#and so i might be wrong about that one. there's another song in that mist loop that Could also be it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

arzen9 · 2 months ago

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Can I Be Good? Chapter 12: Beating of Wings - Astarion/Lark

pairing: Astarion/f!Tav | Astarion/f!OC 18+ MDNI word count: 9.6k tags/warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Not Canon Compliant, Vampire Ascendant Astarion, Redemption, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Mystery, Romance, Drama, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Original Female Character, Mentions of Trauma, Mentions of Past Trauma, Mentions of Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masturbation, Blood, Blood Drinking, Alcohol summary: Centuries of pain, a ritual, (not) hunger, (not) desire, a lost soul, a search, a yearning, bodies, bodies... And a heart that changes everything.

For those of you that do not know, Lark is largely a self insert, and the conversations she has with Astarion about her mother have been very healing for me. I hope that this story makes you smile, even when Lark and Astarion are going through it lol.

On a different note- HERE COMES THE SMUT!

And on yet another different note: I will need to take a break starting next Thursday, because I have a vacation planned. Thank you for understanding! I will be back with more on around May 15th!

Here's some lyrics from the song I listened to on repeat while writing this chapter: And nothing fuels a good flirtation Like need and anger and desperation -The Moth & The Flame by Les Deux Love Orchestra

Thanks for reading, and as always, if you want to chat, my ask box & dm's are always open<3 Thank you @nerdallwritey for reading these over, always helping out, and being an amazing friend, ILY!!!

Can I Be Good? spotify playlist

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Astarion’s name has never sounded so precious as it does now falling from Lark’s lips in a moan.

If only he was the one causing it.

He should not be here. Not after what she said to him in the garden.

No— not after what he said to her.

For all his powers as the ascendant, though, he can’t turn back time.

So, he’s here— Lark might not know, but this is an olive branch. The way Astarion understands it, of course: one offered in secret.

But one thing about Astarion is that centuries have not been able to chip away at his avoidant nature, and when he sees Lark writhe and squirm under the covers, with his pen in her hand (he wishes she’d get rid of the covers so that he could see) and his name falling from her lips at the height of her ecstasy, all he can think of doing is to run away.

It’s too much— her scent. Her blood is something (everything) on its own already, but mixed with the unique aroma of her arousal, that slightly sweet tinge, how it grows stronger as she breathes out his name (it’s enough to make him forget his own name) is more than he can take. His pants feel way too tight all of a sudden, and if he sticks around, he knows he’ll end up doing something reckless.

So, Astarion runs away.

He can’t return to the palace fast enough. He breathes quick, moves even quicker, when he gets to the entrance and comes out of his mist form.

If he’s lucky, the others will have retreated to their chambers for the night, and he won’t have to deal with them in his current state.

But when has Astarion ever been lucky?

Karlach, Gale and Shadowheart are all up, standing around the bar with concerned expressions they’re doing nothing to hide. Noticing his arrival, they all turn towards the palace entrance, but it’s Karlach who speaks first, her worried expression quickly replaced by one of dangerous fury.

“Where in the hells were you?”

Gods, not now. “Excuse me?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Astarion? I know you can be an absolute prick, but to Lark?” Karlach’s voice booms as she walks closer to him, and Gale and Shadowheart move with her, albeit slower, more careful.

“She came running to you to complain, did she?”

Karlach looks ready to punch him. “She did no such thing, but you probably know that. I’m not an idiot, Astarion. She came back here after talking to you all teary eyed.”

Ah, yes. He was aware of that, of course.

Lark’s beautiful, pearly tears adorning the creases of her beautiful, rose-like eyes. He could smell the salt, even if she tried to hide from him that she was crying.

“And what is it that you want me to say, Karlach?”

“Oh, stop acting like a fool! I want to see that you know you hurt her! That you’ll do something about it! Anything!”

“Perhaps yelling at each other is not the best way of—” Gale tries to interject, but Shadowheart silences him by placing her hand on his arm.

Karlach ignores them entirely and continues, “I want to know that you’re not just an asshole. That you’re more than what has been done to you. More than what you’ve done.”

The room goes silent while the tiefling looks down at Astarion, searching his face. Gale and Shadowheart keep their gazes fixed straight on the floor, seemingly to avoid getting caught in the middle of whatever this is.

Astarion knows that Karlach is right, of course. He did hurt Lark— quite purposefully so. But being cornered like this is not going to produce the results Karlach might be hoping for.

“If you’re not happy with my ways, darling, you’re more than welcome to leave.”

He shouldn’t have said that. He knows it. Because he, better than anyone, knows what would happen if they left.

Karlach looks at him, and Astarion expects anger, but there’s only disappointment in her amber eyes. Glowing resin that holds only kindness. It infuriates him, how sensitive she can be.

“You never lost your cruelty, Astarion,�� she says. She doesn’t move. He’s locked in her gaze, unable to look away. “You know that? Even before the ritual, you were like this. So when you go around moping about how you regret what you did, think about that.”

After looking over his face one last time, Karlach turns and leaves— without hitting him, cursing at him, nothing. As she walks away, her shoulders slump down a little, and she shakes her head side to side. Silent. Defeated.

Astarion looks at the other two of his friends, his companions from another lifetime— so long ago now. They’re still avoiding his gaze, but there’s a somber sadness to their expressions that weren’t there a moment ago.

“A little rest will do all of us wonders,” Gale says, ever the peacekeeper. Astarion thinks perhaps Lark could be happy with someone like Gale— someone who is stable, someone who faces all adversities with the same calm and collected façade, a protection from the storm of one’s own mind. Not someone like him who more often than not causes those very storms.

But he’d be damned if he let anyone even come close to her— someone other than him, that is. Is this possessiveness the curse of a vampire lord, or is it something else entirely?

Without saying anything to Shadowheart and Gale, Astarion leaves, stomping all the way to his room. Although Karlach is usually quick tempered, it’s a rare occasion for her to lose her cool— especially these days. A few centuries ago, things were different, but life is a lot more… Mundane now, and besides, Wyll seems to bring out something even softer than usual in her. If she gets this mad at Astarion on behalf of someone who is virtually a stranger, well— he must truly have struck gold at choosing someone to join his ragtag little group.

He's taking all of the credit unfairly, of course. It’s Lark who has earned the care and protection of everyone at the Crimson Palace on her own right— as painful as it is to admit. She has not left Astarion’s mind ever since that first time he saw her among the crowd, standing on the balcony. It’s no surprise that the others would be just as enamored with her— albeit in different senses.

Once in his room, all he can do is rub his face with his hands and sigh at the sight of that wretched thing still atop his pillow. Horseradish.

Still, it’s not all bad— he has something of hers with him. That will have to do, for the time being.

----

Rest has a way of avoiding Astarion— it’s been like this for a very long time. It has only gotten worse, though, now that his mind is riddled with thoughts of Lark whether he’s awake or not.

In the morning, after hours of useless tossing and turning, he finally gives up and opens his eyes. Sometimes he thinks he’s in a weird sort of dream or hallucination, that he’ll wake up with a jolt and realize he’s still being tortured by Godey in the kennels or entertaining guests in the bedroom. In these moments, he’ll tell himself— it was worth it, what I did. I deserved it. But then, it’ll just keep hurting, all the godsdamned time.

What Karlach said is true. The ritual didn’t make him cruel. If anything, it only brought out the worst parts of him and laid them under the blazing sun, and the more he tries to find a shadow to veil them under, the clock just ticks noon over and over again, in a vicious cycle. The darkest thoughts he harbors, he does his best to keep to himself, but every day that passes it gets harder, and Lark’s presence has been… Less than helpful. Because every time he’s near her, he feels weak— as if he never stopped being a mere spawn. She brings out that side of him he thought lost to the ascension— and sometimes he thinks that might be a good thing, but then the anger bubbles up to the surface and…

It's getting harder and harder to control himself.

Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Astarion glances at himself in the mirror— he looks tired. Horseradish sits on top of his pillow behind him, and if he didn’t know it was an inanimate object, Astarion would say it was almost curious, watching him look at his reflection as he has done the same way every morning for centuries— but now, there’s something different about him.

He grabs his phone from the bedside table and taps on the screen to check if he has any notifications— some e-mails that he’ll need to forward to Lark, articles from various news apps, funny videos Karlach keeps sending him (although she hasn’t sent him anything yesterday, perhaps a little predictably). Nothing from the one person he wanted a notification from.

With a sigh, he puts his phone back and stands up, stretching his limbs and walking towards the bathroom to take a shower. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, really. What was she supposed to do, send him a selfie after what happened? Ask him to apologize? He knows Lark would never do that— because he wouldn’t, either.

As hot water clouds the wide mirror in his bathroom, Astarion fantasizes about drinking from Lark again. Invite her into his room, tell her he knows what she did with his pen. He looks at the separate bathtub that sits in the middle of the room, haunted by visions of her laid bare in the water, her blood flowing like a stream over the tiles, and he would feel more like a king licking every drop from the floor than he ever did in all his immortality as the only vampire who doesn’t need to miss the sun anymore.

He’d be willing to trap himself in the shadows again, if only it meant for her to crane her neck to him and tell him that he is good.

Astarion steps into the shower and shuts the glass door behind him, and he’s so hard it hurts. He thinks of her again, how she looked under her bedsheets, eyes closed, covered only beneath her pelvic bone— it’s almost funny, how that’s where she draws the line. Even in her own home, her own room, she’s not comfortable enough to shed her layers. But Astarion can see behind his closed eyelids vividly, how her small breasts heaved with every stifled moan as she touched herself, pebbled nipples a few shades darker than her skin begging to be taken care of. But she never touched them— maybe it’s not her favorite sensation. Or maybe—

Astarion thinks it’s highly possible that Lark is right— he knew she was right in the moment she said it, but his anger is a quick, destructive thing. He knows there’s truth to her admission that she knows intimacy can be tainted. He knows, perhaps worst of all, that she understands. Maybe touching herself for the sake of her own, unbridled pleasure is an entirely new thing to her, just as it is to him, as he starts pumping himself, slowly, almost torturously— imagining what it would be like if it was her hand, instead.

He can’t stifle his moans (or doesn’t bother to) as well as Lark did, but when he comes, there’s only one image in his mind, her voice, repeating to him over and over again—

“You are good, Astarion. You are good.”

----

Astarion would be lying if he said he wasn’t at all worried about Lark simply not showing up, after their lovely little conversation from the previous day.

And he’d also be lying if he said the sigh of relief that falls from his lips was anything but genuine when, even before hearing the knock at his door, her scent filled his nostrils.

It’s an especially cold day, and her dark red sweater compliments the burgundy of her eyes. Astarion waits for her to speak— only slightly worried about the possibility of her simply… Quitting. But, if he has come to know her a little bit in the past few weeks, he senses that, if Lark was going to quit, she wouldn’t have bothered showing up in his office. It would have been her right, too— Astarion never was known for his ability to bite his tongue and swallow his especially cruel words and yesterday had been no different.

“Good morning,” she says, but doesn’t look at him. Perhaps she’s just mad at him. Or maybe, she’s thinking of what she did. Something warm and electric passes through Astarion’s body, but he doesn’t move, sitting behind his desk with the air of someone who definitely doesn’t know how the person standing in front of him used his pen to pleasure herself mere hours ago.

“Good morning,” he responds, mirroring her. He keeps his voice level, letting her take control of where the conversation will go.

“I assume you’ll want this back,” Lark says and steps closer to his desk with an extended hand— and there it is, the silver shine of the pen he gave her. Immediately he can smell a few different scents on it— her. That’s a given. Even when it’s to be expected, though, it doesn’t fail to light his nerves on fire. But something else is covering her scent, much to his dismay— did she try to wash it with soap?

Astarion holds out his hand to grab the pen from her, but Lark drops it on the desk instead. So, she’s still mad. Not mad enough, he thinks to himself. Although— anger can be a powerful fuel for desire.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the pen and sliding a finger over his initials engraved on it. Lark swallows.

“Yesterday was… Difficult for both of us, yeah?”

She’s trying to apologize. Cute.

“That’s one word for it,” he says, not unkindly. “Difficult conversations bring about difficult feelings.”

Lark nods. “I’m sorry, for what I said. Those difficult feelings got the best of me, I guess.”

Even when he’s the one in the wrong, she apologizes first.

“I should be the one extending an apology, should I not?”

She fiddles with the hem of her sweater. “You shouldn’t ask me if I deserve an apology or not.”

Because she will say no, is that it?

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. It’s been a very long time since he last apologized to someone sincerely, and it comes out weaker than he thought it would— almost as if he’s confessing a secret.

Lark just stands there, looking at him. Is she expecting something more? What can Astarion even offer her, if not his body, or—

No. She’s made it clear that she’s willing to understand. That she has used herself, too; two sides of a coin, they stand staring at each other and Astarion decides to offer her— honesty.

“I can be… Quick to get lost in the darker corners of my past,” he says, then pauses to clear his throat. “They tend to bring out the worst version of me.”

That finally earns him a small, careful smile from Lark. “We all have that, don’t we? The worst version of ourselves.”

Astarion tilts his head at her, listening.

“I can never understand everything that you’ve been through, Astarion,” she says, locking her soft gaze to his questioning one. “Just like how you won’t understand everything I’ve been through. But, I can still be there for you. Help you. If you let me.”

He shouldn’t let her, because that will make him weak.

Is that really what he thinks?

“We both have been hurt, but that doesn't mean we have to hurt each other,” Lark says, and her voice is so soft, as if she’s talking to an animal, trying to coax it out of hiding; it angers Astarion to no end, but also makes something in his chest sting.

We don’t have to hurt each other, she says. But he’s already hurt her— not just with his words, but with his teeth. He has taken her life essence, and he wants it again and again and again; she doesn’t know what she’s saying, to let him in is to invite pain. But if that’s what she wants, how could he ever deny her?

“Astarion?”

Lark’s voice brings him back to reality, and Astarion isn’t surprised to find her concerned gaze fixed on him. She has a way of saying his name that makes everything else vanish— only her voice remains in his mind, asking him to come back to the present, to stay there, with her.

“Yes, darling?”

“You seem so… Lost in thought sometimes. I always wonder where you go to. But then… Whenever I’m lost in thought, I usually don’t go anywhere good.”

“A kindred spirit,” he jokes. More truth than he would have wanted.

“Don’t hide from me,” she says.

Come out, a part of him growls. Come out of hiding, ravish her. Make her regret her softness.

If you let the right one in, Shadowheart had said.

“How can you be so sure you’ll like what you see?” he asks, and he hates that he even has to ask.

Astarion has spent centuries cultivating what he is, but he has failed to go beyond what he looks like.

“Because it’s you,” Lark says, and she’s so chirpy and cheerful as she says it that it almost makes Astarion smile.

“You don’t even know what I am.”

“A vampire. An elf. A man. What does it matter? You’re just Astarion to me.”

Just Astarion. How perfect would that be?

“You always know just what to say, don’t you?”

She smiles— she remembers how she had asked him the same thing. “A kindred spirit.”

Astarion plays with the dent his initials make on the pen with his nail, pushing in over and over again.

“Am I forgiven?” Lark asks. It makes him giggle.

“I should be the one asking you that question.”

She taps the tip of her manicured finger to her chin repeatedly. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard.”

They laugh. Together. It’s easy. Almost… Natural.

“What will you have me work on today, boss?”

Astarion frowns. “What am I, a ship captain?”

“I would have called you captain, then.”

Damned poet. He rolls his eyes, which makes her grin wide. If that’s what it takes— he’s okay with acting annoyed more.

“Shadowheart will probably need you with her cocktails again.”

“Uh-oh,” Lark says, but her smile betrays her. She takes a few steps back, but doesn’t fully turn to leave. Maybe she doesn’t want to.

Astarion surely doesn’t want her to leave.

“Guess I should go,” she says. Her eyes shift over to the pen in his hands, if only for a second.

He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t take the opportunity.

“You got good use out of it, I presume?”

“Hmm?”

“My pen.”

“I— Yes. I’ll see you later.”

She’s running away, and amusement bubbles in Astarion’s chest.

“Use unscented soap next time, will you? You know how much I adore your scent.”

Lark’s eyes widen, and she turns the exact same color as her sweater. Without a word, she turns and leaves, letting Astarion enjoy the satisfaction of teasing her.

He could never get bored of this.

----

Astarion spends the day in his office, being intentionally slow with responding to people’s e-mails— as revenge, of course; if people dare to make him wait, he’ll make them wait in return.

In truth, he’s just distracted.

How can he not be, when he can hear Lark and Shadowheart get drunker and drunker in the name of “work”?

He’s not angry that they’re slacking off or anything— he’s envious, perhaps, of the time Shadowheart gets to have with Lark.

So, he decides to do something about it.

He keeps a few bottles of wine here in his office, away from the others they keep in storage— his private collection, so to speak. He gets up from his desk and saunters over to one of the cupboards in the left corner of the room, and takes out a bottle of red, blowing off the dust that has collected on the shoulder. He’s never really had an excuse to drink one of these before. Not that he needs an excuse— immortality renders special occasions almost mute. It does feel better to hope, however.

Taking the bottle back to his desk, he retrieves a wine opener from one of the drawers and uncorks it. The wine smells rich and full, top quality. One of the good things about his office is that he has everything he needs right here— including wine glasses. He takes two out of one of the cupboards under his desk, and places them next to the bottle.

Now, the important part.

As he walks out of his office, Astarion hesitates— what does he hope to get from offering a drink to Lark? For the first time in centuries, the answer to that question comes almost instantly but not without surprise.

Nothing. He hopes to get nothing at all. Just more time with her.

This is… Most unusual. But he’ll have to deal with the complicated questions that riddle his mind later.

He makes his way downstairs in his usual gait— relaxed, nonchalant. He has both hands in his pockets as he approaches the bar. Lark and Shadowheart are trying out drinks and laughing and talking, and neither of them notice him at first.

Clearing his throat, Astarion interrupts, “Why are you testing out your creations? I thought that was Lark’s job.” To everyone’s surprise, Astarion included, there’s no annoyance in his voice.

Lark turns and her eyes crinkle with a goopy smile when he sees him. Sensing the ease between them, Shadowheart raises an amused eyebrow.

“I thought you guys weren’t playing together anymore.”

“What can I say? It’s hard not to forgive him,” Lark tries to joke, but it’s more honest than she intended, apparent from the way she blushes and looks away, earning an eye roll from Shadowheart.

“I hope that’s the drinks I’ve been piling on you talking.”

“How is that going, by the way?” Astarion asks. “The actual choosing the drinks part, of course. Everything else seems… Entertaining, to say the least.”

Lark snorts. “Ah, yes. We are thoroughly entertained.”

Shadowheart swats at her arm, but misses. “I think we might have our final menu picked out.”

“Wonderful,” he says. One less task to worry about. “If that’s taken care of, I’d like you to join me in my office, Lark, if you will.”

“And leave me to clean up all this mess by myself?” Shadowheart whines.

“Call Lae’zel to help you out,” Lark snorts again, as if imagining her friend helping out with dishes is too funny to think about. Astarion doesn’t know much about Lae’zel, but from what he’s seen, he’s inclined to agree.

“You know what,” Shadowheart says, hiding her giddiness behind the act of dramatically reaching for her phone in her back pocket. “I might just do that.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” Astarion tells her, and gestures at Lark to lead the way.

On the way back to his office, they’re relatively silent, and their silence makes the distance feel more substantial than it actually is. Perhaps it’s because she’s tipsy, but there’s a new, unfamiliar energy in her. Astarion can feel her magic, almost a separate entity; alive, right under her skin.

“You’re not going to blow me up, are you?”

She turns to look at him, a little startled. “Why, are you afraid of me?”

“Ha!” he laughs, louder than he intended. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“No, actually,” she says, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t push.

When they reach his office, he holds the door open for Lark, and she laughs when she sees the wine bottle, and the glasses.

“Am I getting paid to just drink for you guys?”

Astarion laughs with her. “Sounds like a great job to me.”

He pours wine for them as she watches. Instead of taking a seat behind his desk, he sits on one of the chairs placed in front of it, and Lark sits on the other. Astarion hands one of the glasses to her, and she clinks it to his.

“To forgiveness,” she says. He cocks a brow at her. Her dark burgundy eyes go wide when she takes her first sip.

“Are we celebrating something? This wine tastes way too expensive.”

It’s not like Astarion to get flustered, but he looks away nonetheless. “Oh, you know.”

“Is this your way of apologizing?” She leans forward, placing her arm on her knee and resting her chin on top of her open palm.

No, he wants to say. My way of apologizing would be to make myself useful. But that’s not what either of them wants, is it?

Sensing his thoughts starting to wonder, Lark leans back in her chair again, saying, “Thank you, Astarion. It’s good.”

That makes him preen. “I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

She rests her head on the back of the chair, looking at the ceiling. “Sometimes I think none of this is real.”

“You’re not completely drunk, are you?”

She snickers. “No, I’m not. I just never had a lot of people around me that made me feel… Happy. Valued. Wyll and Lae’zel are like family to me, don’t get me wrong. But since I’ve started working for you, I feel like I’ve found a place for myself in this city, finally.”

Astarion doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s never given anyone a sense of belonging before. “Where are you from, originally?”

“Hartlands…” she intonated dramatically.

“Ah, the fawn,” Astarion says, and takes a sip from his wine. “A bit vague, though.”

“I’m from Athkatla. Although, if I never go there again, I wouldn’t miss it.”

“On account of your mother, I assume.”

Lark nods. “You’re stronger than I am. I left her house, and the city as soon as I could. But you’re… Here. You’ve made this place into something of your own.”

Speaking of his past has never been easy for Astarion— proven to even him, once again, by the argument he had with Lark the day prior. But she’s not judging him— in fact, she’s complimenting his strength, even.

“Did you ever think of staying? Not with her, necessarily. Just… There.”

She sips her wine and swishes it around her mouth before answering, as if prepping her words with the liquid. “Maybe, at one point. It’s a little weird now that I know she’s killed herself in there.”

“How do you feel about that? The fact that she killed herself?” It surprises Astarion how easily these questions come out of him— it surprises him even more, that he finds himself caring about the answers.

Lark shrugs. “She’d always say she wanted to die. She tried, once before. I was in college.” She sips her wine again. Her soft lips take on the dark red color of it. “I filtered out most of what she said. How she wanted to die, how she wanted me to die, how she wanted my dad to die… It just became white noise after a while.”

“Did you ever want to kill her?”

She smiles a little. “I most certainly did. I was never as brave as you, though. How did you feel, when you finally got rid of your master?”

It was glorious, Astarion wants to say. The power he felt surging into him during the ritual. But he looks away and swallows.

“Time has taken most of its joy away, if I’m honest. But I don’t regret killing him, of course. The bastard got what was coming for him.”

“I know you absolutely despise being praised, but,” Lark interjects, sarcasm dripping from her deep voice, “I’m really fucking proud of you. You took matters into your own hands and saved yourself. That’s huge.”

And doomed a few thousand others. Not as huge.

“Yes,” he purrs, surveying his nails. “Who needs praise when you know you look this good?”

That makes her laugh. A high-pitched, strong sound. Astarion wants to hear it again, and again.

“Right, I’ve seen the mirror in your room. I bet you watch yourself fall asleep in that thing.” Lark lowers her gaze to her glass, perhaps suddenly shy with the mention of his room. The last time she was there, he was deeply lost in her neck, after all.

“It can come in handy.”

She tilts her head and stops right as she’s about to take a sip of her wine. Narrowing her eyes, she asks, “Does it? What do your veritable list of lovers think of it?”

“My veritable list of lovers?”

“I assume, of course.”

“Of course.”

Lark leans forward in her chair, bringing her face closer to him. “Do you have that, then? A veritable list of lovers?”

Astarion mirrors her and leans forward— it’s worth doing if only to hear how her heart speeds up. “I thought you didn’t want to be one of them.”

“I said I didn’t want to be one of your toys. I didn’t say anything about lovers.”

He likes it when she gets bold like this. If it’s the alcohol, or their closeness, he can’t be sure. They’re so close to each other now, Astarion can feel the warmth of her short breaths, hear her pulse, louder and louder—

His voice is a growly whisper when he says, “You want to be my lover?”

The corner of her lip tugs upward, and it’s hard for him to not return the expression. It’s easy, with her— having fun. He moves just a bit more forward, pulling the chair with him, just an inch, to graze her lips with his, when he hears the sound of something crackling—

Lark pulls away suddenly with a lurch, and it’s right on time as her wine glass shatters in her hand. She’s breathless, and Astarion can feel the heat that vibrates from her body. Smell her desire, mixed in with frustration— at her magic, at herself, he doesn’t know.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, defeated. Then, a different smell—

“You’ve cut yourself.”

She looks down at her hand, a little pinprick in her palm, nothing bad. It’s enough to make Astarion dizzy.

“Well, that explains the wild look in your eyes.”

He tries to look away. It’s harder said than done.

“I should go,” she blurts out, closing her hand and holding it to her chest, bending down to pick up pieces of the wine glass.

“I can do it,” he says, and reaching out, brushes against her.

Electricity. This must be how it’s produced.

Lark’s a scared, flighty little thing— a cornered fawn, away from its mother. She must have felt it too, the electricity. As she stands up, Astarion sees her tremble.

“I— I’d offer you some, but—”

“What?”

“My blood. I’m just— I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you. I’m sorry,” she keeps mumbling as she leaves his office with quick steps.

Astarion takes a deep breath when she’s gone. There’s a drop of her blood on the floor, by a few pieces of broken glass. He reaches out and collects it on the tip of his finger, then brings it to his mouth, enveloping it with his tongue, slowly and deliberately, trying to hold on to the taste as long as possible.

Everything in him aches.

----

Lark

Everything in Lark is aching. Burning and aching. Aching and burning.

She paces her living room, tapping at the band aid on her palm. It’s a delicious pain. Her skin is ablaze, hairs on the back of her neck standing up, her heart beating like she’s been running a marathon.

She wants him. There’s no use denying it anymore.

Judging by him almost kissing her, he just might want her too.

And that’s terrifying.

Because Lark knows that this is not just about sex, for her. She longs to just be with him, and sex is certainly part of it, but they’re both wounded in that department, and she’s afraid.

She’s afraid that this might be just sex for him. Or blood and sex. If it’s only that— She doesn’t want to think about it.

Her magic has never felt so… Strong before. Granted, she’s never been so aware of her powers before practicing with Gale, and she definitely has more control over them now.

And yet, every time she’s with Astarion, she feels unpredictable. Contrary to what he might believe, she does not want to blow him up.

Maybe just blow him.

“Ha ha,” she rolls her eyes to herself. A comedic genius even in the face of adversity.

Desperate, she grabs her phone and finds Lae’zel’s number from her Favorites tab. It rings and rings, but she doesn’t pick up. She tries Wyll, too, but his line goes straight to voicemail.

“Damn you both,” she mumbles. “And Shadowheart and Karlach too.”

Lark looks at her phone.

If she’s honest, she’s just scared. Scared of hurting him, yes; but scared of getting hurt as well, not physically— she’s scared that Astarion will break her heart.

It’s highly probable.

But…

Opening up their text chain, she types:

Can you come over?

“That sounds too serious,” she says, and deletes the message.

Do you want to come over?

Slightly better.

She hits send.

Almost immediately, two checkmarks appear under her message, signaling that he’s read it.

Lark waits for about two minutes, never looking away from the screen, but he doesn’t respond.

Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t. Maybe this is his way of saving her from himself. Or saving himself from her.

She keeps pacing the length of the room for a few more minutes but finally decides to try and calm down a little. From the kitchen, she pours herself a glass of water, and swishing a big gulp around her mouth, sits down on her couch, folding her legs underneath herself.

Maybe it’s not too late to change her name a second time and find a new city to move to.

Wyll would laugh his ass off at her right now. Probably. Lae’zel would do worse.

Looking at her phone is out of question. Calling him? A death sentence. She should toss the damn thing in the toilet and flush it.

Where’s Horseradish when you need it?

Lark wonders what her dad would say. In the past, whenever she’s told him about potential lovers, he’s always said the same thing: “Let them deserve you, my sun. Don’t open up your heart so easily.”

She imagines how the conversation would go— both of them hate phone calls, so it would probably be over text, and would probably look something like:

Hi, dad, I think I’m in love

Lark, are you sure? With whom?

Oh, you know. Some guy. My boss. A vampire.

But then— there’s a knock on her door.

Did he fly over here?

Lark wouldn’t be surprised.

Not that it was gone in the first place, but that thumping in her chest is back. The cut on her hand stings under the band-aid.

Lowering her eyes, she looks at herself to see if there’s anything out of place. She likes keeping her place cozy, so the heater is on, which makes it possible for her to wear her favorite outfits to lounge in— right now, that’s a pair of knee-length shorts that say Baldur’s Gate on the hem of one leg, and a black tank top with spaghetti straps. She sighs. Whatever she wears, she will never be as gorgeous as Astarion is.

Remembering the presence waiting at the door, she almost leaps toward it— she feels like she could tear it right off of its hinges if she really tried.

It’s weird. The moment she opens the door and sees Astarion’s suave smirk, fangs and all— it’s like something slots into place in her chest.

“Hello, darling,” he says. He’s changed into one of his black shirts and a pair of jeans that sit on him snugly. Even with just a pair of jeans, he manages to look like the king of a faraway land.

Lark tries not to ogle. “I’m sorry for… Well. Inviting you on such short notice,” she gestures at him to come inside. “And for freaking out on you. And for bleeding in your office. Again.”

He scoffs. “I want to be notified at least two business days in advance, next time.” He pauses as he passes the threshold, then looking back at her over his shoulder he says, “For when you invite me over, and for when you bleed.”

What a freak. Lark smiles.

Astarion holds up the bottle of wine he’s been carrying. “I brought the rest of our wine. You do owe me a wine glass, though.”

She takes the bottle from him and walks toward the kitchen. “Can’t you deduct it from my paycheck or something?”

He laughs at that. “True, I can do that. I forget that you work for me.”

“Astarion! And here I thought, we were going to prepare for the masquerade.”

“Hmm. What a diligent worker you are.”

“Of course,” she grins, pouring wine for them both. “Why else would I invite you over?”

Astarion comes to stand next to her by the kitchen counter and taps a finger on the laminated surface. “Let me guess— you didn’t invite me here to have sex.”

She hands him his glass of wine. He remembers what she told him the first time she asked him to come upstairs.

“Of course not,” she says, and it’s partly true— she didn’t invite him just for that. “But it’s not totally off the table.”

He raises both eyebrows in surprise, wrinkling his forehead— it makes Lark want to caress his face. “Lark Promise, are you flirting with me?”

She just laughs and walks over to her couch, and he follows her. There’s something hungry in his gaze when they sit on opposite ends, and he looks at her— all over her. It doesn’t make her feel vulnerable, though— just seen. Just as she wants to be.

“Thank you,” she says, maintaining eye contact.

He leans his head on one hand, swirling the wine in his glass with the other. “What for?”

“For coming.”

“A bit early to say that, isn’t it?”

They both chortle at his innuendo— like two teenagers. Lark has to cover her mouth to stop herself from snorting. “You’re sweet. And sillier than I thought.”

He hums an approving sound, then turns to look at the ceiling. “How drunk are you?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“I’d much rather if you remember the first time I kiss you.”

Lark’s breath catches, and she has to look away from him for a moment.

Then— “I just… I want to say something.”

He turns to face her again. Those crimson eyes. Lark worries her bottom lip with the blunt of her teeth. “I… If my magic— if I do something to hurt you, you should stop me.”

Astarion’s face falls, suddenly somber. He takes a sip of wine, then places the glass in front of him on the coffee table. “I’ve had my fangs buried in your neck. You’re worried about hurting me?”

“You saw in my memories, when you drank my blood,” she says. “I’ve hurt people before.”

“Yes. People who were abusing you, torturing you, taking advantage of you. Give your powers a little more credit, darling. Perhaps all this time, they were just trying to protect you.”

Before Lark has time to grapple with that, he takes her glass out of her hand, and places it on the table, next to his. Moving closer to her, he grabs her chin and lifts gently, to make her meet his gaze. “You’ll be good for me, Lark Promise, won’t you?”

She could cry. Her voice is a whimper when she says, “I’ll be good for you.”

And then, Astarion kisses her.

Almost immediately, Lark sighs a sigh of relief, and he takes a deep breath before giving a lick at the parting of her mouth, tentative, careful. She parts her lips further, an invitation. Come in, taste me. Let me taste you.

Astarion tastes like wine, cold and expensive— but his tongue is soft as it enters Lark’s mouth, exploring, discovering. She does the same— hesitant at first. When her tongue grazes at the tip of one of his fangs, an almost-moan rips itself out of his throat.

He moves his hand grabbing her chin, and places it on the side of her face instead, and she melts into his touch. Meanwhile, Lark buries her hand in his curls, and they’re just as soft as she remembers. And his scent, oh, his scent— she can almost taste it now, sharp and herbaceous, surrounding all of her senses.

There it is— the crackling, right beneath her fingers. She tries to pull away, but Astarion holds her and doesn’t let her, kissing her more feverishly, as if to test her. It’s under her hands, her fingertips, that electric feeling, if she doesn’t move—

In her panic, as she tries to move her hand away, she lands on his bare forearm instead, and her magic connects, but opening her eyes to see the damage, she only finds Astarion looking at her with a smirk.

“I— Did I hurt you?”

He breathes deep, once, then twice. His pupils are blown out, face glistening with warmth.

If Lark was to die now, she’d be ecstatic that this was the last thing she saw.

“No,” he says. “That— It felt good. Unique.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” he says, and places a kiss on the corner of her lips. He moves on to the other corner, to her chin, and she lifts it for him, revealing her neck. He mouths at the column of her throat, and she whines.

Placing one hand on the small of her back, Astarion guides her to lay down, and straddling her hips, he lowers himself down to continue kissing her, each one more passionate, desperate, until both of them are reduced to whines and moans that fill Lark’s apartment.

Astarion pulls back to look at her, and Lark feels breathless. He places his thumb on her lower lip, pressing down just slightly, opening her up. She gives a kitten lick at the coolness of it and he smiles. His teeth glint in the dark. A threat. Or a promise.

Lark tries to rub her thighs together, to relieve the wetness at her center. Astarion must sense her neediness as he moves one of his legs between hers, angling it just right so that it presses at her core. It almost makes her eyes roll back.

“I can smell how soaked you are,” he says, and there’s no disgust in his voice, no trace of bad memories climbing up to the surface. Just pure, unadulterated desire.

He pushes his thumb further into her mouth, and she gladly takes it, welcoming it by sucking in her cheeks. He moves his leg away from her core, and Lark mourns the contact, but he’s quick to replace it— he places a hand under her thigh, and she lifts it up so that he can wrap it around his waist, granting him access.

When he rolls his hips, they moan in unison at the sensation. Lark can feel how hard he is against the thin fabric of her shorts and through his pants. Her moan vibrates against his thumb, and he removes it from her mouth slowly just to bring it to his own, as if to taste her on his skin. Then, he takes her hand up to his face, the one with the band-aid on— and inhales.

Everything he does sets Lark aflame.

“Please,” she says, not knowing what she’s begging for.

“Please what, sweet girl?” Astarion asks with another roll of his hips and without his thumb in her mouth, Lark moans even louder— stopping herself by biting down on her lip. Bending down over her, Astarion grabs her chin again, a little more forceful this time. “None of that. Let me hear you.”

She nods, hypnotized by his unrelenting gaze, his desire for her.

She’s never felt every inch of her skin on fire like this. It makes her want him more— to touch him, however way possible.

Moving her leg a little, she pulls him against herself more, and he laughs. Lark smiles, too— their desires for each other mingling, combining into one thing, so separate from the world that contains them, as if only a dream.

Lark clumsily paws at the buttons of his shirt, and he lets her— with a hesitant eye. Noticing his expression, Lark pauses. “Is this okay?”

“It’s… Hard to explain. Better to show you, perhaps,” he says, taking over and unbuttoning his shirt quickly.

Lark’s not sure yet of what he means, but she can’t help watching him take his shirt off, how perfect his body is laid out in front of her, strong and smooth, as if carved out of marble.

There’s a look in his eye that he’s not sure about something— it softens when Lark reaches her hand out to him, without touching, only reminding. He takes her hand, and suddenly pulls away a little, making Lark’s leg unwrap itself from his waist. Once he’s a bit further away, he turns his back to Lark, never letting go of her hand.

“You’re a poet, aren’t you?” he says, voice dripping with hostile sarcasm— not aimed at her. “Here’s a poem for you.”

Lark doesn’t speak infernal, but she’s seen it before, studying poetry in college. She recognizes the etched script on Astarion’s ivory skin, even though she doesn’t know what it means.

She squeezes his hand with hers, and he returns the gesture. “Astarion,” she says.

He turns back to face her. “Lark.”

“Did he do this to you?”

“I might have mentioned him to be a rather cruel master.”

“What does it say?”

His voice is not as distant as his eyes are, when he says, “It’s one part of a contract with the devil Mephistopheles.”

Lark doesn’t know what to say. Instead, she sits up, bringing the hand that isn’t holding Astarion’s to his face, always pausing before touching, asking. Reminding. He cranes his neck and brings himself closer to her touch.

“You said it yourself, but just to reiterate,” she says. “The bastard got what was coming to him.”

Astarion smiles. It’s a slightly pained one, but a smile, nonetheless. “Yes. I’m glad you agree.”

As she softly caresses his cheekbone with her thumb, Lark says, “We don’t have to have sex.”

“Of course we don’t,” he says, and laughs. “But I want to.”

His admission makes Lark’s heart flutter. She reaches forward to cover his mouth with hers, and he drinks her in.

“Thank you for showing me,” she says between kisses. Astarion’s jaw clenches— only for a second. He hums but doesn’t say anything.

Lark climbs into his lap, and he stretches his legs to make room for her. “He can’t hurt you anymore,” she says before lowering her mouth to him again. Astarion sucks her bottom lip, eliciting a raspy whine.

“Will you protect me from the big bad wolves, Lark Promise?”

She laughs, but it’s cut short when he places both hands over her ass and gives it a squeeze. “I’ll— I’ll do anything for you.”

“Hmm. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I promise.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says, and one of his fangs pricks the inside of Lark’s mouth. She tastes the irony tang of blood.

Astarion does too, judging by the way his eyes roll back and his hands forcefully pull at her shorts. He sucks at the small cut, moaning that beautiful way that he does— Lark doesn’t think she’s ever heard of a sound so beautiful.

Once he removes himself from her, Lark asks, “Are you hungry, Astarion?”

“Yes.” His answer is quick. “But not just for your blood.” He tugs at her shorts, asking for permission. She nods, and he pulls them down. She wiggles and helps him out so that the fabric is done away with, leaving her with just her absolutely soaked through panties.

“Please touch me,” she whines, a moth beating its wings by the fire.

“Show me where.”

Lark takes his hand and guides it to her core, closing her eyes at his touch.

“Keep looking at me,” he says, and Lark can tell his control is dwindling. It would be a wondrous sight, she thinks, to see an unrestrained Astarion.

She knows she won’t last long— unraveling to Astarion’s touch is a wholly new experience, one that Lark will never be able to tire of.

Pulling her panties to the side, he dips a finger between her folds, and chuckles darkly when he feels her slick. “All for me,” he says, and brings his finger to his mouth, never taking his eyes away from hers.

Lark could come right then and there, as he tastes her, closing his eyes and moaning.

But he doesn’t leave her untouched for long. This time he pushes a finger in, slowly at first. She has to hold on to his broad, strong shoulders to not topple over.

“Good girl,” he praises. Lark moans. “Will you take my cock this well too?”

He certainly has a way with words. “I will,” she whimpers. “I’ll be good for you, Astarion.”

Just as she’s at the precipice of exploding, he removes his finger, and Lark whines at the emptiness.

“Don’t worry,” Astarion whispers. He pulls her down, so that she sits facing him, and hooks a finger under the straps of her tank top. “Let’s get rid of this, shall we?”

He could ask her to melt the whole entire universe, and she would do it for him.

Lark lifts her arms up so that Astarion can remove her top. Now she’s fully exposed to him— interestingly, though, she doesn’t feel embarrassed under his gaze. His beautiful ruby eyes drink her form in, and she only wants more.

“Can I?” she asks, placing a hand on his knee, gesturing at his pants.

His gaze is soft when he nods. He helps her unbuckle his belt and undo his zipper, then moves his hands away to let her pull the pants down, leaning back to make it easy for her. Lark pulls down his boxers along with them, and Astarion sucks air through his teeth with a sharp sound.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, but to Astarion’s surprise, she’s looking just at his face when she says it.

He narrows his eyes at her. “I know. Now will you please get over here?”

They laugh. Lark climbs over his body, skin over skin, her magic crackling and fizzing each time she comes into contact with him. As she kisses him, she wraps one hand around his cock, and he moans into her mouth. His skin is cool to her warm touch, full of contrasts— he’s impossibly hard in her palm, but his skin is so smooth, like velvet. She pumps him, once, twice— then feels the familiar humming vibration of magic again, and instinctively goes to pull away, but just like before Astarion stops her, placing his hand on top of hers.

“Don’t be scared,” he says against her lips.

She presses her forehead to his, and looking at his eyes, lets him guide her movements. Her fingertips ache with magic, threatening to pour over—

Astarion moans again, louder this time. “That— do that again,” he whines.

Oh, she could listen to him forever.

This time, it’s Lark who calls her magic to the surface— because she wants to make him feel good. His back arches off of the couch, Lark presses her chest to his, as he thrusts his hips forward.

She presses another soft kiss to his lips, moaning in tandem, and he suddenly turns them around so that he’s on top of her instead. She looks at him breathlessly, how perfect he is— from head to toe. She can feel her chest heaving with each breath, newfound strength in her magic buzzing through her blood and making her dizzy.

Astarion flicks her nipple with one finger, pulling a wanton moan out of her. He watches her reactions like he’s god, and she’s his one and only creation— with reverence, with devotion, with something close to… Love.

“Perfect,” he whispers. With one swift move, he lifts one of her legs up over his shoulder, pulling her down towards him. His length rests on the soft hairs of her mound, leaking precum on her belly. Lark runs a finger over his tip and brings it to her mouth to taste him, and he bites his lip, one fang sticking out, sharp and glinting.

Taking himself in his hand, Astarion gathers her wetness and rubs against her clit a couple of times— it’s enough to make Lark lose all logical thought.

“Do you want it?” he asks.

She thinks it’s obvious. But under his Casanova smile and quirked eyebrow, she hears a different question— Do you want me, even though I hurt you? Do you want me even though I will hurt you again?

“Yes,” she says. “Please, Astarion.”

He’s slow and gentle at first— but the more he pushes himself inside her warmth, the more intense their pleasure grows. Lark digs her nails on the pillow under her head, while Astarion places sloppy kisses on the sole of her feet, resting on his shoulder.

It makes her shudder.

Once he’s filled her to the hilt, he starts pushing her leg back towards herself, and the stretch is delicious, as his body comes to cover hers, and he presses a kiss on her forehead, then—

Astarion pulls his hips back, just to drive into her again, setting a rhythm that fills her up with each thrust. She moans each time his cock grazes her walls, and it’s perfect, the fit of him, like a—

“You fit me like a glove,” he says with a soft, innocent chuckle. She joins him.

It’s perfect. They’re perfect.

With his next thrust, Astarion hits that spot inside her that makes her see stars, and she whimpers in his ear—

“I’m— Astarion, I’m so close, please—”

“Wait,” he says, seizing all movement. She clenches on his cock, making him hiss.

“What— What is it?”

“Let me taste you,” he says, lips pressed to her ear, her temple, anywhere he can find. “Please.”

Lark nods. He starts moving again— She’s about to—

“Where do you want me to bite you?”

She can’t push the words out of her mouth, so she tilts her head to the side instead, revealing the same spot he had bitten just days before. What she wants to say is: I want you to reopen my wounds.

And he does.

As soon as Astarion bites her, Lark flutters, writhing under him like a dying star, coming, coming, coming—

Her magic, thrumming right at the edge of every single nerve in her body, the almost transparent glow that first showed itself as Astarion stood next to her in this very room enveloping them, taking them higher, where heaven is supposed to be.

Her moans get louder, with each pull of her blood that he takes, and he fucks her through her earth-shattering orgasm, placing one of his hands on her waist. She can feel his cock throb and swell inside her, as he nears his end, and he digs his hand into her skin hard enough to bruise.

Lark buries her hands in his hair, kissing and nibbling on his ear, listening to his growly moans as he drinks from her, she whispers to him: “You’re so good, Astarion, ah—”

With that, he comes inside her, spilling himself and pushing in with as much force as he can.

He retracts his fangs, lapping at the remaining blood on her neck as Lark continues to scrape his scalp softly with her nails.

Astarion pulls away slightly, letting go of her waist and steadying himself on that hand, cock still buried inside her cunt.

“You’re a messy eater,” she says, dizzy with ecstasy.

He lowers himself down to kiss her, and Lark tastes herself in his mouth. All of her— her blood, her arousal, the wine they drank.

Astarion breaks the kiss first, looking at her with something wholly new in his eyes. He looks pensive but blissed out. “You… You’re a surprise. A gift.”

Lark feels like she could cry— she’s heard that this is something that could happen due to hormones. A voice inside tells her, though— this is more than that.

“I could say the same thing for you, Astarion.”

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

“Astarion,” she says, and feels him twitch inside her. “Astarion. Astarion.”

“Hmm,” he hums, and lays down on her naked chest, both of their breathing slowing down. Lark places absent-minded kisses on his head, his hair, playing with his curls with her fingers, thinking—

“Will you stay?”

He doesn’t respond— only draws lazy circles on the top of her thigh, right where the worst of her scars reside.

She takes that as a yes.

He doesn’t know yet— or maybe he does— but Lark doesn’t mean just for the night.

Lying there, on top of her, is the star that brought the sun to life.

tag list: @nerdalmighty @preciouslittlebhaalbae @aristenfromwarsaw @angelicwolf98

If you would like to be added to my taglist, please send me a message or reply here!<3

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starlightsuffered · 18 days ago

Text

If You Ever Come Back

Info - song fic, lack of sleep, angst, break in, threatened with a deadly weapon, heart break

I remembered when money was everything we thought about. We scrimped and saved so we could have a loving vacations where we just focused on one another.

Now I didn’t care about what it cost, I left every light on in the house twenty four seven. If she wanted to come home, I wouldn’t make it seem like she wasn’t welcome. I was risking even more loss of money by leaving the front door unlocked anyhow.

It had only been two weeks but I was walking through life like a zombie. When I cooked, I set two places. Even in sleep my body didn’t venture to her side of the bed. It wasn’t as though I slept much though.

Dark circles clung to the bottom of my eyes. I knew I was pale and worn looking. My hands spent the nights running over the sheets where she had once laid. Sometimes I allowed myself to cuddle her pillow close and inhale her scent. I tried not to do that much though, because I didn’t want to use up all the smell. I dreaded the day it would no longer smell like she did.

Every time I remembered the argument that had ended it all I squinted as if in physical pain. At this point I longed for her voice, even if it was to yell at me. I would welcome her with open arms and admit I was wrong.

I stood before the stove, watching the kettle. Before I knew what I was doing I was getting out her favourite mug. I wanted to drink out of something her lips had touched so many times, because her lips might never touch mine again.

I huddle up with the cup, slowing sipping the tea. I didn’t even like this flavour. It was her favourite. I didn’t know why she hadn’t taken the box with her. Perhaps, she’d just needed to escape me that badly.

My eyes stung as I tried to blink away the tears. I didn’t want to slide into the darkness of reality. She wasn’t truly gone. She couldn’t be. The lights were on, the door was unlocked, tea was being made, and she’d be home any moment.

As if I’d brought my dreams to reality I heard a noise at the door. I was alert immediately. My whole body perked out of its slumping position.

It wasn’t her.

A man I didn’t know with a ski mask and a weapon entered my home. I didn’t move from my drink.

“There’s nothing you can really take that she didn’t already take,” I murmured.

“What the fuck are you on about,” growled the man. He waved the gun as if I hadn’t seen it.

“Wallet is by the door, in the wicker basket,” I informed him.

Even with the black mask, I could see the expression of confusion on his face. The door still stood open behind him for a quick get away. I guessed my calm demeanour bothered him.

“What the hell are you playing at? Are you some kind of psychopath? What’s in that mug?”

“Just tea.”

“I doubt it, hand it over,” Growled the intruder.

“No,” I said suddenly terrified to lose another piece of her. I remembered all our good times and how many of those had included this mug. I was not letting some thief steal it from me when so much had already been taken.

“What? Mate I’ve got a gun!”

“And I said no!” I roared. I felt anger sear my insides. I stood up, ready to rush him. I heard him switch the safety off.

“Leave now if you don’t want me to call the police,” I heard the voice of been dreaming of. She was in my doorway holding pepperspray.

To my surprise the man left us. He hightailed it out of our apartment. I didn’t have eyes for him though. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I wanted to lunge for her but I was afraid she’d burst into a firework of mist and I would have just been imagining her.

“Y/n?” I choked.

“This place is a mess,” she said with a shaky laugh.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“The lights are all on, so is the stove. Gosh, why are so many dishes out? You’ve been alone haven’t you?”

“It was in case,” I muttered, looking at the floor.

“In case of what?” She asked me quietly.

“You ever came back.”

She ran at me and pressed her lips fully to mine. Her arms wrapped around me and she jumped so that her legs locked around my waist. I kissed her back with as much enthusiasm as my over tired and underfed body would let me.

“I came back,” she assured me between kisses.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming @lovelyrocker @therealbeabodoobee @slytherinqueen4life

#timothée chalamet #reader insert #x reader #timothee chalamet #timothee chamalet #timothee fanfic #timothee imagine #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothee x you #song fic #if you ever come back #the script #angst

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tgmsunmontue · 16 days ago

Text

Upon which our souls touch 10/?

Hangster Fantasy!AU with Dragons

SUMMARY

Tradition and the stories have been the same for thousands of years. Until Bradley and Jake came along and broke all the rules without ever speaking a word to one another...

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE

(Map of the world in my head can by found here...)

PART TEN

They walk in what he thinks is companionable silence for a little bit, and he knows the effect of being in Bob’s presence will last for about a day. He needs to prepared himself for the sudden onslaught of a busy town, the number of bodies close together. He knows he’d be more anxious and worried about it if not for Bob and he wonders if Jake has even noticed. The forest is full of bird song, the water is calming and the wind has died down given that they’re in the valley and headed toward Solrin now. He feels more comfortable in Jake’s presence now, doesn’t know if that is simply growing familiarity, or a lasting remnant of their stay with Bob.

“What melody are you humming?”

“Oh. Sorry. I can stop if it bothers you.”

“No. It doesn’t bother me. I… would you share it with me?”

“It is simply a child’s lullaby…”

“I did not expect a grand chant…”

Then Bradley is shrugging, sharing the words and tune, and it’s soothing and calming, a tune made for working to, or calming an upset babe. It’s easy enough to pick up and Jake hums it under his breath as Bradley continues to sing it quietly.

… … …

“How did you meet Bob?”

“Oh… he brought me Little Mist to look at. He was concerned about a cut on her foreleg wasn’t healing fast enough. Ended up wintering with me.”

Ah. So they have spent a season together, and he has seen Bradley’s cottage. There is limited space. He hadn’t read their familiarity and closeness wrong then. He is starting to be able to read Bradley, didn’t miss the small pleased twitch of his lips when he’d asked about the song. It is a good sign. Maybe they can become friends.

“You have a good friend in Bob.”

“He is. Yes.”

“Have you known him a long time?”

“No, not really. Only twelve turns.”

“Twelve? That is…”

“The beginning of a long friendship, but not yet an old one. Bob’s talents are…unique.”

“How? If you believe he would not mind me knowing.”

“No. He would not mind at all. He is very open. You may have noticed that he is very calm… that you felt calm with him.”

“Yes. And…”

“Me. Yes. He calms me as well, even when I do not feel particularly troubled his presence is still a comfort.”

Jake falls silent at that, wonders what might trouble Bradley that he insists on living so far removed from everyone else.

“I… do not wish to cause offense or trouble you.”

“I know. I appreciate your efforts. I… I do not have my mother’s way with people. I know this. Ask your questions…” Bradley says with a sigh and Jake still feel like he’s being treated like a child.

“Have you spoken to anyone about the fact that no egg resonated with you?”

“Who would you have me speak to?” Bradley asks, and Jake wonders if he’s working at keeping his tone level, or whether there is something else at play. He shrugs helplessly.

“What would you have done in my place… if you had entered and every single egg shone for you instead?”

“I… I do not believe I would have done any differently than what you yourself did. I could not make a choice. If we are to bond with a dragon then it is one. And it is their decision to make, not ours to foist upon them.”

“I could have picked one. No one would have known…”

“You would have known,” Bradley states then, and Jake feels broken open with the simple words, because Bradley is right, and it is why Jake touched none of them. “Did you tell anyone else that they all glowed?”

“No. I just left.” He ran. He may have walked, but he was running inside.

“Oh. So… they may believe that none glowed for you. That the same has happened for you as it did me.”

“I… perhaps?”

“Hmm. No wonder they decided to seek me out…”

“I’m… my apologies. I did not think.”

“Do not concern yourself. They would have likely sought me out anyway.”

… … …

It has him thinking though, Bradley had noticed it when Jake interacted with Flurry, and thought it strange. And then seeing how Little Mist had been with him provides further evidence to his theory that something is changing with the dragon-kind, that something has maybe changed within their world. His mother’s heart-sickness may be related, but he doesn’t know. He has so many questions and no answers. No way of simply getting the answers.

Some things though he can get answers for, or at least be introduced to them.

His father.

Find out what it is to be a Skiftandra.

“Have you visited Solrin before?” Jake asks, and Bradley answer readily enough. Has visited the town frequently because it’s bigger and more well equipped. Fewer folk know him and his background, although his healing skills have become known enough that he is recognized by a few now when he visits.

The forest has given away to meadows and fields, Bradley can see the curls of smoke from the town and the road has appeared, wide and well used as they step onto it. As they walk an idea is forming in his head as they pass near a dwelling. There is a mid-sized lavender-colored dragon sitting atop a perch, watching them but not alarming anyone to their presence, not even in passing acknowledgement. It’s unusual and Bradley nods his head to it in greeting, deferring to it. Except instead of bowing back it’s flying, gliding down to land in front of them and it forces them to stop.

“Well… hello there…” Jake says, hand already reaching out to touch and Bradley’s eyes go wide. What in all the god’s names has Jake learnt about dragonkind that he thinks he can just… reach out and touch like this? Except of course the dragon is reaching toward Jake’s hand, head tilted just so, so that jake’s fingers can scratch just behind it’s ears and Bradley snaps his jaw shut abruptly, tusks clacking and words dissolving to nothing. Flurry and Little Mist he could maybe explain away, but this dragon is a complete unknown to both of them, and yet it’s acting as if Jake is a member of it’s family. Is kin.

It’s as puzzling as it is fascinating.

#Top Gun Maverick AU #Fantasy AU #Hangster #sereshaw #upon which our souls touch

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bubbles-for-all-of-us · 2 years ago

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All the stars are shining bloody red

Next chapter

a/n a fever dream of an idea but when it hits you it does. This is a song I suggest you play for reference. So enjoy this little something something. ✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

summary: just what happens when an innocent night at the pleasure house leads to something much bigger, making two lost soles collide.

warning: suggestive content, pleasure house, mention of sexual interactions, nudity, alcohol.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"You bunch are no fun", Mor huffed over her fifth glass of wine. She's been trying to drag the whole family to the pleasure house at the side of Velaris ever since her wild night out with Emerie. And don't get me wrong, it was something they used to do. Some nights at Rita's were even wilder than what any pleasure house could provide, and yet the hesitation lingered.

"I have a set of breasts to look at already", Cassian slurred, his hand reaching for Nesta's chest, but she swiftly slapped his fingers away, glaring at him. "You are not getting the point", Mor sighed. "I'm not dragging you there for a gang bang or to look for someone to drag into your bed", she was perfectly aware that everyone in the family had settled. Solid relationships all around. Well, except for Azriel. Yet that was a whole different story. So Azriel, for that matter, might take full advantage of the place while at it.

"Quite frankly, I doubt anyone who goes there on a Tuesday night is there for a fuck", Mor swirls the red substance in her glass, earning a nod from Emerie, "It's like nothing I've seen before", the female breathed. "We've been trying to figure out what and how they do it, but...", and they had returned with big eyes, disbelief, and satisfaction lingering all over. Did it fuel others' curiosity? Yes. Just to be honest, no one believed it could be anything that could beat one of the sultry numbers in Rita's.

"Fine", Rhys states after silence falls, "Let's go, get this done and over with". Both Nesta and Feyre jump up, going straight for Mor, squealing in excitement. "Darling, if you were that desperate, you should have said", the high lord crossed his arms over his chest with a smirk, but Feyre only shrugged, "We would have gone with or without you boys, sorry". Cassian lets out a grumble as he too gets up from the comfy sofa, "If my head and nuts ain't blown away by the end of this...", Everyone chuckles, even Nesta has a smirk on her face. It's Azriel who has a tight frown on his, however. "Prepare for disappointment, brother", the shadow singer says, downing his glass of whiskey swiftly. "If you'll be a grumpy ass, don't bother going, Azriel", Mor stated firmly. Azriel knew that no one could come between her and her night. That was a well tested fact. He felt Elain reaching for his hand, and a part of him wanted to drop it because it just didn't feel right tonight. But he didn't, because being the only one without someone to return home to was painful enough.

When they finally got there the place was jam-packed. Azriel unleashed his shadows. Doing a quick safety check never hurts. After all, the whole family was here. So he had to make sure there was no harm around the corner. To his surprise, his shadows recognized a lot of noble members of Velaris. Scratch that there were day court and autumn males here. The back table was occupied by Helion. "Rhys", Azriel said directly through his high lord's mental shields. Azriel could tell that Rhys too had clocked on to the fact that this was attracting too much attention. Attention they didn't know was brewing here. "Listen around; count the names", The order was clear enough, so Azriel did just that. How long did Mor knew about all of this and said nothing? Fucking Mor, Azriel grumbled in his head.

Just before Azriel could unleash yet another set of his shadows, the place fell into complete darkness. Some squeals of surprise echoed around the room, followed by laughter and murmuring. The cool mist started streaming from the platform right in front of the tables. The first sounds of the music silenced everyone. A huge moon light up the place, dashing the yellow gleam all over, and the silhouettes of what Azriel assumed were the females who performed here come into view.

"You are so beautiful to me", the most velvet voice sang out, and Azriel's heart stopped for a second. His whole attention was now on the stage. The black fabrics fall from the ceiling, and bodies dressed in deep satin lingerie twist around them. Ahs and ohs fall from the people watching, but Azriel's eyes are not leaving the figure in the middle. "You are so beautiful to me. Can't you see?", it lulls. The anticipation of seeing the face behind the voice was so intense that it nearly drove Azriel out of his seat. He's so lost in it that voice he doesn't even notice that the female is the one twirling her hands and sending ripples of mist to swirl around almost everyone in the room. The gleam caresses people's faces, twirling their hair.

"You're everything I hoped for", nor does Azriel feel the same mist crawling up his arms. Slowly. Soothingly. "You're everything I need". His breath hitches in his throat as he feels the softest fingers touching his jaw. "You are so beautiful timo me" Because the smallest of stars start falling across the room, and it's enough to cast a spell of light over your face. The deep blue eyes looking straight at him. The deepest blue he had ever seen, and what a blue it was. And your hair is so wavy and long. Ocean green dances there. Hints of the deep purple of the waves But are you looking at him? Is that your finger touching him? There's no one else in the room. Azriel sees no one all of a sudden. It's just you and him. And you're singing. Singing so beautifully that he's ready to rip his heart out of his chest and serve it on a platter for you.

And then it all ends with the booming sound of music. His eyes follow your twirling body, dancing among the other females. One minute you're there, and then you're gone. Azriel jumps up from his chair before his vision becomes clear again, and he's back in the room full of people. The fact that he had just jumped up like that made a wave of embarrassment wash over him. He turns his head to the side, where Elain is pressing tissues to her dress, and sees a fallen glass right by the edge of the table. He must have knocked it over.

"Yep, I came internally", Cassian states and that's when Azriel's eyes fall over his family. Everyone's eyes are hazy. As if all they had done all night was smoke hallucinogenic herbs. It's Rhys, though, whose eyes are sharp as he catches Azriel's gaze. "Fucking told you", Mor is leaning against her hand, looking at the stage longingly. "Fucking told you".

Get them out and back to the house. Meet me here in twenty. Back door. No weapons. Rhysand's voice pierces Azriel's mind, and all he can do is nod before his high lord turns to his mate. Brushing a strand of hair from her face. He leans in to kiss her, and Azriel quickly lowers his eyes. And then Rhys is up. His darkness wrapped tightly around him as he moved through the crowd.

Azriel winnows back to the pleasure house after what feels like a good long while. Making sure everyone was safe and sound was harder than he had imagined. Rhys is not by the backside. But his shadows quickly informed him of the path to the basement steps. Basement. A shiver ripples down his back, but he still steps forward until he can hear Rhy's voice loud and clear.

"We paid our taxes", a female voice rings out. Azriel can't see her yet, but from her tone, he's sure that she's smiling. "You and I both know it's not about the money", Rhys says calmly as Azriel slips through the shadows on the back wall.

"I'm glad to see you here finally, though", the lady purrs, her long gray hair twisted into a big braid, resting neatly against her chest. "I thought you were too ashamed". Azriel can feel a wave of tension rising in the room. "Myriam, don't push my buttons", Rhys warns her, but she only smirks. "Or what? You'll get me close?" Azriel is about to step into the room, but Rhys mentally tells him off. "Where's the girl?", he pushes, but Myriam continues as if she hadn't even heard him, "You do know that any other court will welcome me and my girls with open arms?".

Azriel lets his shadows swirl through the cracks in the room. Trying to scan through the rooms behind the lady's back. But he doesn't get far. Most of them are so deeply drenched in magic that Azriel doesn't recognize. The shadow singer frowns, watching his shadows struggle. Leaping away from the door as if whatever that was there hurt them.

Rhys lets out a deep sigh, "You're right," and Azriel's head jerks to his high lord instantly. What the hell was Rhys agreeing to all of a sudden? "I apologize, but you have to understand that I wasn't informed that we had such beauty in my city", Rhys steps closer to the table. Reaching for the bottle placed there. "I'm a jealous man; what can I say", he states, refilling Myriam's glass before taking a swing straight from the bottle himself. "Rhys, you know I'm willing to share. But it was you who dismissed me the first time", the woman says, and now Azriel's head is turning once again. First time? Dismissed her? What in the love of a mother was going on here?

"It's late now, but let's set a date for a meeting. I want to revisit this", Rhys says, smiling at Myriam, and she instantly returns the smirk. Hand reaching to play with the collar of Rhysand's shirt, "I knew that you would come to your senses", lifting her glass closer to her lips she settles on watched Rhys for a moment, "Just remember that I'm the one who has the wining card here".

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

All acotar writing taglist: @brekkershadowsinger @cityofidek @baebeepeach @lucyysthings @hideing @urfavbrunettebish @historygeekqueen @marina468 @courtofjurdan @bubybubsters

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel imagien #shadowsinger x reader #azriel shadowsinger #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #acotar x you

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searchingforserendipity25 · 1 year ago

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Vigil. idril & aredhel. ao3.

TW: references to kidnapping, implied/referenced sexual assault.

"Aunt," said Idril, rather stiffly, where once she would have used her name, and would not have asked at all. "Might I join you?"

Aredhel fought the urge to bare her teeth, and kept her eyes on the crowded clouds above.

Pink-washed and round-bellied, west-bound. The wind was fierce with currents only clouds and birds sailed, but the courtyard Aredhel had chosen for her rest was well-sheltered, the stone rich with heat.

It had been some effort, to go the long way alone; but she had a cane, and a son to lean on. She had been weary and pained enough to send the son gladly away; and be gladdest of all to be alone.

She heard Idril come, her silver feet making their familiar song upon the mosaics of Gondolin's courts. That was more kindness she was used to in Nan Elmoth, where many things scurried, and few gave a warning of their proximity.

A glorious warmth seeped into her bones. She had been so cold, in Nan Elmoth. Not a first - but it was a damp mist that sank through the skin, a dizzying weariness. Sunlight - only occasionally. Eöl kept to the starlit-ways.

Aredhel had kissed Arien Sun-Star once, and crowed to voicelessness when first she saw hard land, and thawing frost. She had missed this - it made her angry so. What a waste of years she might have spent otherwise.

And still Idril was waiting. It was not kind, to set a test upon her; but Aredhel could not do otherwise. And it was good to know Idril would wait; that she was not so changed as to have lost her persistence.

"Sit, if you like," Aredhel said. "I am not your master, to tell you what you might do."

Her voice sounded rough with long illness to her own ears, but she took her time gathering it in her throat, made it strong. In her sujourn under the curling boughs of Nan Elmoth, it had been needful to speak, and always it had been done with effort. She might have forgotten the sound of her own words, let them fade entirely.

Was he your master, then, Idril thought. Were you not free to do as you would, even to sit in the sun?

Aredhel did not hear it, but she knew her niece. The same wisdom that kept Idril's thought away from the walls that Aredhel had raised about her mind would make her draw conclusion.

Not the wrong ones. They spoke in Sindarin. Aredhel was not certain yet she would speak the language of her people again; if she could, even inside the high walls of Gondolin, where Quenya was used in the market, in the king's chambers, in songs of devotions.

Gondolin's benches were wide and sturdy enough; two might lay abreast, and not touch.

Idril's hair smelled of laurel and honey, still. Few things had made Aredhel's eyes sting on her return to Gondolin. The white stone shimmering in the heat had been a great relief, but an indifferent one, as a hunted beast might feel at the sight of a cave or a tall branch. Now only did Aredhel feel - how familiar it was. This smell, Idril's closeness, the whirring machinery of her mind close enough they might have shared a moment of wry understanding, as they had so many times before.

They did not touch.

Now a small army of cirrocumulus overhead, sweet clouds all following on one another. She had tried to teach Lómion the different cloud names, but he had not the love for the skies that she did. Her son was busy in the forges. He had found his source of warmth, learned at his father's side. Aredhel had loved him less the day she understood he would not need to live as she did.

Possibly her measuring scale of love had grow skewered. O, now Turgon never would allow her out! But the worst of it was that she was tired. Not her wound alone caused it, though that healed slowly regardless.

She willed herself to see it - herself on horseback again, crossing fields of clover, narrow passes. Her body thrummed with exhaustion at the thought of it.

The high noon sun pressed against their lids, turned the world to a blinding gilt. Idril surely felt Aredhel's fever rising, the warmth that rose from her skin; but Idril was wise, and knew how to measure her silence. Aredhel had forgotten a little, how worthy her niece was.

At times dark shadows swirled overhead through the clouds. Slow, broad wings high above, coming from all corners of the mountainside.

The vultures that fed most often by Amon Gwareth had flown days ago to the city walls for a feast: Eöl, they cried. Eöl is dead. More and more came, eager, hungry.

As a widow she had woken from near-death, knowing with rare foresight that her body would not be her own, and whole and hale again, until Eöl was eaten entire, bowels and eyeballs and marrow. Aredhel of Gondolin waited.

It was a good wait; long enough to learn the skies again, to be sun-warm all the way through.

She touched her fingertips lightly to Idril's, when it was done, and felt her stir, her thought turning to Aredhel, a constrained joy and grief and relief. But Aredhel was in no hurry, and did not wish to open her heart again, nor leave to return to her chambers; not till the last birds of rapine were borne slowly away in the wind.

#fic #idril celebrindal #aredhel #my fics #february ficlet challenge #prompt 1 - high noon #silm fic #tolkien fanfiction #tfog

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theviewfromthebooth · 5 months ago

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The Top 50 Tracks of 2024

“Really?

THIS is in your top 50 songs?

Of the whole year?”

In all of the years I've been doing this, one thing that I've not had much of is resistance. Those of you in the audience are more than happy to unwrap my playlist and discover the gems inside, knowing that any parts that don't suit your tastes can be skipped without feeling the need to let me know about it.

My girlfriend was in this category herself last year, approaching my list as an endearing but slightly confusing quirk, as often happens at the start of a relationship. This year, she wanted a sneak preview, and wasn't prepared to hold in any bemusement.

I don't mind, because it helps to reinforce one of the key tenets of this enterprise. I am sharing my list with you all, in the hope that you get some joy and entertainment from it, but it is steadfastly MY list.

There might be inspiration from outside sources, but that does not mean collaboration. This is a part of me that I'll always do alone. I can take her to Anfield, I can take her to Glastonbury, I can take her to Philly to meet my mum, but the top 50 is always MY top 50. She can do her own.

This list was closed pretty early this year, which I take as a good sign. Far from meaning that there weren't enough contenders, it actually means that there were that many that I felt so strongly about that they demanded inclusion. Any late entries had to go into the Bubble List (including Doechii. Sorry Mari).

The closest to a late entry was swapping summer Kendrick for autumn Kendrick. Not Like Us was a ‘moment’, but he was smart enough to realise that a song that ubiquitous would have a shorter ‘use by’ date. His battle with Drake was juicy fresh fruit that nourished us at the time, but GNX was the diet staple that goes in the freezer ready to be revisited time and again.

The surprise of the year award has to go to another rapper, whom I assumed had given up on his day job long ago. I can imagine Uncle L looking at that microphone tattoo on his arm and thinking “C'mon, let's give it one more go”.

Porno raps from a man in his mid-50s talking about a woman 25 years his junior could have been super icky in the wrong hands - not quite A minor, but on the same scale. However, the genius that is Q-tip delivers a helping hand, taking a song already famously sampled and going back for seconds. That eerie mist cloaks the song with intrigue, and that bassline at the end drops just at the point where you think you know what's happening.

I don't like the idea of New Year's resolutions, but one thing I am determined to do is to tie down interviews with two people that I've been chasing for a while - Moeen Ali, and Lily Fontaine of English Teacher. Two Liverpool fans with fascinating tales to tell about their life and work.

English Teacher are the first act to complete the full Mighty Mojo promotion: Top of the Bubble List in 2023, Top of the Top 50 in 2024. This Could Be Texas is in a battle with Doechii and Master Peace for my album of the year, beguiling and thrilling in a way that the classic indie rock template no longer felt capable of. I bored people shitless talking about it when it arrived, and was ecstatic when they won the Mercury Music Prize, even if I don't know how much that matters anymore.

They were the band I was most determined to see at Glastonbury and they didn't disappoint there either, with a set that felt at once a celebration of a new milestone, and a jumping-off point from which to build.

R&B didn't only capture my heart as a song, but spoke to my soul as a concept. “Despite appearances, I haven't got the voice for R&B” took me back to being the only black face at rock shows, wearing my Super Furry Animals T-shirt as a suit of armour, but also a lanyard proving that I belonged. It returned me to the times when people would ask me to play R&B while DJing, assuming that someone else had forced me to play ‘this rubbish’, despite the fervent air guitar/drums/bass that accompanied it.

The chaser - “even though I've seen more Colour shows than KEXP” speaks to the part of me that doesn't feel the need to have to choose between nature and nurture - the sounds coming from my dad's stereo were just as important and influential as those in my best mate's bedroom. We're all a rich tapestry, and we like what we like. And yes Lyndsey, that includes Say She She, and a load of kids from Cork.

#music #end of year lists #lists #best of 2024 #2024 #rock #pop #r&b #hip hop #dance #edm

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therealityhelix · 2 years ago

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Shards of the Nexus: Mandelbrot Set

The past can never be returned to, yet it still lives.

Song: I'll Be Good-Jaymes Young

@cardwrecks @captainbaddecisions

“He's not you, you know.”

The club wasn't open yet, but the thrumming energy remained in the copper veins and concrete bones. He'd called her over frantic, something about their illicit prisoner in the upstairs kitchen. The devil in the mirror.

She thought he might have escaped, might have been trying to murder Edward again.

“He used to be.”

“Yes, but even back when he was part of you, you were still more than that.”

“It's fake, Helix. You see that, don't you?” Swag said, self-depreciation threading through his voice. “This party animal lifestyle, it's a cover. He's...right. In that respect. It's just another mask.”

“Is it? Then when he was separated out, why did you remain? If you're fake, why do you still exist?”

He thought about it for a moment.

“Because I'm the original?”

“No you're not!” Helix scoffed.

“You think he is?”

“Nope!”

He paused again, uncertainty crawling across his face.

“Gonna need further analysis.”

“He's what you used to be. But so are you. Your body still bears the scars of those years. You lived them too. You are now what you decided to become, but this incarnation of him came from you, and is brand new. You are the exact same man, each as old and as real as the other. But you are not each other. You have different mindsets, different goals and needs and desires, clearly.

I don't mean it cruelly, Edward. But I don't think either of you are superior or inferior to one another. I think you're different modes of the same man.”

“Yeah, I...I guess, yeah.” Swag said slowly. “He's everything I used to be, and then some. I'm what he chose to become and more. We...the same...Yeah. We're not even brothers, we...we're the same guy. Do you think we can help him? Do you think he can be helped?”

Sometimes the mask cracked. Inclusions in amber flesh, precious flaws. A souls cuneiform scrawled in the earnesty of under-eye circles and watery smiles. A treasure of simple trust, a display of hope, for himself and also for himself.

The tips of her fingers found the curve of his jaw, and his breath stilled under her touch.

“I think that's already been proven.” she said softly.

The scene stamped itself onto the background of reality, lingering in a world of lapis and amber, iolites and summer peaches. Then he stepped away.

“Good, 'cause there's some weird shit goin' on in here.” he said, snapping the moment in an act of self defense. He opened the kitchen door where their prisoner was trapped, peeked inside, then closed the door again just as swiftly.

“Welp.” he sighed in cheerful exasperation. “He's nude. Y'might maybe don't go in there.”

The torrent of magic that flooded from the door was...concerning. She hadn't done anything that should have caused it.

“I have seen naked men before.” she said, distracted by the sour chili burn. “Or are you worried I'll get to comparing?”

Swag stood up much straighter-he seemed tall to her, but then, most everyone did-and pouted dramatically.

“I am three times sexier than he'll ever be, and everyone knows it!” he declared.

“Than the guy who looks exactly like you in every single way?”

“Yes! Clearly! I mean, just look at me! You can't deny it.” he insisted. “But uh, about that looking exactly like me part...Well. Just take a look.”

Helix popped her head inside the door for a moment, taking in what she realized with a swift shock, was a magical wreckage.

Something had gone very wrong.

Magic rolled off of him like mist under a waterfall, an outflow of clashing impressions that stung her mouth and nose in the way of the very hottest habanero lime salsa. Smaller sensations burst under it, nettles, wormwood, newspaper ash, each melding into one another almost too fast to notice, the energy winding its way around her nerves.

Yes, he was nude, and it meant nothing in comparison to the crackling lights in the air, the eerie glow from unnaturally wide cyan eyes. They spotted her, and it was as if he looked through her, at every place she'd ever been, at every version of herself she'd ever been. He drew back at the sight of her, a great mass of shaggy, straw-colored hair spilling over his slim shoulders, hiding most of his bleached skin from her sight.

She entered the room, wading through the atmosphere of thickened magic, Swag trailing in her wake. Unswag crawled to the farthest edge of his binding circle, overgrown fingernails clacking on the tile. He bobbed his head up and down, a series of desperate bows, waving his hands in warding, pleading motions.

“Please...I can hear the name of the mother...” he muttered, his voice a chorus of multiple selves that echoed back and forth, twisting, turning, backwards and upside down. “The mother...her name...”

She could feel Swag shudder behind her, unsure of how much he was actually perceiving. She stopped at the edge of the circle, and Unswag gazed up at them from under his veil of pale hair.

“Hello Brass Man. Hello Hazel Woman. Do you know...the name...the others...the others do...I can hear it...”

“The others?” she asked, surprised. “You can hear them?”

He nodded.

“See and hear...but not clearly. Too many...too much. It won't stop. Please...”

There was nothing wrong with the circle that she could see. None of this should be happening, but that didn't erase the washed out figure before her. She placed her hand on the circle barrier, slipping though as easily as the membrane of a bubble. Unswag cowered.

“Show me what you are seeing.” She commanded. Swag grasped her shoulder, ready to pull her back.

Slowly, hesitantly, Unswag took her hand, long nails digging into her wrist. He looked straight into her eyes, and the magic slammed into her, shattering the world into shimmering facets, shining mirror shards that reflected the moment from every possible angle. An uncountable number of Helixs, Swags, and Unswags reaching out to touch, watching, waiting to see what the next moment held.

She stumbled backwards into Swags arms, and he buckled under her sudden weight.

“Helix? Babe are you alright?” Swag cried. “What did you do to her you pale-ass fucking snake-”

She snapped her fingers, and the circle broke.

“Helix?” Swag asked. Nestled against his chest, she tilted her head back to look into his worried face.

“He's dying.” she whispered. “This world is so much different than I realized. There's just too much magic pouring into him, and he doesn't have any way of releasing it. Eventually it'll thin him out until he's nothing but a ghost, and then he'll dissipate like dry ice. I have to let him out. We were always going to have to let him out.”

Swag helped her find her balance, and both faced the newly freed Unswag.

He hadn't moved.

If he were going to make a break for it, this would have been the perfect chance, but instead he huddled in a messy heap on the kitchen floor.

“O Walker Beyond...” he mumbled. “Bride of the dead...bring us Spring...new life....please...please...”

She reached out to his quaking form, cupping his hollowed cheeks. Her fingers burned against his frigid skin, thumbs brushing the rims of his watering eyes.

“I am going to help you.” she said.

He moaned softly, either in horror or relief.

Swag hovered close, but she let him disappear, let Unswag disappear even as she cradled his face in her hands. Fading back into herself, she let a connection open inside her, allowing the roiling magic mixing within him to flow through her and out into the multitude of miniature realities that made up their universe.

The glow in his eyes flickered out, leaving pleading, saturated cyan, which rolled up, and he collapsed on the flaxen cushion of his overgrown hair.

They knelt beside his prone form. He peered back up at them.

“Do I...die now?” his voice trembled.

She shook her head.

“Not this time.”

Artist: Me, @cardwrecks, verticalthoughts

#shards of the nexus #swag!riddler #unswag!riddler #helix

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ananxiousgenz · 11 months ago

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hey op i hope this is okay but this inspired me to do a thing <3

i would like to dedicate this one to @percymawce-arts bc i love you so much and i felt like you deserved a gift from me <3

There are a lot of lessons to be learned about grief. It lingers in objects and actions and memories you would never expect it to find it hiding in. It’s brutally honest and vulnerable in a way few other emotions can be. It can poison passions and strangle relationships with a force stronger than the weight of the world. Grief can ruin someone’s life over and over and over again until they wonder how they’re even still going on. And here’s another fascinating thing about grief: people can never really escape it. They can run from it, hide from it, try to drown it in whiskey or work, but sooner or later it creeps in like a mist from the sea, cool and subtle until it blinds you from everything else in the present.

Arthur Lester had learned all of those lessons the hard way.

After Faroe… After her loss, Arthur couldn’t play piano anymore. He’d wanted to. God, he’d wanted to sit down and play the grief away, just like he had when he was a child and he had lost his parents, letting the music wash away every ill feeling and painful memory. He had tried, too, sitting down after her funeral with one of his favorite compositions and hesitantly plucking out the opening notes. It was odd, but sitting down in front of those shiny black-and-ivory keys, hearing the phantom notes stringing their way through the air like brushstrokes on a canvas… it made bile rise in his throat like the thought of the bathwater rising, like the memory of her auburn curls spread across the surface of the water, like the tears he was constantly, desperately, barely keeping at bay. Every song, every string, every key reminded Arthur of her, in some small, sparkling way.

Other men might have seen it as a way to keep a connection with her, despite her loss. Arthur only saw it as a source of more pain. One night, in a bourbon-fueled haze, he’d smashed the lovely grand piano in his house with an axe, and then spent hours sobbing into the splintered remains. He’d only cleaned it up a week later, when he had been sober enough to call Tess and ask for her help in disposing of its remains. That had been one of the stranger ways Arthur’s grief had made itself known.

It had devastated him at first. Music had been Arthur’s entire life up to that point, and now even the thought of a piano made his stomach turn with a guilt that would have made a Catholic proud. He supposed it was for the best. After all, music had been what led to Bella- what led to Faroe- well. It had led to some fairly awful things for Arthur. Perhaps it was time he gave it up for good. Drinking alcohol was all he seemed to have time for in the day, anyway.

The whiskey and bourbon and cognac slowly took a hold of his mind. The days turned into weeks, which turned into months, which turned into years, and Arthur was convinced he would be stuck there forever, drinking booze and trying to outrun the nightmares where he was, once again, just a little too late, just a little too distracted, just a little too selfish.

He had all but accepted and settled into that idea when he finally met Parker Yang, who was, in Arthur’s humble opinion, one of the most gracious, patient, and funny men he had ever had the pleasure of meeting in his life. Arthur couldn’t recall the exact details of how they met. In a bar while he was violently drunk, if he had to guess. He remembered Parker saying he looked like he’d hit bedrock, and he hadn’t been wrong. He remembered a cocktail too, a Blood and Sand, the drink that became their staple whenever they wanted to celebrate after a case went well. None of that quite mattered, though.

What was important was the fact that Parker saw something in Arthur that night that, in the depths of his self-pity, Arthur had lost touch with: his spark of life.

And somehow, miraculously, he’d gotten Arthur to see it too.

Parker was a force to be reckoned with when he set his mind to something, and once he decided that Arthur Lester needed human connection, there was little Arthur could do to protest. He tried to avoid him, going to different bars and keeping different hours and even trying to leave town once, but Parker always reappeared, just as chipper and friendly and honest as the moment they met. He tried being mean, being nice, being anything that would get him to go away, but Parker never faltered for a second. Arthur slowly realized that he enjoyed Parker's presence in his life, and began to seek out his company. Parker, in return, offered Arthur a new job as his investigative partner. Slowly but surely, they forged an acquaintance, then a friendship, then something beyond that neither of them could label.

It was Parker who managed to revive Arthur’s love of music. When he discovered that Arthur used to compose over a cup of tea one night in their office, his eyes had lit up like a twin set of fireflies, sparkling on a dusky summer's evening. It wasn't long before Arthur returned to the office to find a piano tucked up against a once-empty wall, a shiny red ribbon resting against the keys.

Go on, play me something! Parker had said, a bright smile crowning his face. If we're going to be business partners, I might as well hear your music.

Arthur had hesitated, mumbled some excuse about being out of practice, but Parker insisted. After all, he had paid for the piano already. The least Arthur could do was use it every now and then. So, Arthur swallowed down his guilt and grief as best he could, and played a melody. It was short and improvised, nothing like the grand sonatas or upbeat songs he used to enjoy writing and composing, but it was enough for him to feel the familiar tidal pull of the music, washing over him in warm, comforting waves. Parker had been entirely too impressed with the outcome and Arthur entirely too displeased, but it was a start.

It had taken time, far more time than Arthur would have ever liked to admit before he was willing to let music back into his life. Most of it happened at Parker’s urging. He seemed to have the strange idea that Arthur actually doing something with his days besides work and drinking would do him some good. But when Arthur finally found himself seeking out the piano after a long day of solving cases, when he finally found himself humming along to songs on the radio, when he finally found himself quietly singing new melodies and mentally filling in the harmonies… that was when Arthur knew he would be okay, in some small, insignificant way.

Arthur found himself thinking about Parker and music and grief on the road to New York. It was some small distraction from the ache in his gut and the worries of infection creeping around in the back of his skull. He wondered if he’d ever get to lay hands on a piano again. Arthur missed that feeling music brought him, he realized, that calm, soothing confidence that made him feel like he could conquer the world.

Without meaning to, he’d begun to tap out an easy waltz rhythm with his index finger against the steering wheel. He’d always loved a good waltz, even when he was a boy. They always felt so regular and easy, flowing like even drips from a faucet. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two three-

Arthur? John’s smooth, deep voice broke through Arthur’s reverie.

Arthur stopped his tapping. “Hmm?”

What are you doing? John asked.

“Oh, the tapping, you mean?” John hummed in response. Arthur smiled a bit at John’s ever inquisitive nature, just like a child seeking as many answers about the world as they could get their hands on. “I was just thinking about music. A waltz, to be exact. If the tapping is distracting you from the road, I can stop.”

No, no, it’s fine. It’s just- John paused for a moment. Arthur could almost see the look of concentrated thought on John’s face as he tried to solve the puzzle of wording his thoughts correctly. You were humming too. You do things like that a lot when you’re thinking, I believe.

“Oh, do I? I suppose I never noticed.”

What were you thinking about?

Arthur blew out a long breath and shifted in his seat before deciding to answer. “I was thinking about Parker, in all honesty. I was thinking about how much he did for me after… well, after I lost her.”

…Faroe? John always said her name so cautiously, like he was handling a delicate piece of porcelain that might shatter at the slightest touch. In some strange way, Arthur appreciated that about him. John never presumed that he was allowed to interact with Arthur’s past pains, allowing Arthur to decide how much he felt like reliving them.

“Yes,” Arthur responded, a quiet melancholy beginning to seep into his heart at the mention of her name. “Parker helped me find myself again after she died. I’d lost touch with everything I cared about, including music. He brought it all back. I owed him my life for that.”

There was a pause, and the only sound in the air was the noise of the tires spinning across the pavement as the car continued to speed towards New York.

Arthur? John’s voice emerged from the quiet.

“Yes, John?”

You said that Parker brought music back into your life.

“Yes, I suppose he did.”

Can I ask a strange question? About music, I mean. John sounded so hesitant that Arthur almost wondered if John would lose courage before asking his question.

Arthur dipped his head in a small nod. “Of course you may.”

You were singing something before and I wanted to know: Could you… could I sing with you?

Arthur felt a bemused grin creep across his face as he processed what John was saying. “You… you want to sing with me? I didn’t even know you liked music, John.”

I- Forget it. I’m sorry I asked, John snapped, clearly embarrassed that he had even asked the question.

“No, no, John, it’s not a bad thing. I’m just… surprised, I suppose. I truly didn’t even know you were interested in music.”

I… John sighed deeply, and Arthur heard his wooden pinkie tap twice against the steering wheel. We haven’t had many opportunities to listen to music. But I’ve been thinking about the song you played the first time we met, and I realized that I liked it, even if I didn’t know it then.

Arthur chuckled a bit at the memory. He’d been so scared, so afraid and alone, that when John had told him to play, he’d almost considered curling up into a ball on the floor and sobbing his eyes out instead. But when he had started playing that song, the lullabye he knew like the back of his hand, all of it had melted away. There had been nothing but the song, and even when he came back to himself and the hellish situation he was trapped in, nothing seemed quite as bad as it had before. The music had offered him such a wonderful escape. Maybe it could do the same for John.

We’ve been together for quite some time, and you always manage to make music sound so… so beautiful. I’ve heard you sing in your sleep, or the shower, and I’ve just been wondering what it’s like, is all, John continued. I want to be part of it.

“You don’t have to defend your request, John,” Arthur said. “We can sing together, if that’s what you’d like.”

I.. I would like that.

“Alright then. Let’s get started, shall we?”

Arthur smiled gently, and began to sing, following the same, easy one-two-three waltz he’d been following before. John was silent for a moment, listening to the song Arthur wove out of thin air, before hesitantly following along.

Arthur was expecting a lot of things from John when it came to music, but the loveliness of John’s voice was certainly not one of them. It was low and warm and velvety, like a cup of smooth hot chocolate in the dead of winter, like a warm blanket on a chilly autumn day. John’s voice was unsure at first, off-key on some notes and off-timing on others, but the longer he followed Arthur’s lead, the more confident and strong it became, eventually evolving into harmonies that sent shivers down Arthur’s spine. The music they made together was beautiful and haunting like the echoing refrain of a church choir, like a million flowers blooming in tandem, like a meteor shower raining light across the sky.

When it finally came to a gentle stop, there were tears running down Arthur’s face. He couldn’t tell if they were his own or John’s. He sniffled for a moment before he felt John’s hand against his face, gently wiping away the tears.

“John, that was…”

That was…

Arthur laughed lightly through another sniffle. “I didn’t know you had a voice like that.”

I didn’t either. But that felt… good. Could we do it again? John sounded so eager and excited that Arthur couldn’t help the smile that all but split his face in two.

“Of course we can. Maybe I can even transcribe the melody we just sang and turn it into a composition, if you’d like that. We can call it… ‘John’s Waltz’.”

The car continued on, the future looming in the distance but the music still lingering in the air. Arthur could almost taste the notes as they labeled themselves in his head, sweeter than raspberry wine. When John finally spoke again, Arthur could hear the fondness flooding his voice.

I’d like that, Arthur. I’d like that very much.

Here's a thought I had. Arthur humming to himself absent-mindedly. John harmonizing. Both creating a beautiful few seconds of a little harmony that only they can hear. A shared moment between them and only ever them.

#i got so inspired i couldn't help myself #so this is the outcome of that #i hope you enjoy it #malevolent #malevolent podcast #arthur lester #john doe malevolent #jarthur #private eyes #malevolent fanfic #malevolent fic #an eldritch being and his wet cat

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hunting-songs · 8 months ago

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spill the beans!

Send "spill the beans!" for my muse to confide in yours or let slip something yours shouldn't know about!

"You know, I slept with a siren once." Senritsus melodic voice was not jokingly playful or friendly joking, but quiet, almost serious. She sat in the traincompartment with the grey morninglight falling through the window that painted in thick, colourless streaks over her usually so kind face and made her look much too exhausted, much too tiered. Under their feet, below the traincompartments floor the trains engines buzzed in a loud throbbing like a sleepless heartbeat. Senritsus small hand resting on the windowssill tapped a slow melody against the trains wall thoughtfully, almost lost in thought. She heard something. Beneath Yukis heartbeat sitting in the compartment with her, beneath the buzzing of the trains engines, beneath the rustling of the grey ocean by the coast the train was driving along, beneath the muffling coat of mist wrapping around the train she heard something.

"They are magical beasts. Venusto women with the bodys of big birds, breasts and the head of a human where a birds head would be and they sing the most dolcissimo things into your ear. That can be anything you desire from just sex to hidden knowledge or actually the wifi-password of the Hotel by the sea you are staying at." Senritsu tilted her head from one side to another like a thoughtful bird, thinking through the expirience yet her eyes never stopped beeing drawn to the grey coastline past the trainwindow wrapped in a thick layer of mist that seemed to eat any other sound: "I was lucky it was just the wifi- password that I had forgotten to not down, but yes, I was lucky." But through the mist she heard something else, but over the heavy noise of the trains mechanics she heard something else, but along the soft rustle of the grey sea by the coastline she still heard something else.

"Unfairly lucky. I would later learn that the sirens settling by the town the hotel was build in, would lure in, drown and eat a person around once a week. So much too dolcossimo songs, to listen to. I was, as said, assai lucky." Her voice trailed off into a much too tiered sigh, swallowed by the buzzing of the trains engines working in the trains mechanics beneath their feet. In that moment she looked exhausted, her small shoulder weighted down with the weight of a guilt that she knew was not hers, could not be hears, should not be hers and still was just hers.

"Which are a lot of words for- " With a small hand Senritsu reached out and tapped a melody, soft and calming and so gentle as if she was worried she could hurt him, against Yukis sleeve. In the colourless, milklike light falling into the train-compartment, the Musicians grey eyes looked very dark and very black: " Yuki, I know the female form has not the bits and pieces you would be drawn too but this is not about what is there but about what you wish to be there for that will be what you will see when a siren sings to you. So please do me a favour and stuff your ears with wax as soon as we reach the hotel. You might not be as lucky as me. I would not like to jump out of the window at midnight and run after you into the cold water you are about to be drowned in to drag you back into safety. I would do so anytime without thinking, do not get me wrong, but I would not enjoy it."

There was a rueful smile sneaking on the young womans before serious expression and she tilted her head to the side, chuckling mirthlessly and the sound was swallowed by the buzzing of the trains engines: "Especially since I would need to run very volante to catch up to you, because you have a lot of longer legs than me."

Slowly, note by note, jauntiness started to sneak into the young womans melodic chuckle until she just had to turn her face away and hake her head over her own stupid joke that was actually very true: Yuki was taller than her and if she would need to catch up to him, she would need to run very fast and the mental image of her running after the other was just hilarious in her mind, as dangerouse the situation still would be. There was a playful shimmer in her dark eyes like a mischievous wisp in a dark black night as she winked up to the other friendly:

" And I do not think my back would enjoy that. Not at all enjoy that. Please have mercy on my gemendo creaking back."

[ @lostxtosunlight ]

#v: es saß ein klein wild vöglein #lostxtosunlight

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oliviahallwriting · 8 months ago

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Chapter 27

Tom sprinted through the third floor wing of the biology department. Cynthia herself was on his tail, now, after joining some of her goons in the complex. It was a decision he appreciated for two reasons. One was that, if he was going to get caught, at least it’d be by the main boss and not by some henchman. The second reason, which he hadn’t internalized until now, was that he was afraid of Cynthia, enough to create the second wind of hunted prey. Despite his aching ribs, Tom had never run so fast, nor dodged with such agility.

It was a good effort, Tom thought, but the chase was coming to a close. The cure had run its course by now, and soon they’d have an easy shot. The tables and bookshelves he’d knocked over in passing had bought him no more than a few moments.

The third-floor balcony door revealed itself in front of him, with its little sign. “DOOR LOCKS—”

“Door locks behind me,” Tom gasped. “I get it.”

He opened the door, and—

—And they landed a shot on his shoulder, the needle large and excruciating. A tear came to his eyes, and he winced before slamming the door shut.

One of Apryl Maye’s songs, “Catchphrase”, was blaring outside. Her music really was suitable for all situations, Tom thought, a little madly.

If Tom had been dosed through the small mists of the sprinkler system, maybe the song would have been enough, would have drowned out the clang of the belltower. But enough RAIN for five people had been injected directly into his veins, and he folded instantly to La Marschiena’s siren song. He was vulnerable to any instruction given at the right frequency, one to which every mercenary’s microphone was set.

“Fall asleep,” one of them commanded, through the now-locked glass door of the balcony.

Tom lost consciousness immediately. He hit the balcony at an awkward angle when he fell and, distantly, felt gravity pull him over the ledge.

…

Laura watched as Tom slammed the balcony door behind him. The two guys chasing him, and Cynthia, were on the door instantly, shouting and pounding on the glass.

Tom looked unsteady, and fear iced her heart; the angle was all wrong.

Laura scrambled for her prototype in her backpack.

Tom fell.

Fifty meters away, about thirty degrees above her. A tough throw.

She hurled the prototype at him. The signature adhesive, her patent-pending tape designed to stick to dogs and cats of all breeds, smacked onto Tom’s back and stayed there.

For a split second, the parachute didn’t do anything, and Laura felt raw horror, like that horrible afternoon a decade ago. House fire at her parents’ place, and her childhood best friend. At the time, she’d thought that a parachute would’ve saved him, would’ve saved Riley. But now, she’d built the damn thing, and it didn’t work—

—And then the canvas unfurled, caught the wind and ballooned outward. The evening sun shone gold through the parachute onto the cement below.

Though the prototype might have saved Tom's life, it wasn’t sized for people, and he still crashed into the ground with enough force that Laura winced. He landed on his side and collapsed onto the cement before lying still. The parachute billowed over him.

He had to be unconscious, Laura realized. She’d have to carry him out, and that was impossible. Even if she were strong enough to carry him, which seemed unlikely, there’d be no way she could outrun Cynthia and her men. Even now, the third-floor balcony door opened, and the two mercenaries gazed down at Tom. One asked about the parachute, and another wondered about the song.

As if on cue, the song playing from Kiyana’s golf cart suddenly paused, and most of the shouting stopped. Either the students had realized that Apryl Maye wasn’t around, or, worse but more likely, they’d been apprehended by the mercenaries.

They were out of time. Cynthia would pick up Tom. They’d easily find her and Box, once the mercenaries had cleared up Kiyana’s crowd enough to actually search the complex, and Cynthia would finally have settled the situation. She could then, undeterred, finish RAIN’s testing process and roll out the drug to industries. Laura’s heart sank. For once, she was lost as to how to proceed. At least no one was here to see it.

The most she could think of to do was to record the scene. Maybe it’d count as evidence somewhere, if she could make it through.

While she was opening the video-recording app, Box bounded from behind her, tail wagging, box still in his jaws, towards the parachute. The rainbow-colored, extremely visible parachute, currently within sight of several mercenaries and Cynthia herself.

“Wait, no, Box,” she started, knowing it was pointless. “For once, heel. Please?”

He didn’t.

Laura could do nothing but remain behind a planter box and hope that no one saw her. Box would lead them right back to her, though. It was only a matter of seconds.

“Where’d the dog come from?” Cynthia asked from the balcony, voice still amplified by her wearable microphone. Laura supposed she didn’t really need a headset. “Nothing was supposed to get inside the complex. Don’t tell me all the ground guys are dealing with that damn crowd!”

Laura watched, horrified, as the mercenaries on the balcony shot a few darts. Box twitched as the darts poked through his fur, but kept going. Knowing him, he’d barely felt them.

“Sit!” Cynthia shouted. “Stay! And would one of you please get this door open?”

Box, undeterred, kept going. He reached the parachute and started to snuffle for the opening, still carrying the box in his mouth. Laura remembered that she’d put a little bit of the antidote on it when she’d been in the cart with Kiyana, and a little hope came out of hiding.

One of the two mercenaries on the balcony tried to break down the locked balcony door. The other joined Cynthia in shouting to Box.

“Heel!”

“Lie down!”

“Play dead!”

For the first time, Laura was thankful for her dog’s inability to parse verbal commands. Box shuffled into the parachute without hesitation and, a second or two later, a mound rose in the center of the parachute as Tom rose to his feet.

One of the guys on the balcony fired a few shots into the parachute. The other one succeeded in breaking the door down, and ran with Cynthia, back into the building.

Tom hollered in pain as one of the darts hit him through the canvas.

“Sit down,” the guy on the balcony called through his speaker. “Hands on the ground.”

Box bounded back towards Laura. Tom shook off the parachute and followed him, visibly confused but still standing. The balcony dude paused to reload his dart gun.

“We have to go,” Laura said, when Tom noticed her behind the planter box. She pulled him forwards and ran towards the exit of the complex, where Kiyana had been, since there was a non-zero chance there’d still be some semblance of a crowd. And, she conceded, it wasn’t like she had any other ideas.

When she finally left the skewed sightlines of the Fisher Complex, it was to an empty street. Apparently the crowd had dispersed or ran away, and Kiyana and Jennifer with it. She’d expected at least a few mercenaries, since they’d been guarding this entrance, but the surroundings were deserted to the end of the block.

Laura waited for Tom—and Box, since he was trotting by his side— to catch up to her, and frowned.

“Where’d they go?”

Tom still looked dazed, and was holding his side. He gingerly removed one of the darts from Box’s fur.

“What?” he asked.

“Kiyana and Jennifer,” she said.

Box dropped the cardboard from his mouth, stiffened and perked up his ears. Then he started to bark, low rumbles ending to glass-sharp whines. Laura, startled, glanced towards him briefly, then looked around again, still to nothing.

Then Box ran full-tilt down the sidewalk.

She followed him, and heard Tom’s wheezing from behind her as he tried to keep up.

A few dozen meters later, Box, still barking, took a turn down an alley and was out of sight. No, not an alley, a long, dank walkway between several restaurants, a footpath of gum-covered stone. Lovers’ Path.

Laura turned the corner, and stifled a yell of shock. A few meters in front of her, out of sight from the sidewalk and the public eye, Kiyana and Jennifer were laying on the ground, hands splayed in front of them, like they’d been apprehended by the police. But looming over them instead were two of Cynthia’s goons. Could’ve fooled her; they stood like cops. Hand on hip, like they were armed with more than darts.

And then she noticed the pistol that one of them was aiming at Kiyana, and the one the other was aiming at Jennifer, and realized that it was a distinction without a difference.

The one who stood over Kiyana moved his hand so the gun was pointed at Box who, fur bristled, barking furiously, and with a dart still poking out of his gut, was markedly more threatening.

The mercenary-cops were speaking rapidly to each other, but Laura somehow caught their conversation, over her pounding heart.

“We should take it out.”

“I’m not shooting a dog, George, regardless of how much she’s paying.”

“You’ll have to. This one looks vicious, and our orders were to stop this sort of attention.” “It’s not going to attack. Clearly hasn’t been trained to.”

“It’s loud, Cath, and the situation’s already gotten enough out of hand. She wanted to hold them at Comel for a reason; see how much work it caused. This is just like that. It’s one bullet. Here, I’ll do it, if you insist.”

Before Laura could think, a feral yelp escaped her and drew their attention. The one who’d been pointing her gun at Jennifer—Cath, apparently— switched targets.

“Stop!” Catherine shouted. “On the ground!”

Laura, looking down the gun barrel, did as she was told.

“Is that your dog?” Catherine asked.

“Yes,” Laura replied shakily. Shouldn’t Tom be somewhere nearby? He was clearly injured, but he’d had a minute or two now to cover the distance from Fisher to the alley.

“Can you quiet him?”

Well, Laura thought, this wasn’t really the time to be truthful. Saying Box didn’t respond well to direction seemed like it’d get him shot.

She hesitated. George looked pointedly at Catherine.

Sounds, then, different from Box’s barking, the hum of an engine and the clack of shoes on pavement.

“Get rid of the dog,” someone said, from behind her. A posh, familiar voice. “Or at least keep it quiet.”

“He’ll stop barking if the two on the ground are okay,” Laura said.

“That’s a good point,” Cynthia replied, from behind her. “We don’t need to shoot anyone, do we? That would be quite barbaric.”

“Oh, right,” George replied. He holstered his pistol and replaced it with a dart gun, and proceeded to fire it, one for Kiyana, and one for Jennifer.

The campus bell tower had stopped sounding its call several minutes ago, but Cynthia had been prepared. The peal played from her omnipresent wearable speaker.

From the ground, Kiyana and Jennifer didn’t move.

The few ounces remaining of Tyler’s cure was still in their golf cart, which was, Laura noticed, only a short walk down the alley. With any luck, Jennifer and Kiyana had taken some of it before they were caught.

“Get up,” Cynthia said. “And quiet the dog.”

Kiyana rose to her feet immediately. Jennifer followed suit, but there was a brief hesitation, like she’d stumbled, or, or—

Oh, Laura realized. They must not have known Jennifer was deaf. She was just following what her girlfriend was doing.

“George,” Cynthia said. “You missed one.”

And Laura didn’t have time to react before her arm was ablaze. But it was a pain she wasn’t allowed to dignify, as a bell rang from behind her, and she was gone.

#writing #novel

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epiclese · 1 year ago

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see you in another life

ei x reader, angst

synopsis: vulnerability met with her stone-cold divine gaze: she escapes into her mind, the love you had still the same in her head. but for you it is dying - when will you see her again?

based on the pinkpantheress song "another life" off her new album!!! it's really good check it out

tw: small mention of blood, reader is immortal.

The metal accents on the doors of Tenshukaku glint in the light of the setting sun. The guards stand, jaws set, their spears sharp as Her Excellency's divine gaze, merciless as the endless lightning on Yashiori Island. Yet, as the puppet kneels inside the palace, her eyes are dull and unfeeling.

Your tea tastes of iron from your bitten lip. She blinks.

"Is something wrong?"

You avert your eyes from her countenance, too perfect to be real.

"No, Your Excellency."

She is satisfied.

You wonder: is Ei satisfied? Eternal peace, in a realm that is hers alone, a place to think. Think about her nation's future while the puppet shapes it in her stead.

"The path to eternity is long, arduous, and bends every which way," Ei told you once. Like electricity, jumping through the clouds, then plummeting to the ground as lightning. Is this what will become of Inazuma?

A simple deity, decaying away in Tenshukaku, eternally longing for their lover to breathe life into the puppet, and become one again. Is this what will become of you?

The tempestuous waves that torment you, her eyes like the mist that clouded the mornings haunting you in your sleep, so tantalizingly close. But it is the Shogun when you wander the halls of the palace that greets you. It is the Shogun who orders the guards to stand watch over your chambers.

It is the Shogun, the puppet, the lifeless doll, who speaks with you every day, and from the first conversation, you accepted that she was not your Ei. She does not care for dango, or sakura mochi, only for Eternity. Or perhaps you, but not in the way Ei did.

The Shogun gives you almost anything you could ever need or want, exquisite silk flowing from your arms and cascading onto your lap, yet she does not give the three words you crave.

i might write a part two for this - also first fic yay

likes + rbs are appreciated !

#ei x reader #raiden shogun x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you

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bluepoodle7 · 2 years ago

Text

#JohnDoeGame #ZableFable #ThisDatingChartThing#PoodleArtMyArt

I used Ms Paint to try to make Zable's side so if it looks rough that's the reason why.

Also my art isn't great.

The reason why it says randomized because every Zable Fable is different but the first Zable Fable drawing is the base.

Zable Fable will sometimes randomly change forms when she first shifted but she needs to go to shifter classes to control her powers right.

Info of Zable.

A blog about obscurity stuff, plushies and food. on Tumblr - search: Funny fella

This will their first date song. Song and video not mine but link is there.

Pokemon GSC Is What I Like Full Edit - YouTube

Zable Fable wouldn't arrive on the uncanny valley bus but would realm jump randomly into either the café, just slamming her body on top of the bus, or just randomly falling in John Doe's revolting slob house then swimming through his/their trash wondering where she is.

Then she would just sink in the trash void Doe has.

When she realm jumps it's similar to the Eric Andre Intros.

Only the gift she/they gift you will jog the memory if you pick the wrong Zable Fable.

Also you need to describe to her if you don't have a video or a photo of the gift.

If there was a bow on the gift you need to say what color the bow is.

If you kiss her like for example in ending 2 of John Doe you will get some of that shifter mist in your mouth but it tries to harmonize with Zable's shifter mist.

Then she will slowly get up.

The most likely mist song to appear when Fable is in control and Zable "died" or is swapped out.

The vessel will attack like they are from that game with their eyes closed.

Song not mine but link is there.

Mouth Wide Open (Lardy Hernandez) - LISA: The Joyful - YouTube

Zable Fable after Ending 2 in John Doe after Doe says Do you like being scared?"

This character would just angerly stare him down and take off their normal head to reveal John Doe's head back to him to spooky him then the normal Doe's head and later back to her normal head.

It's a reference to the True Ending to Illbleed but Zable is dressed. This video has Eriko edited.

Video not mine but link is there.

Shutting Down Illbleed: The True Ending - YouTube

------------------------------

(John Doe is from Mortisfox.)

Zable Fable in the Uncanny Valley

------------------------------------

Zable Fable would be caught off guard if John Doe did those scary face attacks but won't be scared of him/them but will pretend to be scared to get Doe's confidence up.

Zable would be scared that Doe's face might freeze up though.

But Zable would be spooked of normal Doe.

Zable Fable would probably kiss Doe when he/they did that ending 4 pose and say " I can stay over if you want since I can interview you for my job since it's only day 1 of 3 days I can stay here."

Now ending 5 Zable Fable would shrug and say her/their name then they get to know each other.

Probably show Doe her inner bag realm with a clear early 2000s furniture and video games.

Ending 2 Zable Fable would be the most scared of Doe since a knife is in play.

She would "die" but get up from her dormant shifter half and fight them off or teleport out of there to not hurt Doe.

Maybe fight Doe Illbleed style with her dual shot water gun she/they copied.

This would play in the battle and mostly from Janet.

Rootin-Tootin Love - SiIvaGunner: King for Another Day - YouTube

Ending 6 would be super rough. Zable Fable would probably try to ignore Doe with headphones or try to interview literally anyone else than Doe even though she/they might need that one interview to power her realm jumper clicker to return home.

She/they will regrettable interview Doe then teleport away only using Doe's interview just to leave without a thanks.

Ending 7

Zable Fable would be scared this pretty person is talking to her/them since normal Doe looks too nice looking and out of Zable's league. Then Zable Fable would love to know what this strange person really looks like.

And say this person has a porcelain mask like fakeness that she/they can sense.

Zable Fable would say "Just be yourself dude and don't change for me. I got something to say to you now get up."

She/they would just pull out a karaoke mic out the inner bag realm and Janet would sit on the couch with this song played while dancing.

Zable Fable would sing to Doe and probably dance with them.

Song and video not mine but link is there.

Just the way you are - Billy Joel - with lyrics - YouTube

Then Zable Fable would eat the meat gift then kiss John Doe.

Zable Fable in Ending 1 would just be them watching Doe break the fourth wall.

Maybe recording Doe doing this for Zable's stream channel and ask Doe to do a food review with them after John Doe is done.

Zable Fable would say "That was pretty cool. Can you teach me that?"

Zable Fable in Ending 3 would say no only once then say maybe at the following home thing but gives Doe the address to the café instead of the apartment so Zable just ditched them then Doe would have lost interest message.

Because they sat at the café waiting on them to arrive.

Zable Fable's Squad Dynamic

--------------------------------

Janet would still be scared by John Doe but slowly gets used to them.

Zericon on the other hand would be kind of overprotective of his kid being with this shifter.

He would test John Doe in both word and fighting to see if they are worthy of being with any Zable Fable.

(Zable Fable doesn't know Zericon is their dad. Since the villain of my story put a curse on her own realm to block that out so she sees Zericon as a friend and not her dad. It's part of the sitcom curse plot twist of realm 12 to fully awaken their full power.)

(Telling any Zable Fable that Zericon is her dad they will laugh it off and call you crazy.)

(Then a catchphrase would come out their mouth with canned laughter afterwards.)

Zable Fable has a item called a copycat which is a cat shaped portable scanner.

It can scan any item down to the detail and food but it needs to be a edible ink to be consumed.

The weapon can be edible if the ink is also edible.

This can't scan people.

Unless it's gingerbread or food people but not humans.

It makes a cat scan of the weapons, food, and food people.

Their blood is red but when shifted it turns purple since they have blue shifter blood mixed with their red human blood.

Zable Fable a few minutes before John Doe wakes up from his/their 9 hour motionless closed eyed nap would place his favorite burger and thickened drink next to Doe so he can eat it when he wakes up.

Each Zable Fable would count down until John Doe wakes up.

Zable probably ask what Doe was dreaming about.

Or if Regular Guys can even dream in the first place.

Also Zable Fable would find the pick up line too easy and cheesy even for them.

"Did It Hurt? When You Fell From Heaven?"

Sometimes Zable would just put the burger in John Doe's mouth to see how he reacts to that.

Zable also finds Doe's chicken like feet interesting that this character commissioned custom slippers online to look like his feet to wear.

This Zable Fable would say. "Hey Richard Roe how's it going?"

"Give me some skin."

Then would do a secret hand shake to know it's the same Zable and not a different one.

I can see John Doe not getting it at first then removing some of his/their clay skin and handing it to Zable then smiling.

Zable would be confused by this then would just take the clay then make a mini me version of Doe then add it back to his/their body.

Then would teach the handshake to Doe.

Maybe making a custom mug out of John Doe's fake clay body that got removed.

If it was John Doe's birthday and Zable knew Doe wasn't into sweets.

Zable Fable would look up a video on how to make homemade meatloaf instead of a birthday cake.

Zable would probably ask why his house is so messy and where is the party stuff is coming from?

Also where should I put the birthday meatloaf?

Then would see the cake Zable gave Doe in the trash pile in his house just getting gross hoping the animals will enjoy it.

What Richard Roe means.

Richard Roe Definition & Meaning - Merriam-Webster

------------------------------

If Zable and Doe had kids.

-----------------------------

(Shifter Dna in my lore is stubborn and even if beings that can't have kids the shifter will make them but just needs Dna from the partner and has to be truly in love.)

It's a fail-safe trait of a shifter just in case a species gets low in population.

The first one is female looking named Zandra and is a dentist.

The second one is male looking named Zeal and is a funeral owner.

The third is male and named Zouglas and is a defective version of the regular guy mixed with zigearimorph deluxe species is more human like.

Zouglas and is shorter than the other two children and doesn't have a clay hollow body or a hair ball form also he's not weak to water but bones still give him problems.

He's allergic to bones, teeth, and the throw away material.

Zouglas wants to be a realm jumper like his mom and he's a junkavore.

Zouglas only eats junk foods but can eat normal food but it makes him gain weight.

All three kids are Demisexual.

Zable Fable needs to eat some of Doe's "hair" and to be strongly bonded with love to produce the kids.

They both have to agree on having kids.

All three kids are attending shifter school to get their shapeshifting powers down right so they can control them.

Zouglas can shapeshift into a Doeball form but it would be like those monster plastic rubber balls since he doesn't have bones but cartilage.

The regular guy looking kids clay fake bodies slowly melt when in contact with water since that's the shifter side preventing that.

Zouglas fake doe ball like form be like.

The hands interchange like feet.

A blog about obscurity stuff, plushies and food. on Tumblr - #Carnival Source

I imagine Zandra doing her regular dentist job but Doe just randomly showing up to see how the kids are doing and wanting free teeth.

Same with Zeal for his funeral owner job.

He would sigh and say "Sup dad. You here for the teeth right?"

Zouglas would be too busy realm jumping with Janet but maybe would hitch a ride in Doeball form in his inner bag realm pretending to be a plush then spook him and laugh about it.

I imagine Zouglas having John Doe's beta design pointed nose while his siblings are much taller than him and have different nose types.

All three can shapeshift but Zouglas has a time limit for how long he can do it.

He tends to count down to himself until he changes back.

Zouglas seems to have a tiny bit of the Funny Fella genes left inside of him which is why he seems a little unstable when shifting.

He seems to get spooked very easily especially when getting sneaked up on.

If Zable and Maison Talo had a kid

--------------------------------------

If Zable and Maison Talo had a kid then the offspring would be a object head of the house body with the lure cord being like a scarf.

----------------

Zable Fable If they realm jumped to the uncanny valley.

----------------

If Zable Fable any of the versions of the character randomly realm jumped to the uncanny valley would probably take pictures of everything then interview beings and later do a food review for their side hobby.

Speaking shiften their native tongue to confuse people before Janet can translate both languages so everyone is on equal in the language.

But Janet would tilt her head when Maison Talo says his name then look at Zable with a like "Are you serious?"

But Zable would just want to interview folks for her job but my guess is that Maison would trick them into his house but he will get a rude awakening from Zable Fable.

Janet can make the languages kind of equal on both sides but it will be hard to translate Doe's true name.

If Zable and Doe were a couple Janet would be clinging onto Doe's back so she can hear more angel speak from John Doe to add to the translate database.

Zable Fable be like.

But each Eric Andre intro hits something with their body like the top part of the Bus in the uncanny valley or randomly landing on people if they are just standing there and sometimes realm jumps in houses.

Smash Bros Melee Intro in 4K is PURE NOSTALGIA - YouTube

Zable Fable when they randomly realm jump to a place and their art style changes to match the place.

A blog about obscurity stuff, plushies and food. on Tumblr

----------------------------------

I think it is canon that certain beings can leave the uncanny valley to explore outside the valley.

If John Doe could leave the Uncanny Valley then Zable Fable would totally take him/them on her realm jumping adventures where each Zable interviews and delivers goods to folks.

So I guess a last species half clown shifter that doesn't know that yet as a plot twist of a curse and a fuzz ball goth shifter that doesn't know they are goth can be a thing.

But that's just my Au though.

I find it funny that John Doe doesn't get puns about his name because Zable Fable would have a ton of them ready when returning back from realm jumping interviewing folks for their job.

Zable would slowly try to explain the puns to Doe and he would just be confused.

Also Zable would do the same thing to his weird memes.

Probably writing notes on the uncanny valley humor.

All the versions of Zable Fable have different favorite colors but this one in this Au likes metal colors like bronze, copper, gold, pewter, platinum, and silver.

The reason why the secret handshake is important is that the villain in Zable's story can shapeshift or make a clone similar to Zable but won't know the handshake and it will try to guess.

If it guesses right it will take control of the love interest or friend to kill Zable and Fable the same way they wiped out all the Funny Fellas.

YipYop's movie is called Soul Trick Puppeteer.

It's similar to fail safe but the attacks can be controlled.

YipYop is controlling the victim's body while the user is trapped in a void either a sleep like Zable or awake trying to find a way out but is stuck not even words can break them out of their control.

If you try to break them out of YipYop's control they will let the victim say a few words then take control again.

Maybe saying that it worked and I'm free using the victim's voice as a false sense of security then attack.

Even when Fable is in control it will try to not harm the soul tricker.

Fable will try to cycle through the randomized dream moves to find a attack that will snap the one tricked out of it.

YipYop will dismiss the weakness of the user to guarantee Zable Fable's death.

If the character's main weapon is a knife it will change into hatchet or a sword.

YipYop's victim's eyes will be open but feel soulless with X's in each pupil. The Fail safe eyes rarely open but have numbers cycling through the pupils. Fable will just dodge the attack until they get Friendship.

5 Friendship Fable warns the enemy of something coming but doesn't know what the item is or what could be coming. This confuses the enemy then gets hit by a random boat or space ship that knocks out the enemy then they wake up forgetting why they were fighting then both parties hang out.

This will separate YipYop from the victim which will confuse YipYop but free the victim. The victim will be really tired or sleepy due to the fighting.

It's like dream fighting vs day dream fighting.

After this YipYop will try again to take over the host.

Fable needs to hide the victim and fight their 2nd and 3rd forms.

YipYop shapeshifts by turning their body inside out and both siblings have to agree on a form.

The monster form has to be conjoined or topsy turvy doll like.

Similar to this.

Image not mine but link is there.

Topsy Turvy Doll: Dorothy & Toto | A Mighty Girl

The sister and brother takes turns on who is the "legs" when walking. Their size can be human sized to kaiju sized.

The 1st phase is character puppeteering, The 2nd phase is the normal size with form change, The 3rd boss phase is the kaiju sized one.

YipYop does have a tail it's their dress like skin that changes forms when inside out.

Once Zable and Fable are synchronized then they can shapeshift as well.

YipYop Zable's clone will try their best to act like the same character to the love interest or friend is used to but will act forgetful at times or off when certain questions or actions are brought up.

Maybe ask the clone Zable how their day was, or how fast they arrived back, ask where Janet or their translator is.

Maybe make the love interest or character speak their native tongue since most Zable's will try to learn the language instead of depending on Janet.

If the character is a lover then ask questions on how they first met and the gift exchanges that happened.

Maybe a favorite color.

Zable Fable would give Peter the nickname Stickman, Sharky, Shark Week, Megamind, Bear Trap, and Cubeworld.

I think Peter would be tricked by the Zable clone but YipYop would be spooked while controlling him since they see the memories of the vessel.

YipYop is impressed of evil individuals and takes notes.

----------------------------------

Another song that might play in Zable's mist song.

Video not mine but link is there.

Stay With Me - Miki Matsubara but 8bit - YouTube

Chart isn't mine but link is there.

🦊 FOX 📼 on Twitter: "Saw some fellow devs doin this so i made one too -w- feel free to fill it out if you'd like! #johndoegame https://t.co/xQnz1G6kqA" / Twitter

If John Doe dates the wrong Zable Fable be like since there are multiple versions of her/them.

Doe is Gay spaghetti chef.

Video not mine but link is there.

Khonjion date - YouTube

What it sounds like to realm jump.

Songs not mine but link is there.

Date of Birth - PLANET DOB [1999] - YouTube

Ending 2 in John Doe with the knife with my oc Fable in Zable's closed eyed vessel body defeating Doe in strange way be like.

Zable Fable is 6'2" and John Doe is 5'8" in a non shifted form.

Video clip not mine but link is there.

1:25:40-1:26:19

Oney Plays Illbleed (Complete Series)

The tiny man with the tiny prop knife my oc Fable narrowly escaped from with a piece of gravity prison paper.

Search: I took some pictures of the Makeship John Doe Plush holding the toy prop knife. – @bluepoodle7 on Tumblr

Can't wait to take pictures with the Makeship spooky faced John Doe plush and put a piece of paper on him.

96024

Portrait Panic Who Framed Edition

The printer ink paper scented shifter mist song for this dream move but I imagine Fable using Zable's closed eyed vessel body lying on the ground "dead" while a piece of gravity paper appears to push trap a enemy.

Sherwood - Middle of the Night - YouTube

Another song.

Further - YouTube

The heavy paper does seem like a dream move I would make up but give it the Doodlebob where the enemy is trapped in the paper in their default pose or the first pose the enemy was drawn in with a 50/50 chance Fable would destroy the picture, sell, or thrift the enemy away.

Maybe make the paper have heavy gravity effect that quickly pushes the enemy in the paper dimension to be trapped which it's up to Fable to "eat" it to spit them out to release the enemy out but Fable needs a sorry first from the enemy.

If the enemy didn't have a weapon in their first sketch then it won't be with the enemy when the paper gets them and would drop off from the enemy.

I can see Fable frame the enemy as artwork to hang in Zable's realm jumper monster bag inner bag realm room but have Zable swap back to not know where this picture was from and might think that the enemy was their oc sketch from a long time ago not knowing the living enemy.

But I can see Fable in Zable's closed eyed vessel body teleporting back the picture trapped enemy back if this ghost shapeshifter needs as a summon dream move in case it lands on 69 and 420 since no dream moves will happen but will break the picture frame to release the picture trapped enemy to fight with Fable.

Once the old picture trapped enemy defeats the new enemy or helps both parties flee then the picture trapped enemy will be teleported returned back to their world.

I imagine when the gravity prison paper dream move sneak hits a enemy then Fable in Zable's closed eyed vessel body rolls away from Doe or a enemy similar with enemy getting trapped inside of the paper with the first drawing of the enemy being shown unless the enemy says sorry.

Then the gravity prison paper would rip itself apart to reform the enemy back to the current design but Fable would have already left the enemy's area to a safe place to swap Zable back not knowing anything.

If Zable quirk follows a enemy to a danger area that's a sign to flee.

7648

Random Dance Musical 2000x

The dance mob scented shifter mist song for this dream move but I imagine Fable using Zable's closed eyed vessel body to "die" but to randomly hum a song in Shiften for the enemy to hum along to slowly sing and dance with Fable with.

Now I can see Fable quirk making Zable hold a REALTORs lure body's hand never meeting this person before then looking up into the lure body's eyes awkwardly like Fable knows what is going on while watching in the upside down heart necklace but wants to see what the enemy will do.

LOVELAND 愛LAND - SiIvaGunner: King for Another Day - YouTube

#JohnDoeGame #Zable Fable #This Dating Chart Thing #Poodle Art My Art

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landinoandco · 4 years ago

Text

Our Love is a Game

Lando Norris x Reader

Request from @jamieeboulos

Warnings: pinch of fluff, cute ending because they are the best

Word count: 2.7 k

Requests are open :)

It all started with a phone number, an innocent exchange that would subsequently change the world you knew; mostly for the better. When you had met Lando, as far as you were concerned you had just met a 21 year old who lived in London and had a passion for cars. How wrong you were. It was only when things started to get serious that he sat you down and explained everything that came with being a formula one driver; more importantly the fandom that he was involved in.

You had always been a private person and admittedly this piece of information almost broke your relationship but after some time to think you had decided that he was worth it all. You both decided it was a better idea to keep your relationship as quiet as possible - you took every precaution to make sure you stayed a stranger to the fans.

For the past 2 years, you thought you had managed to stay clear of the cameras, the photos and the twitch streams but it wasn’t until a fan-made compilation caused your world to spiral out of control.

You and Lando were out for a run, it was a part of your morning routine - a great way to start the day and it was time that you two could escape the motor sport world and act like a normal couple without worrying about who might be watching. It was time you both valued and appreciated. On this particular morning, Lando had decided to add to his Instagram story, a short video of his morning adventures - the mist still hanging around the trees as you ran under a heavily graffitied bridge, the early birds song chirping animatedly. At the time you didn’t think much of it as you were too busy tying your hair back up to notice.

It wasn’t until you got home and looked at his story that your heart stopped, rushing over to the kitchen island you placed your phone down and ran your fingers through your hair. It was a blink and you’ll miss it moment but in the corner of his video - the last millisecond before it ended - there was a flash of a purple top (the purple top you had been wearing) and a swish of brown hair as you chucked it back up into a ponytail.

“Lando.” You called out, trying to keep your voice as calm as you could. You didn’t know why it had affected you so much - or why you were so desperate to keep your identity a secret. It wasn’t like you wanted to hide your relationship; you were the happiest you ever had been, everyday was exciting and offered new prospects - it was more that you were so used to being in this bubble with Lando, the idea of it bursting seemed rather unappealing. Usually you didn’t care for how others saw you but seeing some of the words that people used to describe him, it would be enough to trouble even the thickest of skins.

Lando’s close proximity broke your thoughts as he stared down at your phone, pausing on the flash of brown and purple. “I am so sorry, love.” He almost whispered, his eyes widening at his carelessness. He picked your phone up to take a closer look.

“It will be alright, won’t it? I mean, it’s a blink and you’ll miss it.” You had said, more to reassure yourself than Lando. He didn’t answer, anxiety building in the pit of his stomach because he knew exactly what he had started.

The fan-made compilation didn’t go viral until a few hours later - as it turns out that flash of purple was the perfect cherry on top of an unappetising cake. Lando was sat on stream - not that this was out of the ordinary and Max had decided to join him, leaving you alone to rewatch Friends for the umpteenth time.

The pair were sat reacting to videos on YouTube when a clip of a seal swimming into a shoal of fish started playing - the amusing part was that they kept quickly dispersing away from the seal in question. Unsurprisingly, they laughed and Lando spluttered: “This is me trying to find a girlfriend.” What the fans didn’t know was the apparent irony of that sentence and this was what caused the major meltdown; whilst Lando and Max were busy crying with laughter - that chat had filled up with the same link and references to the video you would be redirected through.

Max was the first to stop laughing, tapping Lando on the shoulder as he pointed at the chat. Hundreds of the same message filled the screen: “That’s not what this compilation shows.” “Lando, what are you hiding from us?” “Lando and Max laughing knowing very well he has a girlfriend.”

“Chat what on earth are you waffling on about.” Max chuckled uneasily, looking at Lando out of the corner of his eye. Lando sat with a forced smile, his nostrils flaring as he continued through the comments. He could only let out a tense laugh as he swallowed thickly - his throat feeling suddenly dry. You were still sitting, completely engrossed and unaware that Lando Norris was now trending on twitter.

Max had come up with an excuse to end the stream not long after, Lando uncharacteristically quiet. His thoughts were with you in the other room, had you seen it? Did you know? How would you react? He felt as though he had lost all control, like he had failed you entirely - all he wanted to do was protect you yet he was the one to screw it up.

“Hey,” Max nudged his shoulder, “It was bound to happen at some point. Let’s go and see if she’s seen it - if not then -” He took a deep breath, “We will watch it together. We need to know what we are working with here.” Lando nodded, unable to reply, his body went into automatic pilot mode and too quickly he was standing facing you.

Pausing the tv, you looked at Lando - his jaw tightened and facial expressions set as though he had just seen a ghost. “Is everything ok?” You asked apprehensively.

“There’s something you need to see.” Max reached for his phone, pushing Lando onto the sofa. You offered your arm to Lando, pulling him into a hug. Max pulled up the video and pressed play. A tense atmosphere held the room hostage - breath restricted and gazes fixed onto the tiny screen in front of you.

It started with a clip from this year’s Goodwood - Lando preparing to drive his last hill climb - you remembered it well, a McLaren hat placed on your head mainly to cover your identity; knowing that there would be more than a few fans around. The clip moved to 3 separate stills - all of you in your McLaren hat. One with your back to the camera, you hand placed around Lando’s waist, the other two a side profile as you spoke to Max.

The reaction was immediate, you slapped your hand to your mouth, Lando looked horror-struck and Max was watching you carefully.

The video moved on, this time a clip from the quadrant video where Niran trains like Lando for 24 hours - Lando and Niran were in the kitchen preparing to eat their breakfast when once again the video moved to stills. This time they were of your reflection in the oven - holding the camera. You had thought at the time, if you were behind the camera it would stop every chance of you accidentally being caught on camera. Apparently not.

The video had moved on again, this time to stills of Lando arriving on track - of course there was no way for you to get on track without being photographed and you were fine with that because you would just arrive after Lando either with Jon or Charlotte. Photos of you arriving with Jon and Charlotte flashed up - with them you were just another member of staff but put with those other stills and it really did yell out that you and Lando were romantically involved. Finally the flash of purple from Lando’s story. The game was up.

“Oh my-” You stuttered as the video came to an end. Fortunately your Instagram hadn’t been shown but judged by how skilled you knew the fans to be - it would only be a matter of time. “I feel sick.” You admitted, wiping your hands across your face. Lando still hadn’t said a word, staring blankly at the floor. Max was the first to come up with something logical, turning to you and Lando.

“It will blow over.” He started, “The fans will soon lose interest and move onto the next big headline. We just need to ignore anything we see regarding the subject.” He moved his attention to you. “Maybe avoid social media for a few days. Let everyone cool down -” Sensing your means to interrupt, he held his hand up. “I know you shouldn’t have to and I know none of this is fair but unfortunately people have no boundaries and believe because it’s on social media it is their business. If they were in our situation, I’m pretty sure they would be the first to complain. Let’s just go along with it for now. It will give you time to think about what to do next.”

Lando cleared his throat, pulling you closer into him. “I’ve failed you. All I wanted to do was protect you.” At this, Max got up and left.

Shaking your head, you pressed your lips to his forehead. “You could never. Think about how long we kept it secret for. Besides, until we announce or admit anything - it isn’t confirmed.” You offered, trying to soothe his worries. He nodded, still not convinced.

“Our love is like a game and it’s not a game I enjoy playing.” He croaked, lacing your fingers together.

“I know, Lando, I know. Let’s let everything calm down and then we can think about what our next step is.”

Weeks later and it was the night before you were due to leave for your summer holiday. You would be spending it with Lando and some of his friends and family. Due to the current pandemic, it had been so long since you had been away - even if it was a bigger group of you going; you were still looking forward to spending that quality time with Lando.

Max had decided to take himself and Tom off to the streaming room - leaving you and Lando to sort out the remaining items you needed for your time away.

“I have a present for you.” He said suddenly, his hands behind his back. You beamed, taking a step closer to him. He shook his head, “If you want it - “ He pointed at his lips.

Rolling your eyes, you pecked his lips then held out your hands like a child. Lando chuckled, “Close your eyes.” Hands still outstretched and eyes closed, you waited for Lando to present you with your surprise. He grasped your left wrist and attached something to it - “No peeking.” He added. A moment or two later, he dropped his hold of your wrist and said: “You can open them now.” You could hear the smile on his lips. You opened your eyes and looked straight to your wrist - he had given you a pink watch. You furrowed your eyebrows and looked up at him, his eyes twinkled as he then pointed to the orange watch on his wrist.

“Watches?” You asked, confusion laced your tone.

Nodding, he said, “We all have matching watches but in different colours - they are for our holiday away.”

You gave him a lopsided grin and wrapped your arms around his neck, “I love it. Thank you.”

In the streaming room, Max was having to ignore the majority of the comments because they were all asking the same thing: “Who was the girl from the compilation.” He was trying his hardest to keep moving off the topic, instead showing off the watches - it had been his idea, blue for him, orange for Lando, a child’s watch for Tom and a pink watch for you. He had listed off all of the colours and said who they belonged to: “And then pink-” He paused, mentally face palming. He looked over to Tom for assistance - he hadn’t meant to say pink at all. “And pink is for someone.” He cursed his poor excuse but as if by magic - Lando walked through the door.

Distracting the stream from his slip up.

Croatia was a dream come true, the hot summer sun on your back and the time to just relax and recharge. Days spent with Lando sunbathing on the boat or stuck in a tense game of Uno. Not being the only female was brilliant as well - as they got to go off and not feel guilty about leaving you on your own.

Currently, you and Lando were standing in each other's arms - the afternoon drawing into the evening as the sun began to set. You had your arms around his neck and his arms were around your waist, sighing contentedly you broke the silence: “This is nice.” He pressed his lips into your hair, a sign that he agreed with your statement. In that moment, it was just you and him - everyone seemed to disappear from around you and all worries vanished. It was the simple yet affectionate moments that had always meant the most to you. You felt as though you could relax every muscle in your body, listening to his steady heartbeat - you wished for this moment to never end, to forever be in his arms and to not worry about who sees you there.

Ever since that compilation had been made, the thought had been on your mind a lot. Were you ready to go public with Lando? At the end of the day you were both happy and surely that was the most important thing.

Later that night, you were sitting eating your meal when a phone was handed to you, displayed on it was a picture of you and Lando - in each other’s arms.

Instantly you knew what this meant, looking at Lando you were met with the same expression. He did as well.

You and Lando had decided it was time to announce your relationship, there was no point sneaking around anymore if people knew and were looking out for you. You had agreed that the best way to do it was if you joined him in a stream, that way they got to know you a bit more for who you were.

“Is it ok to feel as nervous as I am?” You asked him, pulling up a chair beside him. He was setting up the stream, two mugs of tea placed in front of you. It seemed completely unnatural to sit facing the camera.

“I mean, this is kind of a big deal so yes I would say, it’s completely natural for you to feel nervous.” He reached for your hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. Nodding, you took a deep breath.

“Ok. I’m ready.” You said, your heart beating at a million miles an hour. The corners of his lips turned up, leaning in to leave you a kiss on the lips.

“I love you and I’m so proud of you.” He admitted quietly, as though you were the only person in the world, his eyes flickered with complete adoration.

“I love you too. Now, shall we start it?”

Lando went to press the start stream button but paused. He turned back to face you, his eyes wide and offered an apologetic smile.

“What did you do?” You asked, a smile toying at your lips as you had an idea of what it might have been.

“Stream, meet my girlfriend.”

He had already started it...

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genshingarbage · 4 years ago

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Can i request skincare night with da boys? (Whichever character u want) 💖

Ohoho~ A spa day is well deserved I think! Since you haven’t picked a character I’ll do the ones most likely to do skincare with their s/o. Enjoy your spa day with the boys~ - Mod Kaeya

Reccomending this song for these HCs!

Kaeya

- He’s the King of spa days, expect only the best routines and products because he dabbled in it for awhile when he was a bit younger, he knows the inns and outs and a couple of little secrets about things you wouldn’t think of initially

- Kaeya would literally kill for glaze lilies and mist flower corolla because their medicinal properties for skincare in particular are legendary

- He has a whole stash he ends up sharing with you during the night

- He even mixes a fresh face mask for you from all the ingredients he has hidden away in cupboards catered to your needs and any allergies you might have

- Talks through the whole thing about a bunch of harmless gossip he’s heard about the tavern or things you’d find interesting that he’s happened to have read up on during breaks at the office

- Will 100% leave you for a moment to do something else real quick so you’re just confused and covered in facemask while it’s dead quiet and He Should Be Behind You but he’s not

- He’s gonna tie his hair back before letting you do his facemask and then scrunch up his nose all cute whenever you tickle him

- The type to laugh a little at everything while you’re doing his mask because his eyes are closed and he doesn’t know what to do with himself about it

- After you’re waiting for them to do their thing he’ll grab some water and the two of you can talk about everything and nothing and hang out in your pjs until you’re ready to wash the masks off

- Little finger snacks and of course more gossip because the man has fountains of tea he’s not been able to rant with anyone about for years and guys it’s like a god damn unsolved mysteries episode because it’s less “shawty’s dating trevor now” and more “did you know the viscount is apart of that cult that sells organs” and it is the most interesting shit you’ve heard all week

- You tell him he should write a book series

- He agrees

- You’ll he surprised to find he’s already ran a nice steamy bath for you complete the night, it’s got some candles and some salts he happened to have left over, just relax and take in the scented candles and stuff because the guy knows how to treat people to a good spa day

- You two will probably fall asleep after you’re both done in there, swaddled in bath robes and cramped on the couch together with not a care in the world about the stresses of life

- He’ll offer another time if he starts to see you’re stressing out a bit too much and he’s getting worried

Zhongli

- He’s never been one to do this sort of thing at all to be quite honest

- He’d be more inclined to hair and scale treatments if that makes sense and those sorts of ones are beyond your expertise (especially in the divine sense)

- Zhongli’s interested though don’t get me wrong, he for sure wants to try this out because it’s something a lot of mortals do as a part of routine and that’s kind of what he’s aiming to be at this time

- Will do everything you say to the letter, follow you around the cupboards and kitchen and bathroom like a puppy whilst you get ready because he wants to help but doesn’t know how just yet

- He’ll get the hang of it though

- He’s eager to learn

- Won’t squirm or anything during the application because he’s a good boy

- “This is…peculiar?”

- “Is it supposed to feel stiff?” “Yeah you just have to wash it off now” “Marvelous.”

- If you have any lotions or moisturizers made out of silk flowers he’d looove those after the face masks are done oh my god

- He keeps touching his face and smiling a lil because it’s so smooth now

- You won’t know it but he’ll be recommending facemasks to the adepti who live in Liyue among the mortals now, not to be rude but for the sake or relaxation and My s/o’s a genius feel my face

- Gonna deep dive research into this sort of thing afterwards because he wants to help you find a wide variety of stuff to use and add to your routine

- He likes to help you out if he happens to walk in and sees you’ve got one on so don’t feel guilty if he offers to do any work you have or even massage your feet while you relax honestly

- Catch him using his own lil pot of moisturizer in the mornings now

- It’s really cute

- Everytime you catch him doing it he gives you a grin and goes back to what he’s doing

- If you offer to do a spa night again he’s gonna say yes without hesitation and bring his own stuff to try now

Venti

- Verrrryyy curious so no doubtedly says yes from the getgo

- He’s been seeing you apply it basically every morning on the weekends and never pried but is really happy you’re sharing it with him now

- Somehow looks better than you even with a facemask on and with his hair done up to keep it out of the way

- Will of course want a bunch of snacks to demolish whilst the two of you wait, if by any chance you want to do his nails you’re gonna have to wait until after he’s done lol

- He’s gonna ask for pickles to put on his eyes because that’s all he knows about this stuff but he’s gonna forget that he was gonna put them on his eyes and eat them I’m ngl

- If your facemask is the type that smells weird he’s gonna comment on that basically the whole time for shits and giggles

- He’s gonna want bright blue nails btw to match his hair but if you can do a gradient do like a bright blue to a slight navy and he’ll loose his shit

- He’s likely to wear outfits that compliment the awesome nails his s/o just gave him for the next month I’m gonna be real

- If he chips them he’s gonna be upset until you offer to do them again because you did them out of the kindness of your heart and the looked reALLY good

- Venti’s not really good at all this stuff because he’s kinda lazy when it comes to taking care of himself but it was a really nice treat for him and he may ask again or try to treat you to a couple of products he borrowed from Kaeya on days you’re stressed

- Would 1000% by them for you if you’re too busy to pick one up, even if it’s at some really feminine store hell the guy would probably even pick up some lady products if you need them

- He’s not the kind to get embarrassed easily so if you end up getting a visitor whilst doing this he’ll answer the door half dressed and with the full mask on

- His skin was already borderline perfect before, now it’s just astronomically beautiful thanks to you

- You’ve created a monster now because he’s charmed every man and woman in Mondstat now

Childe

- May take a bit of convincing because he’s been taught that’s a really feminine thing to do, not really something guys do but will probably relent in the end because he’s curious and it’d make you happy

- If you offer to do something for him in exchange he'll do it a lot more eagerly ngl

- Will 1000% be converted at the end of the night because Holy Shit his skin has never been so soft before and he looks like a badass? He gets girls now, he looks like a god, he feels like a bitchy prom queen now

- “You’re just mad my skin’s better than yours Signora, all that exposure cryo can’t be good for it.”

- Oh yes he’s gonna start shit over this, you’ve just given him all the ammo he needs

- He’s gonna want to do this whenever you are now and if you don’t think you’re gonna wake up to him with a bunch of expensive looking bags with brands of skincare stuff you’ve only heard of in dreams then you’re wrong

- May end up getting a designated spa room in your house if you’re not careful

- He may not understand your selfcare voodoo magic but he supports it a million percent

- “Childe I need to get exfoliator” “I like your funny words magic man, say no more”

- You may come home to random presents to do with skincare when he’s too busy with work because be thought of you whilst passing a store so he bought it

- This also goes for if he happens to hear you talking about something you need/want

- But as for the actual night in question he’s going to pleas that you pin his hair up and then ask if you have any hair treatments in a sky way because he’s not sure if that’s a Thing People Do

- He’ll be a little squeamish around it but it’s mostly for comedic effect…mostly

- Don’t you dare come near him with that weird mud mask mud belongs on the floor damnit

- Childe probably won’t like applying your mask because the texture feels really funny which is sad because he’s actually got a delicate touch, you barely feel him applying it and it’s almost expertly done

- He’s gonna forget he has it on dont let him fall asleep, force him into the bath first ok? Okay cool

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searidings · 4 years ago

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....🥺 can you please tell us more about that season 5 alternate ending where andrea ends up using the dagger pretty please, just like who does she end up hurting and the others reaction? if only you want to of course !

hooookay this ask got me to open that wip for the first time in a year and actually it's not that far from being complete! but idk how to finish it and i feel like i've done the s5 conflict resolution thing in multiple fics now like how many is too many? i fear i may have hit that limit. BUT since you asked, here is the beginning of it. please note:

1) this thing is angsty and also it's unfinished, so read at your own peril

2) because i wasn't ever expecting to finish/publish it, i've recycled bits of description from it into other fics. so if you see stuff i've repeated elsewhere no you don't <3

The last thing Lena sees is a flash like dark shadow pass over Andrea’s eyes, before a kryptonite dagger slides between her ribs.

The sound she emits is less of a scream and more of a surprised squeak as she sinks to the ground.

If you want to get to Supergirl, you’re gonna have to go through me.

It’s not that she hadn’t believed Andrea would do it. Lena was under no illusion of safety when she placed herself between Supergirl and the glowing green rock in Andrea’s hand. She’d come to terms with the possibility of dying for Kara long ago.

What she hadn’t been able to prepare for was the pain. The abstract of sacrifice was all well and good, but. Reality, this searing epicentre, a point of white hot agony turned molten, seeping through her body. No amount of her mother’s decorum training had prepared her for this.

Something is filling her mouth, thick and dark and oozing. She can’t scream. Kara sits, eyes silver, a world away. Kara. Lena has to move. She can’t. Andrea steps over her, and is that the pounding of receding footsteps or the dogged beat of Lena’s heart? Either way, it’s slowing. Every inhale cracks her body down the centre, each exhale buries shards of glass inside the gaping wound.

Her eyes are beginning to mist at the edges but she strains, listens. The sound that cuts through the haze is not the scream she dreads, Kara’s agony as her veins sear emerald. It’s not a scream, but a shout, and then a blur passes over her like light and shadow.

Concrete cracks, or perhaps it’s Lena’s ribs. Sounds are muffled now, the world dulled down like the inside of a snow globe. Underwater, time passes sluggishly to where she lies, drifting, encased in glass. But someone is fighting the current, resisting the pull. Hands grasp her shoulders, burning where they touch. Through the rolling fog comes Kara’s face, blurring out in red and blue and gold and sickly green. Lena wants to push her away, keep her separate from the venomous substance protruding from her chest, keep her untainted. But Kara’s hands are dancing there-away along her cheeks, her jaw, Lena’s own name sounding from her lips over and over, a siren song, calling her home. It’s raining now, wet spots peppering her brow, or maybe the sun is crying.

“Lena, Lena,” Kara is saying. It sounds like her heartbeat and she cannot bear for it to stop.

“Kara,” she manages, a whisper, a prayer.

Her face flashes within Lena’s line of sight for one perfect moment, and is she green-tinged or is it Lena’s failing vision? A shiver passes through the air between them, I’m sorry fluttering like a bloodstained white flag but whether it falls from her own lips or another’s, Lena cannot say. Then a sudden pressure at her ribs, a heavy push and release that feels like salvation and damnation all at once.

Lena hears a scream, two screams, billions. She is left gaping, open and exposed. Invaded by the air and exalted by the sticky-sweet blush of her own blood, her body purging itself. Through the slick of gathering crimson her head rolls to the side, darkness pressing in around her, eyes blazing with the final image of a limp hand on the ground beside her, veins shot through with glowing green.

For a long time, there is only darkness. The deepest blackness she has ever known, all-encompassing. Devouring light, thought, feeling. Lena floats, tethered to her own existence only by the pressing weight of the dark, closing in until the end of the world.

Slowly, sensations begin to blur in and out. Cold, a deadening flow, hooking into her very marrow and stripping her from the inside out. She drifts, and then there’s heat, scorching, radiating out from her ribs in scalding waves, and she wishes for numbness.

For a moment, Lena thinks she sees the star-burst of veins behind her eyelids, but then they are gone and all is black again. Sound fragments filter through her peripheral awareness. A great noise, banging and shouting and exploding. She slips back under.

Vibrations reach her, but they must be sounds because Lena no longer has a body with which to feel them. She floats, untethered, sinking beneath the surface of a dark ocean so vast it surely cannot know she’s there. In the deep, voices flicker.

“Haven’t you heard that you’re supposed to leave the knife in? She’s minutes from bleeding out.”

The blackness turns to blood around her, not vibrant red but sticky dark, the kind so loaded with the very force of someone’s life that it moves slowly, crawls under the weight of it, sucking light from all it touches.

“Her veins were green, Alex.”

An eternity passes.

She dreams of her mother, dark hair fanning behind her as she cuts through the still waters of the lake. The scene is calm, but the growing dread means Lena knows what’s coming and suddenly it’s not her mother but Kara before her, and the lake isn’t clear but radioactive, glowing green, and still Lena stands at the shore and watches her slip away, helpless.

Words float through the haze and Lena wishes she could reach out, grasp them, weigh them in her hands to know the truth behind them. Radiation and poisoned and flared and gone, the sounds making physical shapes in the darkness. She thinks of a child, two dark-haired children, of hours spent pouring over a dictionary. A cruel laugh when she got a definition wrong, grudging silence when she got it right. How she wishes now to be wrong, to mishear, a stay of judgment on the world these words conjure into being. But the focus is gone, and she slips away again.

“—whatever you have to do! Or so help me, I’ll—”

Though Lena is nothing now, just an exhale in the wind, she smiles. Warmth blooms, the blackness not crushing but caressing for a moment, and she drifts into memories of happier times.

A million years pass, a billion. Lena is upside down, and right way up, and no way up at all. If she still had a face, she might feel the pressure of a warm forehead against her own. If she still had hair, the imprint of lips pressed gently against it might still ache. If she hadn’t burned every meaningful bridge in her life in the year before her death, she might believe the trick of a whisper wrapping on the breeze, words of comfort, of promise.

But she had, so she doesn’t, and time collapses in on itself as Lena watches, motionless and alone.

Though she has always been nowhere, she can feel herself drifting further and further from the last thing that might just resemble a somewhere. The eons slow. If she were a doctor, Lena thinks, then this would be the time to make herself comfortable. To say her goodbyes.

She cannot look at blackness any longer, cannot bear the glowing green after-image that seems to stick to every corner and edge. She thinks of blue, of rain-washed skies and Kara’s eyes, conjures it into being with every fibre she has left. Wraps herself up in it, plunges headfirst, drowns.

“Like it matters!” Kara says, no, shouts, from somewhere far above and below her. Lena would flinch, if only she still had a body. The voice rings out through the void. “Like any of it matters now.”

Lena is privately inclined to agree. She tries to breathe, but the full weight of the universe, of every universe, presses in. As everything, even the blackness, dulls, there emerges a crushing, cracking suffocation, and Lena wonders why she can’t even die in peace. A high-pitched scream, maybe hers, maybe Kara’s, maybe her mother’s, maybe the world’s, stretching out before her like a pathway. Though there’s no doubt where it ends, Lena almost wants to follow it, if only to escape this sensation of being crumbled, submerged, denied life as its very essence is wrung from her being.

And then a hundred trillion bolts of lightning shoot through her at once, and Lena is gone.

When she wakes, she wakes secure in the knowledge that she must be alive. Sure that the pain that had burst through her, blighted every nerve with an agony so intense she feels its phantom grip even now, could only lead back to life. Sure that no departure could hurt that much.

When she wakes, it is through cracked, dry eyes to the sight of pipes and ceiling vents, the bland, industrial grey that can only denote underfunded government property.

When she wakes, Kara is standing at the foot of her bed, hands behind her back and looking every inch the righteous hero, and Lena’s unsteady heart sinks. She’s been on the receiving end of this authoritative pose more than enough for one lifetime. At least her hands aren’t on her hips.

But Kara’s eyes brighten as they meet Lena’s fluttering gaze. “Lena.” Quiet, reverential. “How are you feeling?”

Lena takes stock. Alive, to begin with. Every limb still intact. Aside from an unnerving constriction in her chest and the fact that her blood feels a little like it’s burning her cells as it courses through her veins, it could certainly be worse.

When she speaks her voice is hoarse, cracking. “What happened?”

The same darkness creeps into the edges of her vision as she listens to Kara list the extent of the damage. She presses her lips together, willing away the blackness, registering only snippets.

Stab wound. Kryptonite poisoning. Collapsed lung. Cardiac arrest. Resuscitation.

Leviathan, gone. Andrea, captured. Lex, escaped.

The words wash over her like a freezing tide, and Lena wonders if maybe the darkness had been easier after all.

It takes far longer than it should for her to realise that the room has fallen silent. Kara is watching her, concern etched into her features like tears carving through stone.

Lena swallows as best she can. “And you?”

A corner of Kara’s mouth quirks up. “I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

But she doesn’t look fine. She looks exhausted, her face drawn, blue eyes lacking their characteristic shine. Even her hero’s stance can’t mask the fatigue weighing heavy on her shoulders.

But Lena doesn’t have the strength to argue the point. She rolls her head to the side, joints popping and releasing, noticing for the first time the tangle of IV lines threading into her skin. She lifts her other hand to touch them, feels the warning tug of more needles even as Kara steps forward, arms raised as if to stop her.

Her hands reach toward Lena, or at least, the spaces where her hands should be. Huge white dressings swaddle Kara from the wrists down, so bulky they do not resemble hands at all. Lena’s breath catches in her lungs as she takes in the unwieldy bandages, third degree burns and possible nerve damage echoing through her mind and she understands now why Kara had hidden them behind her back.

The inhale she aims for seems to stick in her ribs and she can feel again the crushing, the cracking, the dizzying lack of oxygen as her head spins. Kara is by her side in an instant, radiating warmth and just breathe, Lena, it’s okay, a comforting weight settling against her hip. Lena thanks the thick blanket for blurring the press of rough bandages where there should be warm skin, softening it into something just nondescript enough to be calming.

When her pounding pulse has slowed, the heart monitor downgrading to a less frenetic beat, she sucks in a breath despite her lungs’ protestation, waits for her vision to clear. Kara is still there, and dread opens up in Lena’s chest.

“You— you touched it. The kryptonite. You pulled it out.”

Kara doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just nods, her gaze locked on Lena’s own. Lena lies catatonic, paralysed with the knowledge, unable to move even as Alex enters the room. Dimly aware of low words exchanged between the two sisters and then Alex at her bedside, gentler than Lena’s been worthy of seeing her in years. Just rest, Lena, the press of a button on the IV monitor, and she sinks back into oblivion.

#i wrote this immediately after the s5 finale (clearly) and before i finished it i got the idea for 'with the birds' and blasted that one #and then i was just like well. i've just done kara and lena's whole big reconciliation arc. do i really want to do it again #even though the premise of this one is different and reading through it again today i still quite like it #but i just don't know. i don't want to redo the same theme constantly and also i haven't thought up a satisfying ending #but there's 16k words written so like. i guess i should never say never #who knows #anyway thank you for your interest! i'm touched that you would care about this idea #and i hope you like this beginning! though as i said. it's angst city #i've just never recovered from that scene you know?#lena standing between kara and a threat whispering 'if you want to get to supergirl you're gonna have to go through me'#has anything sexier ever happened in the history of the moving image i'm not sure #truly the fic basically writes itself #anyways. bon appetit i guess #hope you're having a wonderful day #asks #anonymous #ridings writes

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