the chair he’s trapped in, but he suspects he’ll be removing splinters from his hands for weeks. He doesn’t meet the steward’s gaze, instead staring a spot on the opposite wall until the man ducks again, brushing against Irving as he uses his teeth to snip the thread. 

Irving’s vision burns white.

He’s on his feet so quickly his head spins. The Steward is saying something, alarmed, but it falls on deaf ears. Which are surely red as blood if the heat of them is any indication. 

Mortified, Irving flees from the room, paying no regard to the baffled man on the floor. 

He does not stop walking until he reaches his own bunk, slamming the door behind him. He thinks of the Hold, of Gibson and of that slithering serpent of a caulker’s mate, and of his father and of hell and no, it will not do. He would never-

Irving stops his frantic pacing. He would never. Such notions would not spring to mind unprovoked, and if provoked he can hardly be at fault.

(What notions, he hardly knows, and does not dare to interrogate. They are evil things, wicked things, they must be smothered quickly, not taken out and examined closely)

But what was the provocation? He had not supposed the captain’s mild-mannered steward to be the sort...but then he had not suspected the filthy caulker’s mate, either. Had it not been the steward’s suggestion, at any rate? And he supposes it makes sense, for one of a servile nature...

(He strangles the thought before it finishes its first breath.)

It makes sense, loathe as he is to accept it. It is troublesome. 

Despite being directly affronted in this case, he finds he cannot reach quite the same state of anger as he’d felt toward Mr. Hickey. Mainly, it is a sense of disdain that falls upon him and weights down his shoulders.

The captain, he thinks, would be horrified. 

He will not reveal this anymore than he did poor Mr. Gibson’s torment. Not for the steward’s own sake but because Captain Crozier has enough on his mind, and is terribly fond of the man. Self-preservation, too, is a factor. It would not do to be tarnished in the Captain’s view. 

He wants to be more furious than he is, particularly because the steward was close enough to being a friend. Friendly, at least, and had always seemed so good and upright. He must be more careful in his choice of acquaintances. If he must admire a dedicated steward, let it be Captain Fitzjames’ Mister Bridgens. There is a man who is above reproach. 

John shudders, his course of action decided: To take none. 

Instead, he will keep the matter quiet, and will pray for the wayward souls aboard this wretched vessel. Perhaps they are not beyond help, though he certainly won’t be the one to do so. 

His prayers do little to set his mind at ease, but that is his cross to bear, and his soul is somewhat more settled. For his nerves, he resolves to take out his sketchbook and work until his hands stop shaking. 

Later, he leaves his cabin, having composed himself and set the incident aside. He resumes his duties with a quiet spirit. 

The sketchbook is left atop his desk, open to a worthy likeness of Miss Jacko furtively clutching a needle and thread. 

[tinypandacakes]

The First of Many [Morpheus x F!Reader] Chapter 8: Serve

[CW: dubious consent. NSFW but this snippet has been edited to not be explicit. You can read the whole chapter on AO3 :)]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41664876/chapters/109148775

Dream’s hand slipped down between you both, a soft sound of mirth rumbling within him at the dampness he discovered. “What do we have here?”

You clamped your legs shut involuntarily, unsure if it was to keep his hand there or keep it out, but he tutted in displeasure. He had demonstrated the power to position you and restrain you any way he liked without so much as breaking a single bead of sweat across his porcelain skin. But you were quickly learning that, despite the blatantly obvious fact that he could use brute strength to overpower you easily, that was not his style. Morpheus preferred to employ another method, just as appealing. He pulled submission from you like a single loose thread from a garment, until he had you undone and wound around a spool to remake as he wished.

Morpheus stooped, bending his head until his lips hovered inches above yours. His nimble fingers didn’t have much room with how you tried to close your legs, but you felt the digits bend and curl against your plump flesh, urging your thighs to part for him.

“Easy,” he soothed, eyes once again capturing yours, speaking softly, slowly as he might to a skittish foal that would bolt at any unexpected movement. “I can bring you pleasure beyond your wildest imaginings, if you but allow me. Would you like that?”

“I would,” you said quietly, unable to look away from him. “Please.”

You let your legs fall open enough for his hand to just barely have the space it needed, and to your surprise, he did not request more. Morpheus resumed his stroking, ghosting over your inner thighs, tracing along the thin material. Soon, you were lifting your hips to meet his hand.

“Much better, little one,” he murmured. “Is it not more satisfying to behave for me?”

“Yes,” you rasped.

He pushed his lips to yours then, the summer salt of beach air filling your senses, the nostalgia of laying on warmed sand, shea and sun on your glowing skin. Your mouth opened to his, tasting him, savoring this, savoring him. You reached for Dream, one arm sliding around broad shoulders, the other wandering into his hair to hold him close. Your nails scored his scalp, parting wild tufts of night-dark hair between your fingers, bringing forth a small noise that you didn’t expect to hear from him — if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was just as needy as you were. You arched your back until your body was pressed to skin like silken starlight, surprised at how good it felt to be against him like this.

This was a dream, you knew, but it felt so real. More than real.

If you thought too hard about it, your mind grew dizzy at the thought. You barely knew this man, and you had no clue what the repercussions of these encounters would be, if any. But as he cupped your face, tilting your head to meet his kisses fully while his tongue slipped inside your mouth, searching and exploring you, you let yourself get swept away. You wanted him, needed him as badly as you desired your next breath.