#but when you live in the city it’s hard to find a patch of grass

[earthly-ali3n]

say what you want about gen alpha and what you say is probably true, but they’re trying man. My next door neighbour’s oldest boy wants to be outside all the time. he’ll come outside just to watch me cut the grass in my backyard because his house is a duplex that took up the whole lot so he doesn’t have one. we’re six blocks from the nearest “park” (if you can call it that) and he’s eight years old, he can’t go alone and both his parents work full time to pay for the house that is too big for the lot but still too small for the family. My roommates and I spent extra time outside this summer teaching him and his younger siblings to play beanbag toss or frisbee or whatever because he literally doesn’t have room in his backyard to do those things. We only have the space because our house is the only one on the block that wasn’t demolished, turned into a duplex, and sold for 3x it’s worth. He starts every my sentence with “So guess what?” because he’s so excited to have someone listen to him talk. He can’t play street hockey or basket ball in his drive way because he doesn’t have one of those either. And our street is on a slope, at the bottom of that slope is a main road with heavy traffic, so even tho cars barely drive down our street, he and his friends still can’t play basket ball or road hockey in the street because the ball or puck is gonna roll down the slope and onto the main road. it would be a disaster waiting to happen. His parents are tying too, but there’s only so much you can do when both you and your partner work full time, but it still isn’t enough to get out of the city so your kid has room to run. They limit tv time, they don’t allow their kids to watch youtube at ALL. They got their kids a cat. They got their kids bikes that they ride to the park when they’re able to supervise. It’s maximum effort with so little reward because no matter how much stuff you have it’s can’t make up for the lack of time and space. Kids NEED time and space and the demands of capitalism make it impossible for parents to give that to their children.

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ UNCHAINED MELODY, PART FIVE !

summary :: surviving raccoon city together, you catch the affections of leon kennedy, ada wong, jill valentine, and carlos oliveira. six years later, you reunite with them and realize their obsession with you has increased tenfold.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 8.7k.

content warnings :: mdni! yandere!leon, yandere!ada, blood/gore, violence, death, weapons, drugging, kidnapping, stalking, noncon touching, invasion of privacy, mentions of sexual assault, parasites/infections, & needles.

ada wong's yandere traits are . . .

lucid, romantic, & confident

──── Ada Wong hates the sensation of grass on her skin. Yet still, the green matter stains all her clothes.

She'll spend her days laying in fields of grass. It tickles her skin and provokes her allergies, but she cannot fathom living without it. If she closes her eyes, she can almost stimulate the feeling of being with you once again. September 28th, 1998. On that road verge with dirt caked on her skin and a dandelion in her messy hair — Ada is convinced she is the only human who has ever been touched by such intense, perfidious happiness.

A beige trench coat littered with these same stains is preserved in her walk-in closet. It has not been worn in years, not since that night in Raccoon City. There are the occasional splatters of blood and gunpowder residue, but they are insignificant in comparison to the vivid green smudges. During rough patches, Ada will take the coat from its plastic covering and hold it close to her chest. If she closes her eyes again, she can almost convince herself it is you in her arms instead of this filthy, out-of-season garment.

As difficult as it is, however, she cannot let these feelings reach her heart. She cannot let herself feel for you.

She made this declaration long ago. Six years ago, to be exact.

Y/N L/N. The name she will never forget.

Ada remembers your evocative touch, your bunny-like shivering, your skin like flowers; she will never forget how you ended her life in Raccoon City.

The onslaught of inhuman, guttural growling had died down with the echo of gunshots. All flesh-eating creatures surrounding her now lay dead on the streets of Raccoon City. Now, a heavy silence sits. And the fear that follows slices into her flesh like a jagged knife. But, not for her life, no. For yours.

Ada briskly and anxiously scrutinizes her surroundings, searching for that jaw-dropping face she fell so hard and violently for. In the end, she finds nothing. All she is met with is the flickering lights of corner shops and the crackling of fire from car wrecks. When she looks down, however, Ada discovers the crumbled dandelion you gave her beneath the foot of her heel. Hastily, she grasps the precious weed and stuffs it into her coat pocket.

From here, attaining the G-Sample, selling it to the highest bidder, and earning more money than she could ever need was irrelevant. All that matters is finding you. Her darling petal, her bunny rabbit. Her salvation.

Ada's relentless efforts to find you result in Raccoon City being torn to shreds. Searching through Mizoil Gas Station to Umbrella's underground laboratory, all her attempts at bringing you back into her arms are brought to no avail. Ada is worn down and stained with grime, absolutely exhausted with dread.

It isn't until the golden sun rises does she learn of survivors being sent to a hospital outside of the city. She abandons everything in Raccoon City and high-tails it to Fox Park Hospital. Her feet ache from its uncomfortable stance in her stilettos and her lungs throb from the constant sprint. Still, nothing matters but you.

When she arrives at the hospital, she is overwhelmed with concerned families and tireless doctors. Several nurses inquire her about her physical state, but Ada disregards their concern entirely. She thought she could hide how perceptibly enamored she is with you through sly remarks and poised disposition. Maybe she'd conjure up some flattering remark to one of the doctors and bite her lip, all to gain access to your location. However, the only trait others can garner from her attitude is a desperate, downright feral act of despair.

Sharp nails digging into the shoulders of a poor nurse, she demands he inform her of your whereabouts. When the nurse squeaks out where you had been admitted to, Ada nearly punts him to the ground before breaking into a dash. She shoves past all other bystanders and bursts through the door to your room. And the way her heart surges in her chest upon entering could rival that of a genuine, torturous death.

There you lay, unconscious on the hospital bed. Bandages adorn the bruises and scars littered on your body. A white cast has been ensnared around your right arm.

The sight is nothing short of devastating. In a moment of weakness, she had so frivolously let you escape from her embrace. Now, you had to be the one who suffered the consequences.

Softly, Ada sits beside your sleeping form and restrains the urge to tackle you into a hug. It scares her, this sudden sense of warmth she possesses for you. She takes your weak hand into hers and shivers from the tender contact. I should not feel this way, she thinks to herself. Nothing about this is okay.

Despite the experience she has in the field of romance, Ada has never obtained genuine feelings for someone. All that lay beneath the surface of her seductive veneer was nothingness, sheer dust. She'll wear that coquettish nature like a crown and revel in the sense of power she feels of having someone beneath her. They care more about her than she does about them. And she loves it.

With you, though, things are different. Much different.

In all 24 years of her life, Ada never anticipated being slapped across the face with such raw emotion. The instance was ephemeral, but all-too devastating in the same breath. Dandelion between your fingers and the playful light in your eyes — the sight robbed her heart blind like candy from a baby. A lifetime spent in the depths of Winter, who knew a mere second of eye contact was all she needed to be lunged into the heavenly warmth of spring?

Ada is humiliated upon finding herself in the depths of such a ridiculous predicament. You have turned her into some lovesick monster, entirely incapable of maintaining stability. She thought she could control it; she thought she could shove you into a box with the rest of her past lovers. But, much like every other attempt she has made involving you, she failed miserably. No matter how hard she tries, she can't stop herself from being in love with you.

With this epiphany comes another. Every bruise, every scar, every wound on your body is living proof of what your life will become if she were to take you away. As badly as she wishes to take you and drown you in her adoration, she holds herself back. To live in complete bliss would mean robbing you of a good life; to ensure her happiness would mean robbing you of yours. By taking you away, her life would begin, yes, but yours would end. And if she were to take away the precious light you hold inside, she would never forgive herself.

The syringe she managed to snag from a passing doctor clatters to the floor. A physical manifestation of the realization seeping through her mind. For the very first time in her life, she cannot be selfish. For the first time, someone else's well-being is more important than hers.

She doesn't deserve you and you don't deserve her. You deserve happiness, you deserve normalcy, you deserve safety.

You deserve everything she cannot give you.

With a trembling breath, she affectionately drags the joint of her fingers down the side of your face. The mere thought of never being able to see this sight again shatters her. But for you, she would do absolutely anything, no matter how soul-crushing the pain is. Anything.

"Until next time, Y/N..."

The next six years were a tumultuous, frenzied blur. Ada Wong, notorious for her enticing personality, has crumbled.

Head-first, the agent had thrown herself into her work. Anything to keep her mind off of you. Or, at the very least, to look at the horrors she faces in her career to further remind herself you are better off without her. Every day, she oscillates with the idea of checking up on you, wherever you may be. It would be far too easy, as told by her skills. Though, if she were to do this, she knows she would not be able to leave you like she did six years ago. It had nearly killed Ada to leave you behind in that hospital. She isn't sure if she can survive that same pain all over again.

These gnawing desires keep her awake into the late hours of the night. Tossing and turning in bed, tossing and turning the idea of how good it would feel to have you in her arms. She wraps her arms around herself and caresses her own skin, pretending it is your hands on her body instead of her imagination. She feels weak, she feels deranged. But, she cannot help it. It kills her to not have you here with her.

She wonders how your life has changed since Raccoon City. What makes you smile, what makes you cry, if you're up at night thinking about her the way she does you. The misery nearly emulates the feeling of being butchered, as if you had personally cut open her flesh and sewed your name into her veins. But, Ada would do anything for you. Even if it means enduring the same torture every day, she is satisfied with life knowing she got to hold you. Even for just a second.

After a call with Albert Wesker, she is reminded yet again why you should not be a part of her life. To be exposed to this separate world would only be detrimental to you. She could never curse you with the burden that is her lifestyle. You deserve far more than that.

Ada teases the ring on her left hand. Mere hours after the crisis in Raccoon City, she preserved the dandelion you gave her and had it pressed into a ring. Six years later, this piece of jewelry has always ensnared her finger, as it remains her only source of security. The memory of you pulls at her heartstrings the way an angel plays a harp. In fact, it is the only memory she has that she can look back on fondly, as opposed to the bloodshed she has been so frivolously exposed to.

So absorbed in the warm rain of your memory, Ada nearly forgets the task Wesker had assigned for her. Abruptly and harshly, she is once again given another reminder of why you should stay far away from her. You make her weak, as Wesker told her, and neither of them cannot afford that weakness. She was fortunate enough to never disclose your identity with him, as he may have hunted you down in retaliation to her slacking efforts.

She doesn't know what she would do if she learned you were suffering out there. Wherever you are.

Opening the file Wesker sent to her, Ada scrutinizes the myriad of information sent her way. Through the grapevine, there was hearsay of Umbrella surviving the wreckage of Raccoon City. Satellite imagery displayed a vast forest where they had set up their 'sanctuary,' as they called it. Within the sanctuary were survivors of Raccoon City, where they would be kept captive to avoid exposing Umbrella and forcing them to face the consequences of their mistakes.

Her task was simple: find out if they have samples of Amber in their possession. If so, deliver the sample back to Wesker.

Of course, with this mission arose heavy concern. Images of you being subject to Umbrella's abuse sent a serrated rush of panic through her body. Ada had practically torn herself asunder with her efforts to protect you, she never acknowledged how other dangers may have slipped through the cracks.

A consideration, one much stronger than before, is what she is faced with. Giving into her selfish desires and having you by her side would benefit her happiness, yes, but it would also expose you to the horrors of her life. Leaving you without this burden in whatever life you had chosen for yourself would most likely benefit your happiness, yes, but would expose you to peril she cannot control. She would put her life down for your happiness, after all.

This consideration plagues Ada's mind as she is flown out to the sanctuary. Since the area was under investigation by another team, she had to play this smart, no matter how badly she wished to storm through the doors and hunt you down.

Yellow tape surrounds the entire premise, and numerous police officers and detectives are scattered amongst the area. Picking the lock to a window; Ada slides into the building with flexible ease. She lands with a bounce upon a bed. The springs whine beneath her weight; the headboard creaks with frail fragility. She finds herself in a sunken mess of fluffy throw blankets and tacky plushies. Climbing out of the array after practically drowning in it, Ada straightens her dress before scrutinizing the room.

The area is naturally stale. The same way a bleak, depressing hospital room feels. However, this detail is hidden beneath the mass of decorations and clutter. It is surrounded by love, despite its dull foundation.

A rickety bookshelf and stale bedside table are settled by the bed. On them are books checked out from the sanctuary's library, as well as wilting plants, a flickering salt lamp, dusty candles, and even more heaps of plushies. Ada's heels sink into a fuzzy rug as she studies the contents. A clothing rack can be found, too, with boring clothes hung upon it. Stickers and doodles adorn the supports, as well. 

Across from this was a sofa couch that sat opposite a chunky television. Cheesy horror movies are stacked on top of the thick surface. Another plant sits by the television in a custom-painted pot, leaves adorned in brown decay. Another plushie is rested against the TV, as well. God, how many stuffed animals does a person need?

Nothing within this small expanse relates to your whereabouts or the Amber, which eases Ada's mind. She lets out a sigh of relief. It would pain her in ways she could never fathom to know you were suffering in Umbrella's disturbed idea of a "sanctuary" while she was too busy trying to forget you.

Ada walks through the adjacent threshold and finds a small kitchen. Once again, the dull appearance had been diluted with heartfelt decor. Hand-crafted paintings are strung upon the walls. Some show the childlike fun of the artist, while others display the raw talent every brush and stroke exudes. A small table is huddled in the corner with a vase of Lego flowers serving as the centerpiece.

Cooking utensils, handmade clay figures, and tea sets are all scattered on the kitchen counters. A package of chamomile tea had been left out on the same counter and the shattered pieces of a mug had been left on the concrete. Strange, but it does not pull her attention.

It isn't until something catcher her eye while on her way out does her heart pound. By the art on the wall, beyond the scatterings of band posters and paintings, a myriad of polaroids had been taped into the shape of a heart.

And directly in the middle is a polaroid of you.

It is a candid shot of you in the sanctuary's garden surrounded by lush flowers. Fat, glittery smile on your face, there is more light in your eyes than Ada had ever seen. Beyond the jealousy for the photographer who got the privilege of drowning in that gaze, a sinking pit of dread sits like a brick in her stomach.

You were here. This whole time, you were here.

It only makes sense this is your room, she should have known. Who better to bring love into such a dank estate than you? You've made something bland more lively, as you do in all other areas of life. But, she was so concerned with roping you into the violent dangers of her life, that she strayed as far away from you as she could. Still, you found yourself here in the end. She was so concerned with keeping her vigorous feelings for you at bay that her negligence had caused you to be thrust into the darkest pits of this world. And nothing she can do now will erase the sheer weight of her frivolous mistake.

Her chest expands and deflates rapidly with hyperventilating breaths. Black dots swim in her doubled vision. Her skin is sheen with sweat. Nausea swims in her stomach. She collapses onto the bed, your bed. A quiet array of whispered "no"'s evades the cramped bedroom. She can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything!

"My petal, I'm so sorry. My sweet petal... How could I have let this happen...?" Ada is completely and utterly devastated.

The pervasion of an unfamiliar voice seeps in from outside the door. Ada covers her mouth to muffle the hyperventilating breaths protruding from her.

"T said they've fled to Spain. Fucking Spain, can you believe that shit?"

"Goddamn Umbrella... If only Oliveira were still here to see this. 'Give him somethin' else to do than daydream about his bitch, 'know what I mean?"

"I hear ya. Dude's a fucking nutcase."

Spain? Is that where you could be? Is that where Umbrella has taken you?

The doorknob jiggles and Ada immediately stands to her feet. Her swift nature had been robbed from her, as her legs now felt like two bags of sand. Her head throbs violently. It sounds like a tumultuous clammer before she succumbs to the turmoil and falls to the ground.

Sweat seeping down her forehead and her hands shaking, Ada attempts to pull herself up. She grips the corner of the bed frame and pulls her entire body weight. Her stiletto then accidentally kicks something beneath the bed. Looking for identification, Ada finds a plastic case with several cassette tapes inside. As she studies it, the doorknob jiggles once more. After greedily taking hold of it, Ada swiftly takes a few more souvenirs before leaving. The polaroid of you, a flower you molded out of clay, and an opossum plushie nestled on your bed. Then, she is off.

And within the penthouse that feels more like a model house than it does her actual home, Ada sits in her office. Inside the case full of cassettes, dates are written on each tape. Upon closer inspection, there's a sudden halt in activity after October. Almost as if Umbrella has lost interest in you. She prays this is the only reason, that they had released you and let you enjoy a life filled with the happiness you deserve. Thinking of the opposite has her whole body shivering.

Ada takes the cassette player in her desk and pops the earliest tape into place. She was so invested in finding where you had run off to, she had completely disregarded the gut-wrenching effect your voice would have on her. It's so... pretty. Like the first birdcall of Spring, like gentle waves crashing against the shore.

Ada is quick to grasp her control back, shifting her attention to the actual context of your words instead of how badly she wished to hear you whisper in her ear.

The contents of the tape display an audio journal, where you recall every horrid detail of the night that changed your life. You mention Leon Kennedy and Ada rolls her eyes from the annoyance his mere name brings. Six years have passed since she's seen him, or even thought of him, for that matter. But, the irritation that cop was marvelous at triggering still lives on. Of course, he's the first thing you talk about. She's sure he'd be ecstatic knowing this.

You speak about your time working at Mizoil Gas Station. When you trail off about your coworkers, your voice perceptibly drops when you speak of one in particular. With his wandering hands, sultry words, and a compulsion to ignore every 'no' you sent his way, you admit to yourself how good it felt to kill him.

As infuriated as this makes Ada, you then speak her name, and all coherent thoughts are stolen from her. She has to cover her mouth to restrain the sharp gasp that escapes. You do not speak thoroughly of your encounter with her, much to her dismay. Only detailing how she guided you out of the police department and protected you. Still, she revels in the harmonious melody of you speaking of her.

Ada can crawl out of cloud nine when you, unfortunately, move on to the next fraction of that night. To escape the zombies that attacked you and her, you sought protection in the local gun shop. There, you meet someone she was not aware of.

Jill Valentine.

Ada's eyes narrow when you speak of this woman. She can see the obvious signs of her being attracted to you, but you could be none-the-wiser to these affections. Your inability to heed flirtation is adorable if Ada were to be honest.

There's another transition to where you meet another man. Someone who, once again, Ada was unfamiliar with.

Carlos Oliveira.

He, too, showed obvious signs of being attracted to you. Which, once again, flew over your head. Both he and Jill had saved your life numerous times and you expressed this gratitude. To you, it was nothing but a common heroic act from two hardworking cops. Ada, however, read through the lines of their actions the same way she could read a children’s book.

They are in love with you. Hopelessly so. That much is clear.

It should be obvious. This is you we're talking about, after all. As much as she wishes they wouldn't, it is simply impossible to not become irrevocably besotted with you. Even if it were feasible, it would simply be brainless not to wish to spend the rest of forever with you.

The tape whirs as it reaches its ending point. Your story ends with waking up at Fox Park Hospital before being sent to this sanctuary. However, there is nothing that implies where your path has led six years later. There are miscellaneous updates on your physical health and your mental state, but there are zero indications of where you have vanished from.

With you gone and no reliable trace of your disappearance, there are only two potential outcomes of your whereabouts. Either you are still in Umbrella's clutches or those two cops have taken you for themselves. Six years of contemplation and Ada has finally reached a solution. Not a structured one, but a solution, nonetheless.

Find you, ensure your safety, and pray to God she has enough strength to leave you after.

And you, Y/N L/N, are exactly where Ada thought you'd be. However, the circumstances of your whereabouts are far different than what she presumed them to be.

After Dr. Gorkis, the man you had once called your friend, forced you into a state of unconsciousness, you were comatose for an undisclosed amount of time. When you wake, you are perplexed over your foreign environment. Inspecting your surroundings, there is absolutely nothing that can enlighten you of what happened within the dark gap of your memories.

The room you have awoken in is gloomy, accompanied by the cracked lantern protecting you from complete murk. The stone walls surrounding you are riddled with moss and chains. Several shelves stand awkwardly in the corners, where dilapidated books and broken pots all rest on the rickety surface. A rusted plate sits by your feet. A cluster of flies hover over the mashed potatoes hardened from age and the bread overwhelmed with mold.

You search about for any familiar faces, presumably those of Jill and Carlos. This isn't the first time you've been kidnapped, after all. If they were to lurk in the dark depths of this room, it would surely be no surprise. Instead, the area around you is entirely desolate. Nothing but the sound of your bated breath fills the empty space.

Your neck aches, your head throbs, your body trembles — everything has morphed into a permanent hue of misery you do not recognize. In a morbid way, you could almost be grateful for the circumstances you were kidnapped in before. A beautiful sanctuary, then a lavish home, and now this. A cold, decrepit room with no one to comfort you but yourself.

It's almost comical, how much this has happened to you. However, when you bring your hand to your neck to ease the pain and feel the necklace Carlos gifted you, laughter does not escape you. Alternatively, you curl your fingers around the pearls and yank with what little strength is left in your body. You watch with newfound satisfaction as the pieces clatter to the rotten floorboards.

A new beginning; the next chapter. That is what this feels like.

Stumbling over to the decaying door, it whines as you open it steadily. Haphazardly scanning the area for any potential assailants, you find none. Instead, you find a narrow hallway with lit candles hung upon the decaying walls. The light they exude guides you to a large window smeared with dirt and grime. Outside, the heavy downpour of rain neglects your need to identify your current location.

Your vision then abruptly goes black and an unfathomable pain ensnares your head. It leads you to collapse against the wall as you groan out from the abysmal misery. A voice calls out to you from the depths of your mind. A sort of ghastly incantation. A whisper you would only hear in the presence of a nightmare.

"Pursue them..." It taunts, "The lost lamb is escaping. Deliver onto them... Salvation..."

And just as it had begun, it was over. Your vision has cleared, and the ache in your skull has eased. It was all over.

One glance through the filthy window and fear hits you like a punch to your gut. A group of people dressed in ragged clothing make their presence known, all with pitchforks and axes in hand. Their torches guide them as they follow the muddied path. You can only stare in trepidation as they saunter about like hungry predators in search of prey.

When you hear the chains to the front entrance rattle, you turn and race towards your escape. Up the rotten steps of the ladder, the dingy expanse of the attic does not aid you in your efforts to flee. The light at the end of the tunnel is a shattered window, where the harsh weather brings violent rain and wind into the room. Out of the window, a shed riddled with overgrown ivy sits at a nearly-perfect distance beneath. You'd rather break your ankles than get sacrificed, after all.

Ripping the bandaid off, you leap from the ledge and land clumsily. It is a thunderous collision your assailants most certainly heard. With your feet fortunately intact, you leap from the roof of the shed and sprint away from the chaos behind you.

You hear unintelligible shouts, you hear accelerating footsteps, and you hear gunshots echo from afar. Rain feels like glass as it pours down on you. They meld with your tears and sweat. Your feet are cramped in your new, expensive boots. Still, you do not look back. Even with your lungs aching with every step you take, you continue to race forward as far as your legs can take you.

Several more throbbing paces and you find yourself in the center of a village. Dilapidated houses are scattered around the grounds, while large mountains frame the small area. Shifting your gaze forward, you find a rickety signpost. Signs that once read locations had now been overwhelmed with blood. The words 'Los Iluminados' and 'Lord Saddler' were painted in the red matter.

In a fit of enervation, you fall to the dirt. The substance stains your body and clothes, something Jill and Carlos put so much effort into preserving. You feel a sense of trepidation when your thoughts subconsciously drift to those two. Staring down at yourself, you see how every inch of you is still marked in their possession. The scent of Carlos' cologne still clings to his jacket that he draped around you. The shoelaces Jill quadruple-knotted have now been torn, the loose threading dirty and sticking out in awkward directions. Almost as if after all of this turmoil to escape them, their residue was still printed on you.

With air in your lungs after what felt like so long without it, you bring yourself to your feet. You clench your aching abdomen before limping forward. You then ponder over how you'll recount this absurd story to the police.

Then, you're flying.

Something wraps around your waist and yanks. Before you can comprehend it, the ground grows further, further, and further away from you.

With an exclaim of surprise, you land on the flat ledge of a mountain. You don't have a chance to acknowledge the impossible explanation of you defying gravity. Not when your breath gets lodged in your throat when you find the source of the sudden occurrence.

Ada Wong is that very source.

You stare up at her with the same disbelief she possessed. And this sight of you is surely something she will never forget.

The lick of sun in your eyes has never faltered, despite the years of chaos and disarray you’ve endured. The rain speckles across your body and cascades down your flesh, almost as if it was savoring every inch of you it got to touch. Bruises sit like kisses upon your skin; blood is painted on you like a vermillion art piece. Exactly the way it was six years ago.

Ada has found you. And the intensity of the euphoria that follows could be enough to kill a man, she is sure of it.

It is gut-wrenching, how beautifully nostalgic the sight is. This time, however, she will not allow any unwelcome guests to intrude.

Ada returns her grapple gun to the holster and crouches down beside you. A tender, gloved hand finds its way to your waist. It shivers and hovers, terrified of the emotions she'll be unable to control when she makes contact. Terrified of feeling nothing but cold sheets beneath her and waking up from this dream. When her hand does find you, as it always will, a hot chill surges through her body. Ada can hardly gather herself as the revelation settles. You are safe, you are alive, and you are with her again.

The other hand finds your cheek. The dandelion-pressed ring pokes against your skin, a firm reminder of how long this devotion has lived. She can feel the Earth sparkling in her palms with her hands on you; she can feel the warmth of the stars with your flesh against hers. Every bone, every sinew, every vein — everything good the universe have to offer is right beneath her. So, she does what she wished to do before, but was interrupted. What she has dreamt of doing for years, but was not able to do. She does what she has always wanted to do.

Her lips are on yours faster than you could think.

Everything inside her... Melts.

Rain falls like confetti. The frigid temperatures ease from the heat you share together. Every jut and curve of your lips mold perfectly against hers, as if you were made for each other. It robs her breath straight from her lungs, it robs her brain of any coherent function. The thumping of her heart batters in her ears as though it were trying to lunge from her chest with its sheer, rampant speeds. Her hands shiver with fervent need. The lump in her throat remains lodged no matter how much she tries to swallow it. What on Earth are you doing to her?

Your kiss is more soul-crushing than she would like to admit, as pride has always been her most prized possession. And it is all so stupidly cliché that Ada could almost laugh. A kiss in the rain. She never thought she would experience something as tooth-rotting and romantic as this. Still, it succeeds in practically shattering what remains of her moral compass. The suave and collected Ada Wong has been shattered. And the devil on her shoulder begs her to indulge in every last sliver of you she can.

She's a woman of self-control, but you had torn that control straight from her hands and claimed it as yours. She's a woman with tight fists and cruel words, but you have taken every rough edge and filed them down to soft curves.

When you inevitably part, Ada follows the direction your lips go, absolutely desperate for another taste. She is practically inconsolable without your warmth.

"Y/N..." She gasps out your name. It's a silent prayer for more of this, for more of you.

Dark webs of veins then spread among your face like woven spider's silk. It causes your vision to blur and your ears to ring. You wince from the sudden surge of pain and recoil from Ada's touch, something she didn't anticipate being so gutted by. The agony pumps through your veins like a drug; it has you writhing and groaning against the mud. It practically robs you of all your senses, the only comprehensible thing being the torture inflicted upon your feeble body.

Ada is then forcefully brought to reality where she is cruelly reminded of how this is not real. She cannot have you and you were never meant to be hers. No matter how badly she wishes you could be.

When you turn over, clutching your stomach in pain, she places her hand on your shoulder. Your eyebrows scrunched in confused pain, face wet from the pouring rain, lips sheen from her lip gloss. You are beautiful in the most devastating way. The sight bursts her heart open as if someone has nestled a bomb in her chest cavity. But, how she feels in this moment is not important. The one thing she has torn herself apart to prevent is now happening. You are hurting.

"What- What's happening to me!?" You cry out, a chunk of blood splattering from your mouth when you cough.

"Y/N... My petal...!" Ada's thumb rubs soothing circles on your arm while her cheek rests against the same surface. She clutches onto you like you're her lifeline, her last sliver of hope.

A voice interrupts. "Ada! I've been looking everywhere for-"

Ada rips her gun from its holster and points it at the intruder in fervent speed. She is terrified of being torn away from you like she was several years ago, she cannot let it happen again.

Luis Sera puts his hands up in defense, eyes blown wide in shock from her sudden shift in nature. In one hand of his is a dirtied white box with tape sloppily wrapped around the frame. He shakes it timidly, diverting her attention to what is most important about their agreement. Cure Ada of the infection and she'll let him take a seat on her helicopter.

Her stance does not halter, however. Instead, she throws yet another demand his way.

"Cure them." She orders. A perceptible tinge of despair is present in her tone.

When he remains frozen, Ada steps closer and presses the barrel of her gun directly to his forehead.

"Cure them or you know what happens." Her stare is violent. Her disposition is terrifying. There is nothing but the honest, undying truth with every syllable she speaks.

"I- But, our deal-?"

A gunshot echoes.

Deafening. Heart-stopping. The sound is accompanied by the harsh thump of Luis' dead body. Horrifying.

Ada takes the box from his limp grasp. She flips his deceased body over and steals the sample of Amber doused in blood, shoving it into her pocket. Using her sharp nails and an impromptu knife, she then slices the tape from the box. Once she hastily takes the syringe from its plastic enclosure, she rushes over to you.

Her behavior endures an abrupt shift when she crouches at your side. From a blood-thirsty monster to a fluffy-winged angel, Ada caresses your skin as if it were fine silk. You whimper as you float in and out of consciousness. You are so inert, in fact, you do not feel the intrusion of a needle and the anecdote seeping through your bloodstream. Ada comforts you through this entire process. Caresses to your flesh, kisses to your skin — she does it all terrified of it being the last time she ever touches you.

With the key to Luis' laboratory, she knows what her next course of action is. What she originally anticipated to be a quick check-up on your well-being had manifested into awakening her deep, irreparable fervor for you. But, she cannot let her measly emotions blind her to what is most important. You and only you.

She will stay, cure you, and pray to God once more that she has enough strength to leave you after.

And it kills her more than she ever thought it would.

When you wake, you find a blinding, fluorescent light hanging above your head. Cold metal and jagged leather nestles into your skin. The tapping of keyboards and technology humming fills the silence. You could almost roll your eyes if it weren't for the confusion overruling all. Have you been kidnapped again?

Attempting to gain mobility and move your body was entirely fruitless. Instead, a weak whine is all you can conjure. The frail sound is immediately met with the affections of someone else in the room.

Even in these circumstances — the grungy expanse of Luis' lab and Ada's dead parasite on the ground — she has never felt such euphoria. The severity of these feelings terrifies her, but she cannot help but fall into the emotions like a child would jump into a swimming pool. To be with you, there is nothing she could ever want more. But, as she has firmly stated numerous times, she cannot be selfish with you. No matter how badly she wishes to do such.

"Everything is going to be alright, petal. I won't let anything happen to you... Never again..." Another kiss is pressed upon your forehead. Ada's lip gloss stirs with the icy sweat beaming on your flesh.

One tap to the computer and the machinery whirs to life. Three lasers then protrude into you and begin to eradicate the Las Plagas inside of your body.

A horrible, gut-wrenching scream evades the room. Agony hits you like a tidal wave. You shout, you wail, you sob. You are in such horrendous pain, it is impossible to keep quiet. Your relentless squirming to escape the source of such misery was futile, as the restraints around your wrists keep you compliant and subject to this torment. Reassurances of "I'm here, petal" fail to conquer the sheer volume of your cries. Ada takes your hand, peppering kisses and nuzzles upon any surface of skin she can reach. Soul-crushing dread satiates her body upon seeing you in such pain. It is hurting her more than it is hurting you.

How could she have been so ignorant? How could she have let your suffering get to this point?

How could she have possibly lived every day oblivious to your well-being? How can she live with herself now knowing she had so carelessly neglected you?

How can she possibly live without you?

And as fast as it started, it was all over. The hum of the machinery silences. A vibrant "SUCCESS" flashes on the computer screen. Ease envelops your body like a warm blanket and for the umpteenth time that day, you doze off. It's a slumber like never before, where the sheer exhaustion derived from the most eventful 24 hours of your life has finally boiled over.

You now lay there. Lifeless.

"Y-... Y/N...?" Ada's voice barely surfaces above a whisper.

The death grip you had on her hand weakened and Ada never anticipated the sheer terror it would make her feel. The fear is a heavy weight on her chest, a tremor in her body. Something wet cascades down her cheeks. With skepticism, she brings her gloved hand to her face to identify the strange substance.

She's... crying?

Ada can't remember the last time she had cried. Her entire life she has powered through any turmoil with her chin held high and a stone-cold soul. Never was she allowed to feel, hence the secure control she has over herself. Now, however, the emotions escape through her facade the way a gunshot wound bleeds through a dirty bandaid.

Your flesh is cold, your body is painfully still. Ada can not bring herself to consider the conclusion that pokes and prods at her mind. Where the big heart she fell in love with stops beating. Where the eyes she'd give her life to gazes in forever loses their light. Where the only good thing this disgusting world has to offer is taken away.

Where she loses hold of the only happiness she has ever felt.

The clinical logic that had always benefited her has now become her worst enemy. Ada scans your body from head to toe, desperate for even the smallest sliver of life. More gasps of your name pervade the room, as well as the gentle, yet desperate nudges to your body in hopes of waking you from your slumber.

Ensuring you are safe, happy, and far away from the dangers within her own life has become her only purpose. Without you, Ada is now lost within the whorls of her empty, dreary world.

The woman is full-on weeping now. It had been so long, she had forgotten what it felt like to cry altogether. Her face twists with every ugly sob parting from her mouth. Her form convulses with each uncontrollable cry protruding out of her chest. Ada has become a mess of snot and tears, surely a sight the old version of her would be revolted by.

A cough fills the lonely silence. And the groggy sound could rival an angel's symphony with its raw beauty.

Alive.

You are alive.

"Hey, you did it...!" You manage to wheeze out upon seeing your status on the computer screen, voice dazed and crooked.

A smile, albeit a weak one, breaks out on your face and Ada swears she has not ever seen a sight so breathtaking. Her hands cling to your face, searching every inch to ensure she hasn't lost the only thing she could ever love. And then, she smiles. Ada smiles like she never has before; Ada smiles like she has never known pain. It is nearly deranged, how blinding and exhilarating the emotions on her face are.

She speaks before her brain can compute the consequences of her next actions.

"I love you."

The three words are spoken with such acute clarity, it is difficult to not be completely entranced by them. Ada's eyes are blown wide as her gaze sinks into yours. Her body trembles from the irrepressible fear mixed with relief coursing through her. For the first time in (quite literally) forever, she is telling the pure, unadulterated truth. However, your lack of reciprocation causes Ada's logic to fully take control of her mind. You do not love her. And as impossible as it is, she must force herself to not love you. But God, you do not make it easy.

"I-I mean- Did you have any doubt, petal? I should be offended you think so low of me. But, with those eyes, how could I be?" The tremble in her voice jeopardizes her attempt at swiftly building vanity.

You don't respond to her, you can't respond. All you can think about is how you nearly died and how Jill and Carlos will surely slit her throat for what she has done.

Ada glances down at the ring on her finger, the very thing that has held her over these past six years. It is almost humiliating to wear it. To know its existence is because of her inability to move on from this stupid crush that has somehow harbored full control of her life. Then again, Ada cannot bear to ever part from it. The thought makes her queasy, like a boat swaying against harsh waves of melancholic uncertainty. To toss the ring overboard would mean completely succumbing to the force of the sea, to drown in the heavy mass of her feelings. Cursed for eternity with stagnant sorrow.

And even though the truth strikes like a knife, Ada must commit to the plan she originally formed. Bring you to safety and pray to God once again that she has enough strength to leave you after.

"Three times..." You whisper to yourself in disbelief, your voice a ghost that Ada can hardly decipher.

With furrowed brows and a quiet hum of question, she beckons you to continue.

"Only six years and I have managed to get kidnapped not once, not twice, but three times. That's gotta earn me a place in Guinness, right?"

She reads through your attempt at masking your prevailing emotions with humor. That playful attitude, how deeply she loves it. And how devastatingly difficult it is for her to fall out of love with it. In these circumstances, when your lively demeanor is used to shield yourself from pain, it quickly festers into something she despises.

Even through everything that has happened, you are still playful. Cracking jokes, making comical jests. Just like you did all those years ago. Ada could almost be angry at you for this, for making her fall so clumsily in love with you. Almost.

"First, it was Umbrella. They had never hurt me, so I never felt they deserved the title of "kidnappers," but I guess my naivety is what got me into this shit in the first place."

This 'naivety' you speak so poorly of is mistaken for the honest warmth of your heart. You have this beautiful ability to find positivity, light, and kindness in the ugly world. Yet again, another reason why it is impossible for her to untangle you from her heartstrings. She does not speak of this, however. She is afriad of vomiting out every syllable of adoration her voice could muster.

"Then, it was..."

You hesitate, a subtlety Ada does not overlook.

"Jill and Carlos." Their names sit like rotten fruit on your tongue.

You cringe upon imagining how those two would surely react to you now, fawning over your current state as if you're some baby lamb. They nearly have a breakdown from something as mere as a paper cut, you cannot imagine the absolute warfare they'd induce upon seeing you now. Beaten, bloodied, and your organs practically on fire from the laser-induced torture they had just endured. Though, it feels strangely good to be able to breathe without them.

"A little over six months is how long they kept me. Again, they never hurt me, so it feels wrong of me to call them "kidnappers"... When I think too hard about it, I know it is what they are, I just never wanted to admit it. God, they took my freedom like it was pocket change!"

The sneer you hold has nothing against the absolute fury stretched among Ada's face.

"In the end, I escaped. I-I didn't know where I intended to go or what my plan was, but now I really, really don't know what to do..."

To make matters worse, you curl into yourself and begin to cry. It kills her to do such, but she must hold herself back, as giving you comfort would only add fuel to the fire that is her devotion to you. And to refrain from scooping you in her arms is practically killing her. To not be able to touch and comfort you, Ada knows that this is the universe testing her. No, torturing her. Every mistake, every flaw, every selfish deed — this is the karma that caught up to her after a lifetime of running from its inevitability.

"And I'm just so scared. I know they're gonna find me again and I won't be able to escape them. I'll never be free. I'll be running forever until I either submit to them o-or die!"

A beat passes when another unwelcome, unruly sob escapes your throat. The sheer calamity of this day had prevented you from processing these events. Now, the exhaustion and anguish are too much for you to bottle up.

"Oh, petal..." As you cry, Ada's long acrylics dig into the meat of her palm.

She refrains from caressing the warm skin of your shoulder. She holds herself back from pressing another tender kiss to your forehead. To prevent herself from doing such feels like suffocating. As if the heavy mass of her burning desires became physical matter and were now crushing her.

"Ada, I can't thank you enough for all you have done for me." Your gratitude is certainly not taken for granted, as every pretty word falls from your mouth and directly into the mosaic of her heart.

She cannot be in love with you anymore. She can't, she can't, she can't.

"I'm sorry for being so selfish, but please..." With helpless desperation in your eyes, you plead as though your words do not make her absolutely weak.

She must stay strong, she must complete her plan. Find you, ensure your safety, and pray to God she has enough strength to leave you after.

"Don't leave me..."

Welp, there goes that plan.

She would slaughter every soul before she'd admit it to herself, but turning her back on it has now done more harm than good.

You make her soft.

Needy.

Hungry.

You have rendered her to the same disposition of an animal, entirely feral for any chunk of you she can sink her teeth into.

"I'm right here, petal... I'm not going anywhere."

Ada Wong has let go. And you are oblivious to the consequences of this.

The resistance she once had has now faded. For six years, these tree roots have coiled around her limbs, keeping her restrained within the suffocating soil. Today, they have untangled themselves. Ada surfaces the thick dirt to find Spring in its most genuine, vulnerable time. Bunnies chase through the blossoming flowers. Trees dance with the gentle breeze. Fresh rivers flow through the bright forest. The war has ended; the torture is over.

You are at her side and there is nothing Ada could ever want more.

When she guides you out of the laboratory, she informs you of the helicopter that will soon arrive. If you weren't seconds away from succumbing to exhaustion, you'd notice the terrifying, devoted undertones beneath her structured facade. There is a man and a woman you have seen this behavior in too well, after all. However, Ada's ability to maintain herself differs from Jill and Carlos' messy aptitude.

She says your name, beckoning you to follow her. Y/N. It feels so good to say it, to have the sugary word on her tongue. It feels so good to speak it into the air and watch those eyes gaze at her with wonder, the same wonder she has fallen so hopelessly in love with. The bliss that follows after you should be considered a crime with the sheer effect it has on her. Then again, Ada was never one to follow the rules.

The two of you both race through the many twists and turns that scatter the island. Shipping containers, cargo lifts, and barrels splattered with yellow paint, you and Ada dodge the obstacles in your path. And still, she protects you with her life. Just as she had wholly promised.

Back in Raccoon City, she had lost control. She cannot afford to lose that control again, not when losing you is a possibility. Her mindless infatuation had already thrust you into danger, she would die if she let it happen once more.

With burning lungs and weak legs, you both finally arrive at the loading docks. Ada doesn't break a sweat as she tells you the helicopter will be arriving shortly. You collapse onto a pile of brown, paper sacks, now finally given a moment of rest after so many exhausting hours without it. You could nearly cry with relief.

The creak and whine of footsteps against the thin metal floors pervade the air.

A voice speaks.

"Y/N...!?"

You both look to identify the voice.

Your stomach sinks like an anchor at sea.

Leon Kennedy.

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

THE BONUS TRACK !

❝ I CARE FOR YOU STILL

AND I WILL FOREVER . . . ❞

this is what i imaged ada's flower-pressed ring to look like. and this is what i imagined the teddy bear necklace carlos gave reader looks like.

gif creds :: ada.

[hannahssimblr]

We collect her on Saturday morning. Evie, in a vest and a denim skirt, seems cold as she clambers into the back seat of my car, rubbing her arms and bringing some of that early morning chill inside with her. Dew is still clinging to the patches of well trodden grass in the caravan park at this hour, before most souls have woken up baking in their tin can dwellings. A groundskeeper is soaking the flower beds with a rubber hose by the entrance as birds chirp.

“Looking very chipper for half seven in the morning.” Jen says to her accusingly.

“I don’t know, I’m just excited!”

“You morning people are all the same.” Jen has done nothing but complain about how early it is since I shook her out of bed fifteen minutes ago. She hasn’t eaten yet, and just pulled on whatever clothes she could find off the floor. She claims I’m a grumpy person, but there’s no human alive who is as cranky as Jen is if you catch her before nine in the morning. 

“I’m a morning person and it pisses her off,” I explain to our passenger, then to Jen, “Sorry that I want to get up to Dublin early so that you can have a nice day.”

Jen scowls, “Okay. Yeah. You said that already.”

“Just focus on the pancake breakfast we’ll have.”

“Yes, it will be delicious. Now shut your stupid smirky little mouth and drive us, taxi man.” She curls her legs up underneath her and shuts her eyes while I pull away from the curb. 

“Your car is very clean,” Evie says. She sits up very straight in the rear view, ankles together and hands folded neatly in her lap like she’s at a catholic mass. I’m amused by the juxtaposition of her perfect politeness while Jen is twisted up in the passenger seat snoring, scarlett hair sticking up like she’s been dragged sideways through a hedge. 

“It’s only clean because I barely use it. Trust me, if I did I’d be using it as a bin. There’d be no room for you back there with all of the KFC wrappers.”

She laughs, but I can’t tell if she’s just being gracious, “Well it’s a really nice car in my opinion. It’s so new!”

“I assume you don’t drive yet.”

“No, but I will the minute I’m eighteen. It’s hard to get anywhere at home without having a car, like. I won’t be driving around in anything like this though, that’s for certain.”

“Tullamore, huh?” I swish around a roundabout and onto the open road. Jen lightly bumps her head on the window and she grumbles but doesn’t wake. “What’s it like there?”

“Aw, are you serious? You’ve never been?”

“I, uh… no? Should I have?”

“I was joking. Nobody should ever set foot. It’s a total shithole,” she appears to get flustered by her own comment, “or, like, not really. Maybe that was harsh on Tullamore. I know that Shane likes it there, I don’t mean to talk it down, I just-”

“It’s fine, lots of people love Dublin, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t a shithole.”

“I like Dublin.”

“That’s because you don’t live there.”

“Well I’d much rather I did,” she presses her finger into the window, at the green pastures that whizz by, fields, cows, fences, the knotted briars of the country ditches. “That’s what it looks like at home. It’s the exact same as everywhere else, whereas a city is, like, you know. Different.”

“Some people might say the country is idyllic.”

“Hm.” 

I reach over Jen to the glove compartment where I’ve stowed a packet of jellies. Peach rings. I offer them to Evie and when she politely picks one out of the packet I tell her: “You can have more than one.”

She takes one other, and I stuff at least four into my mouth, “So you don’t like being a culchie, huh?”

“I’m not a real culchie.”

“Really? You live in a culchie town and you sound like a culchie, so, I mean… just calling a spade a spade here.”

“You think I sound like one?” Surprised, she leans forward into the space between the seats so she can study the side of my face. 

I shrug, “well, it’s just your accent is very strong.”

“Nobody has ever said that to me before.”

“That’s probably because you all sound the same as each other out there. In the wilds of the country,” I smirk, adding, “the bog.”

“You consider me a bog dweller now.”

“No, I think you’re a culchie who happens to live on the bog.”

“God, the idea of you thinking that makes me anxious.”

“Why?”

Jen stirs in her seat when the packet crinkles, “are you eating something?” she croaks, “gimme some,” she reaches for the jellies in my lap before I knock her hand away. 

“No sorry, these are for Evie.”

“No, c’mon, just one.”

“Okay, wait, stop grabbing,” I bat her off me and pick one out, “Let me check. Evie, can Jen have this?”

“What? Yes of course.”

“Hm, I don’t agree,” I pop it in my mouth and produce another, “what about this one?”

“Let me have it,” Jen growls. 

“Nah,” I say and press it into Evie’s palm, then block her with my arm when she tries to give it to Jen, “No, that one’s yours!”

“I want her to have it.”

“Nope, my car, my rules. You have to eat it.”

“God, Jude,” Jen says, “You’re really going to put me through it today, aren’t you?” She lunges for the sweets and I elbow her off me, citing reasons of obstructing visibility and causing hazardous driving conditions. She asks me if I ever fucked the driver’s theory manual. 

Evie giggles in the backseat so I whirl on her, “What are you cackling at, bog dweller?” 

“Nothing!” she insists as we zoom past the first blue motorway sign for Dublin city. “You two are just funny. Why? Is laughing banned in your car?” 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[fandom-go-round]

Hi, bebe! I would love a thing on how each of the magic-using bg3 party members feel when they're channeling their different kinds of magic through their bodies to cast it, both physically and emotionally--i.e. druidic magic and channeling nature for Halsin, Shadowheart and her divine casting, Wyll and the power he draws from his Patron, Gale and what it's like for him to manipulate the Weave. One thing I'd love to see with Shadowheart in particular is the ways in which it feels different for her to channel divinity from different goddesses as her relationship to the divine changes. Thank you so much!

Warnings: Act 2 Spoilers, Act 3 Spoilers, Shadowheart Quest Spoilers, Gale Quest Spoilers, Halsin Quest Spoilers, Wyll Quest Spoilers, Magic Talk, Implied Self Image Issues, Relationship Issues (Gale)

Halsin:

His magic feels like a warm breeze, grass between your toes, laying in a sun patch. Casting druid magic always feels like the earth is responding, reaching out to the call. It’s one of the reasons Halsin loves being a druid so much. Nothing makes you feel connected to life than the world responding to your pull. It’s more complicated than that of course and the type of spell also means a lot. Healing magic is like warm water, rolling across wounds. It can cause people to jump in surprise if they’re used to divine healing magic which is more of a ‘sinking into the skin’ sensation.

Being in the shadow cursed lands makes everything hard. Summoning the power of the land is nearly impossible so it pulls more from the caster. Halsin focuses mostly on changing shape than complicated spells; it feels like spell slots go twice as fast. He has to admire the other druids who make it look easy. Part of his issue is that he’s distracted by Thaniel; with so much to focus on, magic is hard to come by.

Baldur’s Gate is easier and harder at the same time. It’s easy to find life in the city but only humanoid life. There are patches of plant life here and then but it’s a weak cry to the forests he’s been living in the last hundred years. Halsin finds it jarring to be around as so many people and longs for more open spaces. He takes small pleasures in warm bathes and interesting food but it can feel hollow. He’ll never say it but he enjoys breaking the cobblestones with his spells when he has to fight, letting nature push its way through. He’s not going to tear the city down but he knows that he can’t stay permanently. The sooner her can feel grass between his toes, the better.

Shadowheart:

Shar’s magic feels like a crisp breeze; it can feel jarring but also makes her feel more alert. Little the first nipping of winter on her cheeks. A pinch on the cheek from a teasing relative. The cold keeps her alert on a normal day. The magic makes her numb eventually; after a long day Shadowheart feels like she’ll never get warm again. She does find it comforting and to feel close to her Lady is something that she wants every day.

After she renounces Lady Shar, magic feels empty. It’s almost worse than the cold sinking into her bones. The feeling of going to call for a spell and simply feeling void; it would be funny if it wasn’t so cruel. There is a god that answers (she can still cast magic) but she tries not to think about it too much; she’s not ready to commit herself to another god yet. It makes it hard to be a cleric and she’s in pain on two fronts; losing her god and also her purpose.

Where Shar’s magic was cool, Selune’s is warm. The first time she feels the connection Shadowheart doesn’t finish the spell, the surge of warmth making her panic. To feel safe and warm makes her want to cry but she pushes through, healing Karlach so fast most don’t even notice her hesitation. Warm hands cupping her cheeks, a hand on her shoulder. She’s in awe that worshipping can feel this good and has to sit with that. Devoting herself feels easy when it’s like standing in the sun.

Wyll:

Wyll’s magic always has a heat to it. Even if it’s an ice spell, his fingers tingle like being held too close to the fire. It makes sense, he figures, since his powers do come from a devil. He was never someone who thought he would wield magic but the longer he has the powers, the more he enjoys it. They give him the power to protect people and what he loves. How can you not appreciate them, even when he’s on the edge of falling in deeper?

The issue is that the magic changes, over time. The first few years it’s a warm tingle and now, after seven, the flames are licking up his arms. Wyll feels tired after he casts a spell, even as he’s able to cast more spells. It feels like the magic is an inferno and could swallow him whole. It’s a blessing when he first gets the tadpole, it blocks some of the heat and makes it easier to think. It’s during this period he realizes the truth; the magic is wearing on him. Physically and mentally.

Wyll has to decide if he’s going to keep the magic or try to get out of his deal. His Infernal powers are addicting in the best and worst ways, like stretching a muscle and feeling the burn. He wants the power to save people and he does a damn good job at it. If he loses his magic, then what? Wyll knows he’ll still be a hero but if he can save more people… it’s not something that he’ll decide just yet but it weighs on his mind the entire journey.

Gale:

The Weave is something that Gale can’t live without. It’s one of the constants in his life and tapping into it is almost as easy as breathing. Sometimes it’s easier. When he was with Mystra it felt like every time he cast a spell he could smell her, feel her all around him. A comforting embrace that shielded him from the outside world. If he felt lonely with her, it was worth it to feel wonderful doing magic. To push himself deeper and deeper into study so that he could feel good again. Was it healthy? Maybe not. And that’s a hard pill to swallow, even years later. But in the moment, it felt like everything he ever wanted.

After her has the orb, magic feels like a vice. The comforting hand turns into a clenched fist and Gale has to stumble through learning to cast even minor spells. It’s like wading through mud in the dark; he’s lost and the Weave threatens to consume him entirely. The first few times he pleads with his goddess to set him free, to help ease the burden but she doesn’t reply. Eventually, he learns how to navigate these new feelings. The sensation of being swallowed turns more into water lapping at his ankles, cold and icy.

The Weave will never feel the same way again and Gale accepts that. After the crown, after the tadpole, he’s happy to be able to touch magic and not feel pain. It’s not longer a lover’s embrace anymore and he needs that, to heal. It’s still warm, still comforting but more like a pair of gloves than entangled bodies. He has a lot of feelings about Mystra but he does still respect her and he’s glad that she respects him. The Weave makes him feel whole and it’s not something he’s going to take advantage of again.

[tieflingfingers]

What and who: Thomasin and Astarion bicker. The grove has its own gaggle of issue. Aradin's bigotry finally gets a proper check. Summary: Thomasin and Astarion wander into conflict happening out a druidic grove's gate. With violin and dagger in hand, the two help out in hopes of finding a healer inside. Soon, they realize both tieflings and her drow heritage are not welcomed. Warning/Content: Graphic descriptions of battle between bugbears/goblins and grove. Aradin isn't a fan of others and vocalizes that. Astarion finds pleasant things unpleasant and unpleasant things delightful. Part of campaign remix/rewrite. Word Count: 3,172 Ao3 Link

There was commonality in all wilderness. A comorbidity. Every ecosystem provided its fruits as much as it prowled the dead of night like stooping owls. They were all alike. Unforgiving like the foreign family Thomasin knew lurked in the Underdark. Their language not fully learned, but the presence of their culture cropped up everywhere she went. It was part of who she was. A home away from home.  

If asked, she may attribute this to why she found the land so conservant. No matter the trials nor tribulations, pathways snaked through stretches of thin wispy grass. Critters rustled through patches of wildflowers when no one was around to witness. Birds pecked at hard carapace shells baking in the sun with little thought of morality. Bushes shaded mushroom circles crafted by the fey, even when surrounded by beds of vine and thorn.  

Thomasin swore that the most unpredictable often slept beside you. Astarion remained in her constant periphery. It was mutual. She could feel it. 

They walked with a safe distance between one another. As she flashed smiles and asked simple questions, silence provided appetizers between each reply. Acute observations she collected through the miniscule spaces between her teeth. 

Uncertain company meant the half-elf’s persona grew accommodating. Placated the hostility of death. Or that worse than death. Her femininity grew fluid, caustic, slipping through untrustworthy brambles. As long as she remained agreeable and unattainable in theory, he could believe he was one tongue twister away from taking charge. 

However, she identified something else diverting his thoughts. A sort of wanderlust, even if displeased by the lack of luxuries. Focalization wasn’t solely on what he could get away with, but the sparkling rivers that bled from the sea. She figured he was used to the lethargy of Grey Harbors’ docks.

He’d squint in discontentment when his ogling disrupted. Soft rotten logs fell where they may and bent trees curled inward, readying for their last decades of life. A piece of him wasn’t fueled by fear. Whether his ego would allow it was another question. 

Thomasin spent their stretches of solitude creating backstories and potential personality traits from what she gathered. Not hasty judgements, but inferences that shifted and morphed with every new bit of information.

Until now, maybe his life as a magistrate was nothing more than the glamour of a title. The life of probable crime forcing him into the depths of a city. His curiosity doomed to forever hide behind heavy velvet curtains.

Astarion fed off culture. A diet once succulent with power, now living in a state of survival. The flavor of grit fostered by nightlife in the streets. His references hinted at a youth educated solely through ink, parchment, and structured curriculum. An antiquated view she expected most elves to disregard after passing into the threshold of adulthood. 

This would become a foundation. One unknowingly mixed with literature and the offhand remarks of drunk aristocratic sons prancing in fountains. Gaps of knowledge outside the gate filled themselves. Eventual hardships chipped teeth and stories from visitors from far off lands were plentiful.

Of course, these hypotheticals weren’t created from thin air.  Left to his own devices, Thomasin found Astarion to be quite stubborn. A man with a dogma that made enough sense to him. A reason to not acclimate to his surroundings. Sensations that were mere background noise to most weren’t to be tolerated. They were to be shamed.

The sun’s warmth was glorious until it was at its highest point. Spiders had abandoned their webs which now clung to his clothes. The gnats were too merry. Too animated. The spiders were too lazy to kill the gnats. Dirt was too wet. Flowers too inviting until their thorns snagged on his sleeves.

If the breeze was a nuisance, she would always be a bother. Her habits would compound. His wrinkles would deepen in disgust. She simply hoped he was too preoccupied to devolve his bickering. How could one keep quiet about a grand plan of deceit when every thought fell from his lips?

Thomasin found herself biting her cheeks to prevent from smiling at his complaints. They bonded over which oils made for the best baths. Made promises to keep an eye out for florals with the liveliest scents. She even joked about locating the coldest rivers and how pressing its stones against his eyelids would ease swelling. Jest for her own pleasure, mostly.

Their exchange of backhanded compliments was soon cut short. It was an escalation in a matter of seconds. The ground’s foundation shook and bolstering shouts sang from a point just out of view. Both of their eyes met. They witnessed their own composures fracture and, without words, acknowledged they were to not speak of it. 

A hill jut from the grass as if detached from the ranges in their sleep. One of the many cascading high and lows painted across the landscape. Astarion crept up the soft, uneven incline to look over its vantage point. But, as he began to climb, whistling sped past their ears and arrowheads clunked into rocky chunks of earth.

Each was a sharpened bone, hastily chipped away. Their craftsmanship, shotty and left to splinter. Its ragged was point fine enough to cut through Astarion’s pant leg and graze his shin. A dark patch began spreading across the fabric and unraveled fine white stitching now tinged in pinks and crimsons. He winced. 

Thomasin expected a man of vanity to also unravel, but he remained steadfast. The pain stung, but it didn’t seem that was what made his eyes flicker. It was the blood that ran down her bare shoulder. The only reason she had even noticed she, too, was injured.

What the look meant was unclear, but before she could speak up, he had turned his heels away. As if calculating a brief misstep, the elf had re-routed his attention into that of clenched fists.

“Amin feuya ten' lle,” he grumbled through his teeth.

The manner in which Astarion sprinted was like a wound tinker toy whose trapped cogs felt release. With a dagger at his hip, he strayed from the hill and intersected those that attacked them. Two straggler goblins spilling into battle. 

His body weight toppled their short statures and Thomasin watched what might’ve been her own demise. A blade cleaned like clockwork carving into cheeks, necks, and temples. Ruthless yet pin-pointed in each stabbing as the floodgates bled freely from arteries. Each goblin appeared bewildered by their god’s promises hitting the ground with an uneventful thud.

Astarion whisked up one of their bows. An arch made of untreated wood, not yet smoothed of its natural lumps and spines like typical woodwork. It creaked when the forces of tension threatened its integrity and whined as if scared to crack in half. The craftsmanship alone cobbled his expression somewhere between dissatisfaction and pity. 

“Was this made by a child?” he asked of his victim, expecting an answer despite their throat now half full.

The heel of his shoe, scuffed and repeatedly buffed over decades, dug itself into the living goblin’s chest. With a flick of his fingers, an arrow freed from its binds and buried deep into their eye socket. An end accented by the arrowhead shaken free of their punctured organ on its tip. 

“You’d think they’d like a bit more decency in death.” He glanced over his shoulder at Thomasin. “A little care for appearances does wonders.”

Thomasin chuckled to herself in relief. He was tactical, which alarmed her slightly, but she shoved the concern out of reach. It was apparent he had seen the source of the commotion. His stance went into stealth and he snuck back to the base of the hill, tilting his head for her to follow. 

Pushing through a series of adrenaline dumps, the half-elf hoisted herself up with a bounty of arrows she collected from quivers of the slain. She slid them toward Astarion, who was now crouched and positioned at the very top.

From their view, she realized they had stumbled upon a village amongst the arbor. Humans and tieflings alike clanked metal and stone against a barrage of attacks. Booyaghs and bugbears lead goblins and worgs to this protected domain. The only thing keeping them from infiltrating was a monolith of a gate wedged between two mountains. 

Structurally sound, its wooden heft looked to be rigged by pulley systems wound around a spoked helm. The system of ropes twisted and tucked away within its neighboring stone. Stone which was engraved in ritualistic sigils and patterns she figured were meant to protect from situations like these. The inner workings of religion never ceased to puzzle her.

Even in battle, those from the grove shouted over residual conflicts. A human man, curly-haired, yelled accusations until his voice verged on rasp. Insults that an older tiefling from the gate’s upper level retorted between commanding reinforcements from above. His skin was a glossy red under a blanket of sweat that hung over all involved.

In an act of impulse, Thomasin stood up and tucked her violin neatly under her chin. Her presence made her vulnerable, but the fear subsided into a trance. Her tongue clicked in rhythm like a metronome attempting to keep up with an unheard melody.

It had been long since she had used her skills to calm a crowd. She narrowed her focus and concentrated on those that mindlessly attacked the grove. And, as she raised her bow, she accommodated the popped string by creating a new song. One pulled from sheet music she hadn’t held in her hands in years.

Its melody began softly. A wisp of tangible sound that grew louder and robust. The series of notes projected its aura and spread over the field like rolling fog. Its fine glowing mist dispersed as it hit the ground, homing in on the enemy.

The longer she played, the more the grove’s patrons noticed their foes' attention had completely shifted. 

They had become enthralled.

The transition was panicked, but Thomasin promptly wiped her bow across her skirt as if ridding it of magical residue, and continued playing. What had been the spirit of a composition once memorized morphed into something eerier. Beautiful to certain tastes, but nevertheless droning. 

After the day’s difficulties, the half-elf knew she had to push past her threshold to maintain concentration. Her coherence faltered. Lashes lowered. Shades of violet swirled in a spectacle below that enraptured the threat. 

The goblins stumbled. Bugbear jaws slackened. Those left with gusto to proceed with their raid had difficulties funneling their anger anywhere but their own brethren. And so, it wasn’t long until those from the grove preyed on such distraction. 

Thomasin struggled to process what was happening, resting on the hopes the noises she heard were of victory. Reality muffled and the only sounds registering to her ears was huffing breathing from those left in battle. It wasn’t until the curly-haired man, identified as “Aradin” through all the noise, raised his voice once more and struck her from her trance.

“Open the bloody gates!”

Under her feet, the rumble arose again. A young tiefling scrambling high up upon the rafters began to spin the wheel to activate the pulley system. Now was not the time to succumb to a haze. The half-elf blinked and adjusted to light whilst her existence leaked in at a pressing pace. 

Cold compression wrapped around her wrist and tugged. Before she knew it, Astarion’s clammy grasp was guiding her down a steep incline. Her feet skid and tripped along the natural ridges. Her grace wavered even on her best days. But, like a younger sibling begrudgingly snatched by the eldest, Astarion held little concern.

”We’re making it to that settlement. Now c’mon.”

Thomasin held her tongue as the aftermath allowed her settings to come into view. Whilst they scuffled inside, she ran past the corpses of goblin intruders and unfortunate security. A stray tiefling hung from the high gate, only to be dragged in by weeping companions. The half-elf forced her eyes shut and let herself blend into the crowd. There was solace in simply being one of the living bodies.

Inside the confines of the grove, everyone scattered as the gates slammed back down behind them. Astarion and Thomasin hunched to catch their breath, eventually being the last two figures in the entryway.

Tensions seemed to spill into safety. Not far from the two, Aradin and the commanding tiefling, Zevlor, spoke at volumes that toppled over one another. Their diaphragms fought like the last muscle not yet quivering from a comedown. It appeared to be a leader of a pack of tiefling refugees versus an adventurer whose own pack was thinned. Two men taking turns listing the other’s faults.

Aradin spouted words like “foul bloods” in the midst of maligning Zevlor with selfish tendencies. The tieflings weren’t know for courage and could never understand what their mission meant. The importance of a relic that left many of his crew dead and the leading druid captured. Closing the grove’s gate was intentional. Undeserved punishment.

Zevlor's body stiffened in a manner Thomasin recognized immediately. A leader had to remain diligent, cordial. But his dignity and the lives of these tieflings relied on him. His anger was boiling up. Arguing against guiding raiders to their location, where children tucked away, felt self-explanatory.

Thomasin looked around at folks living off carts, crates, and sleeping mats. In his heightened grief, Aradin viewed them like cargo. Horned totems that cursed the adventurer before they were even attacked. Zevlor's attempts to speak sense was all for null. The human kept on his rant.

“The grove’s sealin’ off before the stench of Avernus rips through these wood.” Aradin whipped his head around to gesture to the bounty evidence all around him. “And then the hells lured in an under-elf. Bad blood poisoned by even worse blood. Halsin would prefer death to this.”

Thomasin’s part was only a brief additional detail. Just another reason injustice’s clawed hands disrupted the grove’s pastures. Devils, evil gods, all infallible points. And, as he ranted, his words must’ve grown more tumultuous. More self-assured. The debate was closing in on becoming a physical fight.

But Aradin’s bigotry was deafened by the time Thomasin’s vision tunneled. Her jaw clenched rigid. She was no longer in control of her own complacency. 

Astarion watched his newfound companion walk towards the men with a sense of urgency. Purpose in each heeled step. The half-elf was beyond finding common ground. Too tired to convince Aradin about the perils of judging one another. 

Drowic danced off her tongue, despite her limited vocabulary. It was part of her rarely spoken aloud. More of a sensation as if the vigor of Lolth guided her when venom replaced blood flowing within.   

“Ah! Uk skal’as yutrilanil. You speak from such confidence when you cannot hide the rotten roots that raised you,” she cursed.

“Aye! Watch y’bloody tongue, tunnel rat.”  

Aradin hadn’t prepared to be flanked. Surprised painted his face as if his uncouth thoughts lived within a vacuum. Before he could turn to address her, a series of metal bands embedded into his face. Thomasin threw a punch.

The armored man collapsed. Burning masculinity encased in metal hit the ground with a thunk and punctuated the end of an argument. Astarion rushed to crouch over him, perhaps reveling in the humiliation of it all. The elf was grinning ear to ear. A happiness she hadn’t seen from him yet. All it took was a morsel of misfortune.

Thomasin looked back at Zevlor with shared bewilderment that mellowed just as quickly. Had her judgments melted entirely? Was she now made of softened inhibitions and curious morals? It was a side she hadn’t seen in years.

“I’ll be honest, I didn’t think I still had that in me,” she said, shaking her hand with weak diffusing laughter.

“Well--” Zevlor cleared his throat and nodded in respect. “At least now I can properly thank you for your help out there. You’re quite brave… venturing out here with the history of your heritage.”

“My…My mother was a human from the Dales.” 

“Of course! Not that it’s meant as any insult. The drow have always tended to fight amongst themselves. I’m sure your father is a great man.” The tiefling sighed. “Apologies. I’m Zevlor.”

“Thomasin and–” 

“Astarion, pleasure,” he said from the prodding of Aradin.

Zevlor began to vent about conflict with the druids of the grove. How the tieflings were ripped from their home and the previous druidic leader, Halsin, had welcomed them. But now, he was missing and their new leadership under Kagha was skewed. The refugees were being cast out of the area and Zevlor admit many weren’t fighters. Going in the goblin’s den was asking for death.

Thomasin looked about and recognized a young man that had fought outside the gate. A warlock with dreadlocks and a regal disposition. The type of broad shoulders and confidence that accompanied successful fighters. The scars and stone eye that were unabashed about hardships.

“That’s Wyll, part of the Blade of Frontiers,” Zevlor said. “Seems to have been dropped here through his own twisted luck. The only neutral party we’ve got.“

“Hm. I'll speak to speak to him. We need a healer and, by the gods, I hope he can help us all mend loose threads.”

Still crouched, Astarion sucked at his teeth in disapproval. A sound half-expected from his pervious displays of obstinance. She nudged him to behave with a light kick of her boot.

Zevlor visibly relaxed. Thomasin was one of the few forms of support left. 

“We would be eternally grateful. We have little to ourselves, but we can give you as much in the way of supplies as possible.” He nodded over to Wyll. “I have hope that you all can make the route safer with his help. Maybe he can even vouch for you amongst the druids.”

Thomasin bent slightly in a bow of thanks and made her way towards the warlock. The plan felt more solid now. A reason to keep constant moving.

Astarion lingered behind. His eyes scanned along the human’s waist for pouches and satchels. Loosened buckles and heirloom jewelry. But, just as he started to ease into rummaging through Aradin’s belongings, he awoke. The human thrashed the elf back like a bull disoriented in its pen. 

“Thought you might be dead, is all. You can’t knock me for seeing an opportunity before my very eyes,” Astarion poked in jest. His palms were flat on the ground, but the dirt was no issue. The delight in this man’s rage was enough.

“I’ve had it with everyone in this place,” Aradin snapped as he gathered himself. “Enjoy gettin’ eaten alive out there.”

The elf laughed with little empathy. As he rose to brush off his shirt, fingers running along frilled edges, he pivoted his feet to make one last remark. 

“Is that a promise, darling? I hear the hells are quite lovely this time of year."

[fictionkinfessions]

Having an absolutely grotesque day emotionally. Copes by diving headlong into a Slenderman kin shift bc. Canon divergence went crazy and it was actually one of the most comforting lives I endured! At least, that one specific cycle of it was

Tim and Jessica were incredible people. They had no reason to be as gentle with me as they were, even if they didn't know that I was the same being that did all that bullshit. Sometimes i wish they had been, but i dont want to feel that way right now. I just miss them. It's grass-is-greener syndrome, and selfishness, for sure, but... man. I wish i could go back.

Things felt so simple. I miss the truck, i miss the house, i miss carrying them around and Tim being so annoyed and Jessica having the time of her life with it. I miss the questing--sneaking into libraries, slinking around city streets and trying to teleport us far away and getting hopelessly lost in fuck knows where for a week, while they tried to help me catch my bearings so I could take them back home.

I don't know how much I miss the other stuff... Definitely not the murder. I know I had to eat, but still... Tim did a good job showing me how to be somewhat humane about it, but a lot of the time I still feel and felt pretty shit about it. The other worlds and learning about what I actually was, where I came from, that was... rough--but I do miss Tim and Jessica's reactions to it all. If only I'd thought to take pictures--their faces when they met the æsir for the first time... god, they were priceless. I know I probably won't find them again (and, frankly, that might be a good thing), but I do hope sometimes. Even if I don't know--even if They don't know, that'd be fine, but I just... I miss it. I miss them. Im being a broken record but im sad so i dont care. Gotta think about something nice to help chug through the rest of my life. Might as well be them--they deserve to be remembered.

Everyone else does, too. Alex, Jay, Seth, Brian, Amy. I'm not going to say sorry--I feel like that would just sound obligatory and insincere. But I do want to say that... I took care of your things, after i remembered. I didn't really get a lot of the human customs, but I knew burials needed bodies--It was a few years too late for that, so instead, I took care of your clothes. In the ark. I washed them and hung them from the tree--the one that looked like the one over the picnic table at Rosswood park. The ark didn't mess with them much, but whenever I found a hole, I tried to patch it. Eventually, when I told Tim and Jessica, they would come spend time there, too. It doesn't make up for anything, but I hope it was... I dont know. Something.

Being human is hard. Things feel different, and the world is a scary, lonely place to be right now. I know I'll be okay, but sometimes a person just has to sit and remember, I think.

Thank you for keeping this blog up after such a long time, mod partycat--maybe we could get the same effect from journaling, but I do think I prefer this, usually... It's nice to know at least a few people in the world will see whatever it is that's going through my head, kin-wise. This place really does help alleviate that loneliness ❤

[theguyinthemathexamples]

Madinat Khalida, The Timeless City

Pairing(s): None (Slight Rukkhadevata x GoS ig)

Genre: Angst, Fanmade Lore

Timeline/AU: In the middle of the Archon War

Content Warning(s): Implied Major Character Death, A Nation Getting Buried (Literally), Shit Storytelling, Fanmade Lore (i.e completely made up), 2AM-5AM Writing (fell asleep mid-write), GoS Isn't Reader, GoS dies in Rukkrukk's Arms(not in a romantic way lmao), GoS' Gender Is Not Specified And Will Use They/Them Pronouns, Morax Back At It Again Smh, It's Raining Spears, Hallelujah It's Raining Spears, - GoS' People—Probably, The Burying Technically Ain't His Fault Though (surprisingly).

C/N: Faruzan bonked my head so much i threw this up; lore enthusiasts don't kill me for this pls

Madinat Khalida, also known as The Timeless City; collapsed due to a brawl between the God of Silence and the God of Contracts—or as some would call him, the God of War.

The two gods fought long and hard, tooth and nail, till many moons and suns rose and fell. The forest had seen it, the shadows had witnessed it, and the beaming light that held high merely gazed on.

The God of Silence was by no means a weak god, having to fend off more than a few creatures that their early nation could've fallen for a thousand times over.

But alas, the so-called God of War had his eyes sent on them and their nation. His intentions may have been good—only intending to "spar" with them, but their fight had erupted many casualties on the desert's plains, both in its wake and its aftermath.

:

The spears that rained down the city were buried beneath the sands, but what went along with it was Madinat Khalida.

The God of Silence grieved at the death of their people when their nation was caught in-between the depths of the sand and the bedrock below, knowing that they could've just led the opposing god out of the perimeter of their city - but what they did was already done.

Their city had sunk.

With the God of Contracts having "oh so coincidentally" already left the crime scene, their nation buried underneath miles upon miles of sand; they joined their nation in hopes of rescuing or unearthing any evidence of life—trying to reassure themselves that maybe, just maybe, there was even a patch of grass alive.

As they lost hope in finding even just a piece of cloth, they saw a soft, green glow emanating from the other side of their city - one that they hadn't notice before.

Due to their desperation, they sprinted to the light, slowly getting engulfed by it and promptly passing out from their exhaustion.

After they had awoken, they saw a big, magnificent tree—the one who the people of Sumeru now call "Irminsul"—, once they remembered their original objective, they ran from root to root and bark to bark until they reached the base of the tree.

Naturally, since they were dubbed as the God of Silence, they couldn't speak, so they had to resort into using some of their remaining magic left, and spoke,

"Oh blessed tree, you who have witnessed nations rise and fall, you who remember every living being that had first opened it's eyes and those who fell prey to eternal sleep. Please, oh please, where have my children gone? To where did the last of my dears go?"

The tree didn't reply, only keeping it's radiant glow bright. The God of Silence shed their final tear, using the last of their power to ask one more question, "To where did my city—that had seemingly bloomed from nothing—go, oh heavenly tree?"

They knew it was all for nothing, but they smiled once more, kneeling as they embraced the tree. At last, the god breathed their last breath, a soft sigh escaping their lips.

At last, a god clad in green and white, the god that was dubbed as the God of Wisdom by her people, approached the rapidly disintegrating god, rushing to their side—her face filled with remorse, regret and shock.

As the last of their physical form flew with the wind, the God of Wisdom could only wordlessly pick up their belongings - clothes, accessories, and the like.

To commemorate the late god, Greater Lord Rukkhadevata put on three leaf clips that she had given to them before as a welcome gift.

Unbeknownst to her, the god's soul remained, with it now possessing the three clips; binding the two gods in an eternal harmony of wisdom and music.

TGITME/N: I have so many more sfuff i wanna add but then I'll just end up chewing myself up from the inside out

Also, yes, i will update the sun and moon god blorples, both them and y'all deserve to know what they're like

Unless before i get swallowed in the depths of SAGAU again, this'll be my offering to all of y'all and wish you all a merry Christmas and a happy advanced new year :DDD

[wellbelesbian]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

my notifications must be well and truly busted, because tumblr didn’t bother to tell me that @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @erzbethluna and @confused-bi-queer all tagged me for WIP Wednesday yesterday until now, which is evidently no longer Wednesday. thanks anyway, guys!

but i’ve been staying up until 5 the past few nights engaged in a new WIP, so the petty constraints of linear time won’t stop me!

it’s not Carry On related, but i was tagged on this account so i’ll post it here anyway.

it’s sort of a retelling of the trojan war, except it’s set 18 years later and is all about the aftermath and the survivors. i try to stay mostly true to the sources, but also patch up any holes. like Briseis. she’s a major part of the Iliad, but then we just never find out what happens to her after Achilles dies! what??

it’s told from the perspective of Astyanax, who you may know was the infant son of Hector, the crown prince of Troy, and was thrown from the walls of the city when the war ended. except a lot of sources outside of Homer posit that he didn’t 👀

my Astyanax, who is non binary, was raised by his aunts Oenone, the first wife of Paris, and Cassandra, who also narrowly escaped death. but when Cassandra prophecies that they must make amends with the house of Achilles and Hector’s ghost urges them to find their mother Andromache, they set out an adventure and piece together the aftermath of the war as they go.

so yeah. i’ve spent the past few nights writing a rather long and detailed outline, making character picrews, and creating a big messy family tree. so here’s an excerpt, and i’ll put the family tree below too just for fun.

cw for mentions of rape

“Did Oenone ever tell you I was married?” Cassandra pulls up a handful of grass and twists her fingers in it, looking out to the sea.

“No.” Oenone told me so much about my family. I can recite all 99 of my aunts and uncles, as well as their spouses. But not Cassandra’s. I never knew. I wonder what else she never told me, and why.

“His name was Coroebus. I put off marriage for years. Becoming a priestess helped, and my supposed madness drove plenty of potential suitors away, but there are always men willing to look past an unpleasant wife if the alliance brings them power.” She throws the grass down and mumbles “no, that’s not fair to him. He was a good man.” She takes a deep breath. I wait in silence, not wanting to spook her.

“My parents forced me to marry him eventually. He was a king who came to Troy’s aid, I was their thanks, and they thought he might calm me down. He was gentle, and considerate, so I tried to be good. He listened to me, even if he didn’t believe me. And I never had any visions of what was to become of him, which was a mercy. Not that it mattered. That damned horse showed up just three days after we married. He died protecting me in the temple, and then that brute Ajax…” Her breath catches, she squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. “His body was only a few feet away.”

I don’t even know what to say. Everyone suffered that night, death and loss and rape all across the city. I know it, but I can’t wrap my head around the enormity of it. I understand suddenly why it’s so hard for her to look upon the city’s ruins.

At a loss for words, I lean over and wrap my arms around her, letting her rest her head on my shoulder. She laughs brokenly. “I think this is supposed to be the other way around. You’re the baby of the family.” I don’t fight her about it this time. After a few minutes, she pulls away and wipes at her eyes.

“How do you live with it?”

“How do any of us?” She asks incredulously. “Oenone lives in the past, and when she runs out of ways to run from reality she turns into a rock.” She clasps my hands and meets my eyes, darkest brown with a pinprick of red fire dancing deep within. “I’ll tell you my secret. Every morning, when I wake up, I lie there and I list them. Everyone who died, for Troy, for me. My parents, my siblings, Coroebus, the Amazons. And then I get up, and I live that day for them.” I squeeze her hands, and she squeezes them back. “Do you understand? We live for them.”

and here’s the mess of a family tree, with Priam and Hecuba’s other 96 kids not pictured.

[mashkiki-weeds]

I would like to acknowledge that I am a guest on unceded xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) land, and to give thanks that they protect the plants I will be talking about.

This is a super big and beautiful common plantain (Sxu'enhween in Hul'qumi'num, Otawagebag(oon) in Ojibwe) with an unfortunate case of powdery mildew. Also known as "white man's foot" (hey settler species, I see you), common plantain is both food and medicine.

First of all, it grows everywhere- I'm sure you've seen it pushing through a crack in the sidewalk, or in a patch of grass by a telephone pole. It's a good plant to start learning about foraging; distinctive, hard to misidentify, plentiful, and you can't use it badly.

Plantain is edible through its entire growth cycle. It’s super high in vitamin C, loaded with tannins, and is a significant source of iron and calcium. Both the leaves and the seeds are edible.

I just learned that it's also chock-full of vitamin A and magnesium, as well as containing "the compound plantamajoside" (no idea), which has a similar molecular structure to the active ingredient in echinacea. What a world!

As with most plants, the leaves are less fiborous when picked young, but you can throw 'em in a soup at any stage. The leaves can be eaten raw- younger leaves are better for salads and smoothies, although they tend to be slightly more bitter.

The seeds are a pain to harvest, and I've only done so once. Apparently they're a nice topper for salads and sandwiches, but I just chewed on 'em. Not bad.

You can also make tea with the fresh or dried leaves, which brings me to the medicinal properties of white man's foot.

In tea form, plantain is excellent for coughs and sore throats. It has anti-inflammatory properties that soothes the throat and lungs, and gets more mucous production going. It also has astringent properties that will help with diarrhea, and keeping you regular when it's not a crisis.

The leaves themselves are awesome. If you've got a cut, a bruise, a bug bite, an ulcer, eczema, etc, you probably want plantain leaf on your body. You can do this in a few ways:

You can chew on the leaves and apply them directly to the affected area. Be careful with this one, as human spit isn't always the best.

You can bruise the leaves by crushing and rolling them- super effective for bruising and swollen sprains.

You can do stuff with them! Infusing in oil, making a tincture (extracting medicine through high-proof booze), squeezing the midrib (the big vein in the middle of the plant) for the juicy stuff. All great ways of working with the plant to coax its mashkikiiwan to interact and play well with others.

All in all, like many plants considered "weeds", plantains are pretty awesome and useful.

Now that you've got a plant to find and forage, a couple quick notes on the process. When harvesting medicine, particularly in urban areas, there are some things that I would encourage you to keep in mind.

1) Plants deserve respect, just as any living thing does. If you are choosing to harvest, you are acknowledging that the plant has gifts to share with you, and so please do so mindfully. Don't take more than you need. Work gently.

I will always offer tobacco, as my dad taught me to do. I speak to the plants, let them know who they're going to be helping, thank them. This isn't for everybody, but I hope that you find your way to honor the plants you're working with.

2) Cities are gross. Be careful where you harvest. Try to stay away from roadways, sewers, anywhere icky stuff is gonna be leeching into the ground. Plantains are great at drawing out impurities- remember that before you eat one that was growing in a used car lot.

3) Don't blindly listen to strange women on the internet when it comes to plants. I have a deep love of plant medicine, and therefore have accumulated lots of knowledge... but so much of my knowledge has come from being wrong over and over again. I'm wrong more often than I'm right. Research whatever you put in/on your body.

Side note, one of my favorite things about white man's foot is that it will come in and destroy cultivated lawns of non-native grasses. I love it when people try to get rid of them, just to discover that it's killed all the grass underneath, and there's now huge holes in their lawn. They get really mad, and if you have a useless resource-consuming field of rye grass... well, you deserve to be mad.

Thanks to Luschiim's Plants by Dr. Luschiim Arvid Charlie and Nancy J. Turner for the Hul'qumi'num name.

[wheelsup]

the taming of the shrew | two

if i be waspish, best beware my sting

after some setbacks, penelope is willing to do anything to get you back on board. but has spencer already ruined things?

A/N: hello! im so sorry that this posting schedule is super inconsistent. the more i thought about this chapter, the less i liked the more technical aspects of it. but! i hope you enjoy to plot aspect of it nonetheless <3 thanks for reading!

category: fluff, slow burn series, spencer reid x fem!reader

wc: 4.4k

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Since that phone call with Penelope, she’d been over nearly every night for a week with plates of treats and onslaughts of apologies. Each time she came knocking, you told her there was no amount of persuasion that could change your mind. And yet the following night, she’d be there, a new type of pastry in hand and a new set of reasons why Spencer was worth the trouble.

First, she brought blueberry muffins and reasoned that deep below that prickly exterior, he really was everything she promised –– sweet and caring. But that must be deep, deep down. Like, The Lost City of Atlantis, deep down, because you didn’t expect it to surface any time soon. 

Then, she brought fudge brownies and explained that his behavior wasn’t personal –– he was getting snippy with everyone lately. And while you maintained that anybody would have a hard time getting along with Spencer, you were absolutely positive that it was now impossible for you. 

Quite frankly, it wasn’t just Spencer who was unwilling to play nice. You hated him. More than you’ve ever hated a stranger. 

You wished him a lifetime riddled with minor inconveniences that would drive him to the edge of insanity. You wanted him to miss all his trains by just a quarter of a minute; close enough so that he could see it leave the platform, knowing he almost made it on. You wanted him to constantly feel like he was about to sneeze. You wanted his socks to be perpetually wet, and if he should happen to put on a dry pair? You hoped he stepped in a puddle.

That was all you could think about as you laid out on your couch, munching on one of Penelope’s lemon bars while she paced around your apartment. She kept going on and on advertising Spencer to you. As annoying as it was, she was also saving you a ton on groceries that week. 

For the most part, you filtered her out. Not a single word that came out of her mouth was believable anymore, especially not when she was talking about Spencer. Despite what Penelope thought of him, you saw in him what she refused to accept. 

As her speech came to a close, she looked at you like she expected a response to dignify her prattling. 

“Give it a rest, Penelope. He’s a lost cause,” you laughed dryly. “He doesn’t need –– nor does he want –– anyone in his life.” At the very least, he definitely didn’t want you. 

“Yes, that’s the problem!” If you’d been listening to her, you would’ve heard her saying the same thing. “He doesn’t want to date!” 

Your head just about exploded when she said that. 

There had been countless, fruitless conversations about this, and all along she saw the gaping hole in her supposedly airtight plan?

“If he doesn’t want to DATE, then WHAT was the point of this?!” Your fingers pressed the bridge of your nose; you suddenly felt a headache coming on. Funny how it always happened around the time of day that Penelope came to visit.

Penelope stopped pacing. She stalked over to your couch, picked your legs up by your ankle, and moved them to make space for herself. You begrudgingly sat upright as she took her place beside you. 

“Because he’s not himself anymore. He’s not open like he used to be. Not to the people who care about him the most, and certainly not to the world.”  

Penelope toyed with the hem of her dress, distracting herself from her quivering lip before pressing on, “Spencer Reid has always wanted love. And it’s not right that he no longer believes he can have it.” 

You hadn’t seen Penelope look so desperate until now. It was concerning. Because what could make her look so hopeless? What could make Spencer so hopeless? 

“Penelope, I don’t know what’s wrong with your little friend, but… there’s a lot more bubbling inside him than you’re letting on.” 

She chewed up the insides of her cheeks, wincing to herself at your incredibly accurate claim. 

“You are hiding something, aren’t you?” You narrowed your eyes on her. You were no detective, or whatever exactly her team did, but she was just awful at concealing her thoughts.

“It’s not my story to tell,” she murmured. 

She could already feel herself about to give it away and doubled down her mental defenses against it. Focusing extra hard on keeping Spencer’s privacy intact. If only you knew her track record with secrets, you’d be proud of her for staying quiet this long.

“What isn’t your story?” 

“That his girlfriend died last year.” 

She spilled it before she even realized what she was saying. You’d just asked so nonchalantly that she forgot she was talking aloud. Penelope turned purple, terrified now that the whole truth was out there. 

You couldn’t even take satisfaction in the fact that your trick worked. You were just as mortified as Penelope, and if you weren’t already sitting down, you knew you’d need to. You assumed there was something deeper going on with him, you didn’t think it was a dead girlfriend. That was some Nicholas Sparks shit. 

“He pretends like he’s fine but I know he’s not. And if he found a way to move on, maybe he’d start feeling as okay as he claims to be,” she sniffled before snot could run from her nose, tears lining the rims of her eyes. “I know I should’ve given you the full picture, but I didn’t think you’d go for it if you knew…” 

You were too floored to process it all right away. This added a whole new layer of complicated to an already uneasy arrangement.

“Well, I know you’re right about one thing. I would’ve said no.” 

She gave you a set of pleading eyes, praying you’d see where she was coming from. 

“I know,” she whispered defeatedly. “But maybe... now that you know, you can understand why he acts out the way he does.”

“Penelope, I can’t just… make someone move on, or –– or get them to believe in love! Especially when it’s fake.”

How on Earth did she expect you to pull that off? Did that guy from A Walk to Remember move on when Mandy Moore died? You hadn’t seen the ending of the movie, but you assumed not. 

“I’m sorry, this is just… a lot bigger than the favor I thought it was ––”

“What if I could return it?” she cut in. The gears in her head started to turn, figuring ways to patch up the holes she made. 

“There’s nothing I need from you.” 

That couldn’t be true. Penelope looked around the room and it didn’t take her long to think of it.

“I can help you sell your art,” she tempted, gesturing to the scattered canvases. “You make all your income from this, right?” 

You didn’t want to give any fuel to her fire, but you nodded. “What if… what if you didn’t have to settle for local buyers? What if I told you that you could make way more money selling them to the whole world?”

You chortled at her idea. 

You were a local artist, through and through. Your art got put in local galleries and sold to local buyers. Nothing more, and that was fine with you. You realized it a long time ago that it was just a pipe dream to think you’d be more. 

“I’m serious! You could get a separate painting studio, and stop living in one? Huh?” She wrapped her hand around your shoulder, waving the other in the air, urging you to picture it with her. “Imagine this: a kitchen that’s separate from your living room. A bed, inside it’s own four walls, and more than twelve feet from where you cook your meals.”

Pushing aside her so blatantly insulting your apartment, if that were a possibility, you’d want nothing more. But it already sounded foolish and you hadn’t even heard how she planned to pull it off. 

“Penelope, I’m fine where I am. I make the money I need, and that’s... it’s fine.”

She gave you a pointed look. “You know, I can hack all search engine results to make sure you are what comes up first anytime someone enters the word ‘painting’, right?

An airy chuckle left your lips. Of course she could. You patted her thigh twice and stood up, prompting her to follow you to your door –– hopefully, so she can show herself to the other side of it. “Still no, Pen.” 

“Just take some time to think about it!” Her voice carried through the wood as you shut it on her.

*

There was this one bench in Kenilworth Park – the one that overlooks the crystal clear pond – that you’d always been able to rely on to fix any problem.

There was hidden magic in the bushes that sprawled out from the edges of the water, surrounded by spiky green blades of overgrown grass. A simplicity you loved in baby ducklings paddling into the tiny body of water, swimming close together so they don’t get lost in, what seems to them, a whole ocean. And clarity provided by the freshest air in the world, under the shade of the big oak trees on a late summer afternoon.

But at the present, none of that came close to being enough.

The artist’s block started off as a minor inconvenience, but without your permission, had stretched into weeks of steadily declining motivation. Each new idea felt even worse than the last, and you were acutely aware that there would come a point where you’d officially hit maximum capacity for how awful they could get.

Still, that didn’t seem to light a fire under you. You happily coexisted with the blank pages of your sketchbook. Staring down at them, laying open on your lap in their stark-white glory, you felt like you were playing a waiting game. If you stared long and hard enough, maybe they’d flinch. 

Unfortunately, you never got to find out who won, because your phone rang inside your pocket. As if the caller had interrupted an incredible genius at work (which couldn’t be farther from the truth), you hastily raised the phone to your ear, slamming your sketchbook shut.

“Hello?” Your voice wasn’t as kind as it could be for someone with nothing better to be doing. Two seconds later, you learned who was calling and came to regret it.

“Hi, This is Rebecca from District Arts, calling with a message from Andre ––”

“Oh, hi!” you tried to walk back your previous tone, straightening up in your seat and pitching your voice higher, “Yeah, I’ve been waiting to hear from him!” 

While Rebecca intimidated you, Andre happened to be your closest friend at the gallery. He worked closely with the artists to curate their collection and help them make sales. 

“Does he want to sort out what to set the opening bid prices at for my new pieces?” A handful of days ago, you sent him pictures of your new work and were waiting to hear his thoughts. You’d always been able to trust his opinion, and a vote of confidence from him might be just the thing to inspire you.

“Uhm…” There was a criminally long pause on the other side of the line, ended by Rebecca’s weary inhale. “Unfortunately, we’re calling to inform you that your pieces will not be included in the next rotation.”

For a minute, you weren’t sure what to make of what she said. You’d never heard those words before.

“What – what do you mean?” you laughed nervously. She probably misspoke. Perks of friendship aside, Andre always included you in sets. 

“Ugh, let me just get him…” her voice faded away as she put the phone down. 

That wasn’t exactly the reassuring statement you were looking for. In the time it took for the call to switch hands, your confusion finally melted in. And then quickly boiled into anger.

The District Arts gallery changed their entire collection every two months. The pieces shown accepted rolling bids throughout the full eight weeks, finally selling at the end of term to their highest offer. After that, the pieces got taken down, sent to happy new owners, and the entire gallery reset with entirely new works. 

So if you missed one rotation, that meant waiting two months to get back in.

“Andre, how am I just cut from the gallery!” you barked before he could get a word in. If he didn’t like your work, he could’ve just said so. 

“No one said that ––”

“Okay, let me rephrase.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, something you found yourself doing quite frequently lately, and took a deep breath in and out. It was seemingly just for show because it did absolutely nothing to calm you down. “Why wouldn’t you put me in the next set? I’m in all of them!”

“I know you are!” He sounded just as upset. “It’s just that… we give you the biggest space we have, because you always manage to fill it up. But this time… I’m not so sure you can.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you scoffed. “What makes you say that?” You asked that, but you knew.

“You’ve only finished three pieces… I’m worried how you’ll deliver seven more before we set up.”

“But… it’s four weeks away, I could do ––”

“And it took you four weeks to make what you have... I’m sorry. We couldn’t take that gamble.” 

He took your silence as an opportunity to turn off the work talk and speak, just friend to friend. 

“You know that I trust you and I’d hold that spot if I could. But, I also know what you’re going through right now, and… I don’t know, maybe letting yourself rest would be a good thing?” 

Your heart paused. By, “knowing what you’re going through���, you assumed he didn’t mean the little artist’s block.

“If you’re implying that I can’t do my job because of what happened with Cyrus –”

“I’m not, I’m not....” he backtracked as quickly as he could. “But take another look at the paintings you showed me and tell me if they feel like you.”

Even if he was right, you wanted to fight him. You wanted to cry. You wanted to beg that you didn’t need that big space; you were willing to downsize and just turn in the three that you had. Even if they got shoved into the corner where hardly anybody bothered to look. You just couldn’t afford to go two months without the income. 

But even with tears beading up, you realized that the gallery couldn’t afford it either. They needed to bring in money and you couldn’t do that for them this time. So they were right to go to someone who can.

“Right,” you sniffled, recollecting yourself so he can’t hear the shakiness in your voice. “I understand. It’s a big risk, like you said… It’s for the better.”

Andre tried to thank you for being understanding and spewed some sort of encouragement. The words flew over your head. You managed to toss in a few ‘mhmm’s and ‘sure’s at the right places to coast you along until the call finally ended. 

As soon as it went dead, you dropped your phone to the side and brought your hands to your face, rubbing them furiously over your cheeks. Your fingertips pressed hard into your eyelids, trying to forcibly reabsorb the tears threatening to spill. 

It almost worked, until you tried to breathe. 

A full sob escaped in that one gulp of air and you succumbed to it. But the loud crunching noise of some pedestrian walking over the falling leaves destroyed your sense of privacy, and you quickly wiped away all signs of your breakdown. The crunching stopped just short of your bench and on instinct you flicked your eyes up to see who the intruder was.

You did a double take. It was him. That fucking asshole.

He was standing there, looking dumber than you could even remember, with his hands in his coat pockets and a curious look on his face as he watched you cry. Tucking your sketchbook under your arm in haste, you made it a point to stand up with as much aggression as possible, rolling your eyes at him.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” you barked. “No need to yell at me this time.”

You bristled past him, barely refraining yourself from checking his shoulder as payback. You wanted to believe you were better than him, but it did sound incredibly tempting. He stood there for a moment before turning on his heel and following you.

“Wait,” he groaned.

You didn’t listen, neither stopping nor slowing down.

“I said wait,” he huffed as he caught up to you, popping up at your side and jogging along as you kept going.

“Yeah, because I need to listen to a guy who yells at strangers in bookstores.” 

Now that you’d brought up the elephant in the room, your feet started moving even faster, working double time to get you away from him.

Damn the fact that he had those long legs. He didn’t even break a sweat trying to keep up. He was inescapable.

“Well, if you waited like I asked, you would’ve gotten an apology for the ––”

“Gee, thanks!” you yelled, stopping for only a second to turn to him and give him a mocking bow of your head, hands clasped together like you were praising at his altar. “I was waiting with bated breath for that! Thank you, kind sir, for now my life can go on.”

“Look, I’m actually sorry,” he snapped. Then in realizing the irony, softened his voice, “I’m sorry for being rude. I was having a bad day… not that that’s an excuse.”

You stared at him blankly, just watching his mouth moving quickly and waiting until it finally stopped. 

“Did you need something?” 

“Did you… did you not hear what I just said?!” 

“No, sorry,” you smiled, voice sweet like sugar. “My ears filter bullshit. Wanna try again?”

He scoffed, looking away like he couldn’t believe you before stepping even closer. “What’s your problem?”

“Me!? The fuck –– what the fuck is your problem?” You turned and stormed off again, seething at his audacity. Spencer just couldn’t relent his annoying tendencies and followed yet again.

“My problem is that I’m trying to be nice, and you’re not letting me!”

You got a good, hard laugh out of that. “Okay, first of all, having to apologize for yelling at me and pushing me isn’t exactly the best starting point for the journey of becoming a nice person.”

“Like I said, I was having a bad day.” 

Under your breath, you muttered, “Well, I hope this one’s even worse.”

“Why are you such a ––” He stopped himself from finishing that thought. Even in his worst mood, he wouldn’t cross that line. 

But he didn’t need to finish it, you knew exactly where he wanted to take it. The soles of your shoes scraped against the loose gravel as you came to a grinding halt, ears ringing.

“A what?” You turned to face him, a sarcastic smile on your face growing wider as he started to shrink more and more. You got up close in his face, daring him to say what he really wanted to. So he could reinforce your belief in exactly the type of person he was. “A what?” 

Spencer pursed his lips and shook his head, refusing to say it no matter how much you challenged him. If he wasn’t going to have the balls to say it, you decided to take it upon yourself.

“Tell you what, you keep thinking about it and get back to me the next time you’re in a cunty mood.” 

The word he was thinking of was probably not as bad, but you had a habit of escalating things. Even if you took this one too far, you didn’t care. 

Before you tried to take off again, Spencer’s hand flew to your elbow. He tugged you back, forcing you to turn around and face him. He didn’t know his own strength; without any resistance, you came stumbling into his chest, at risk of falling over if it weren’t for his tight grip on your arm.

It took you a beat to push him away with both your hands on his chest, vocalizing your disgust for being so close to him. 

“Can you stop trying to disagree with me for a second? I’m trying to tell you that you’re right, I was being a… well, you know…” He avoided the word. Apparently ‘cunt’ was where he drew the line. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.” 

Your nostrils were still flared and blood hot as ever, but he made you pause. He looked sincere, if not a little tinged with guilt as well. You were suspicious of it.

“You saw me crying and felt bad, didn’t you?”

He laughed darkly. “Well, I saw you, yes. Did I feel bad? No.” 

“Oh, my God,” you growled, berating yourself for getting close to believing he might be capable of decency. 

“I’m joking! I’m joking.” He squeezed your elbow twice in earnest. “I did feel bad, but that’s not why I wanted to say it.”

“Okay.” You weren’t ready to give him a real smile, so you flattened your lips into a thin line and nodded once slowly, and left it at that. 

You still weren’t a fan, but the apology did dampen some of the resentment. Maybe he wasn’t the worst person alive. You’d settle for saying top ten most annoying, instead.

Minutes later, you came to the startling realization that he was still on the path, just two paces behind you. You flinched when you saw him out of the corner of your eye, not expecting him to still be here. 

“Uhm. Where are you… why are you still following me?” 

“I’m not. My car’s that way,” he gestured to the parking lot at the end of the long walkway. “I forgot my loaf for the ducks.” He didn’t mean to offer that information up, it just slipped out. He could practically see your smug expression coming before it even got there.

“You’re not supposed to feed bread to the ducks. It’s bad for them.”

“I don’t.” He didn’t care to explain this to you, but he couldn’t have you thinking he was any less competent than he really was. “It’s a special bread made from water and seeds that were ground into flour. It’s duck-safe.” 

“They make duck-safe bread?” Now that was something you’d never heard before. 

“No… I make duck-safe bread,” he said softly under his breath. 

You didn’t know how else you were supposed to react to that besides laughing wildly. 

“You make it?” He nodded like you were the crazy one here. As if he wasn’t the one spending his spare time grinding up seeds and baking loaves of bread for ducks, donning a frilly pink apron and oven mitts as he did so. At least that’s how you imagined it. “Why not just feed them the seeds?”

“Because, loose seeds will sink in the water and can potentially clog waterbeds and cause foreign bacteria growth in the pond.” 

“So you… hand-make the seeds into a little loaf of bread so it doesn't do that?”

He confirmed. You pondered silently for a moment, then absolutely had to ask, “You ever eaten the duck bread before?”

Spencer was caught off guard by that question. His cheeks deepened to a rosy color.

“Yeah, well, it was the house so…” he laughed nervously and stared at his sneakers. “It’s actually not too bad.”

You weren’t entirely surprised by that. You remembered what his grocery basket looked like, and given those same options, you probably would’ve tried the duck bread too. Still, you cracked the smallest of grins at knowing he makes bread for ducks. The one, sole redeeming fact you’ve learned about Spencer. 

You reached your car first, and Spencer stopped in front of it with you. 

“I’m actually sorry, you know,” he whispered once more, hand resting at the top of your car door as you opened it. He wasn’t talking about the incident at the bookstore.

“Yeah…” For a while you were so busy being angry at Spencer that you forgot about your own problems. 

He noticed your nose was still red around the edges, eyes still a little bleary. “Are you okay, by the way?” His voice was too soft, too genuine.

You shook your head no.

“Is there anything I can do?” You shook your head again. And then you had an awful thought.

You knew he was just offering to help just to say it, because that’s how people react when you say you’re not okay even if they don’t care. But there actually was something he could do for you… Something that Penelope could do.

“Uh, no but…” you fixed your hair and tucked it behind your ear, seamlessly switching to a flirtier voice. “If you still feel bad about the other day, you’re welcome to make it up to me.”

Spencer cocked his head to the side, unsure of how he could do that. 

“Hang out with me sometime.”

“H-hang out?” You could tell that it flustered him, even if he tried to play it off. He swallowed thickly, nose twitching and brows scrunched together.

“Relax, I really do just mean hang out.” You were lying through your teeth. He didn’t need to know that. 

As if he didn’t want to think about it for a second longer and just get out of this conversation as quickly as possible, he agreed without thinking it through. He didn’t even ask why an almost complete stranger would want to hang out with him. 

You stuck your hand out, expecting him to hand over his cell so you could put your contact into it. He rocked on the balls of his feet, watching as you input your contact and sent yourself a text on his phone.

“Hi, this is…” you read out your message as you typed, pausing at just the right place. “What’s your name by the way?”

“Oh-uh, I’m Spencer.” 

A devilish grin took over your face, hidden from his view while you were looking down at the screen. He was going to be easy to fool.

-

-

agh! im still not in love with how this chapter is turning out, but it came to a point where i just had to stop fiddling with it and just post it. any feedback or comments about this story is very much appreciated 💕

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[samwisethewitch]

Witchcraft and Activism

The word “witch” is a politically charged label. If we look at how the word was used historically, it referred to someone who existed outside of the normal social order. The people accused of witchcraft in the European and American witch trials were mostly — experts say between 75% and 80% — women. They were also overwhelmingly poor, single, or members of a minority ethnicity and/or religion. In other words, they were people who did not follow their society’s accepted model of womanhood (or, in the case of accused men, manhood).

If you choose to identify with the witch label, you are choosing to identify with subversion of gender norms, resistance to the dominant social order, and “outsider” status. If that makes you uncomfortable or uneasy, then you may want to use another label for your magical practice. Witchcraft always has been and always will be inherently political.

In her book Witches, Sluts, Feminists, Kristen J. Sollee argues that the “slut” label is in many ways a modern equivalent to the “witch” label. In both cases, the label is used to devalue people, most often women, and to enforce a patriarchal and misogynist social order.

Superstitions around witchcraft are connected to the modern stigma around abortion (and, to a lesser extent, contraception). Midwifery and abortion were directly linked to witchcraft in the European witch hunts. Today, women who seek abortions are condemned as sluts, whores, and murderers. The fight for reproductive freedom remains inextricably linked with the witch label.

During the women’s liberation movement of the 1960s, the socialist feminist group Women’s International Terrorist Conspiracy from Hell (W.I.T.C.H.) used the image of the witch to campaign for women’s rights and other social issues. They were some of the first advocates for intersectional feminism (feminist activism that addresses other social issues that overlap with gendered issues). They performed acts such as hexing Wall Street capitalists and wearing black veils to protest bridal fairs. The W.I.T.C.H. Manifesto calls witches the “original guerrillas and resistance fighters against oppression.”

In her book Revolutionary Witchcraft, Sarah Lyons points out that both witchcraft and politics are about raising and directing power in the world. In a postmodern society, most of our reality is socially constructed — it works because we collectively believe it does. Money only has value because we believe it does. Politicians only have power because we believe they do. Our laws are only just because we believe they are. Like in magic, everything in society is a product of belief and a whole lot of willpower — and that makes witches the ideal social activists.

Lyons argues that witchcraft is inseparable from politics, because witches have always opposed dominant political power. She makes a connection between the witch trials and the rise of capitalism and classism. She connects the basic concepts of magic to historic activist groups like the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACT UP), who used ritual as an act of protest.

Not every witch is a hardcore activist, but every witch should have a basic awareness of political and social issues and be willing to do what they can to make a difference.

Ways to Combine Witchcraft and Activism

Perform a ritual to feel connected to the earth and her people. Activism should come from a place of love, not a place of hate. Make sure you’re fighting for the right reasons by frequently taking time to reconnect with the planet and the people who live here. This can be as simple as laying down on the ground outside and meditating on all the ways you are connected to other people, as well as to the ecosystem, animals, and the earth herself. If getting up close and personal with the grass and dirt isn’t your thing, try to find a beautiful place in nature where you can sit and journal about the interconnected nature of all things.

Unlearn your social programming. This is the most difficult and most important part of any activism. Before you can change the world outside yourself, you have to change your own psyche. Think about how you have been socialized to contribute to (or at least turn a blind eye to) the issues you want to fight against. For example, if you want to fight for racial justice, you need to understand how you have contributed to a racist system. You can do this in a variety of ways: through meditation, journaling, or divination, to name a few. Note that whatever method you choose, this will probably take weeks or months of repeated work. Rewriting your thought and behavior patterns is hard, and it can’t be done in a single day. Also note that if you are a victim of systemic oppression or prejudice, this work may bring up a lot of emotional baggage — you may want to involve a professional therapist or counselor.

Go to protests. Sending energy and doing healing rituals is great, but someone has to get out there and visibly fight for change. If you are able to do so, start going to protests and rallies for causes you care about. Don’t just show up, but be an active participant — make signs, yell and chant, and stand your ground if cops show up. Be safe and responsible, but be loud and assertive, too. If you want to go all out, you can don the black robes, pointed hats, and veils of W.I.T.C.H.es past, which has the added bonus of concealing your identity.

Turn your donations into a spell for change. When you donate to a cause you care about, charge your donation with a spell for positive change. You can do this by holding your cash, check, or debit card in both hands and focusing on your desire for change. Feel this desire flowing into the money, filling it with your determination. From here, make your donation, knowing that you’ll be sending an energy boost along with it.

Organize an activist coven. Do you have a handful of friends who are interested in witchcraft, passionate about activism, or both? Start a coven! Go to protests together, hold monthly rituals to raise energy for change, and collect money for donations. Being part of a group also means having a support system, which can help prevent burnout. Make a plan to check on each other regularly. You may even choose to do monthly group rituals for self care, which may be actual magic rituals or might be as simple as ordering takeout and watching a movie. Activism can be intensely draining work, so it’s important to take breaks when you need them!

Hold public rituals with an activist slant. Nothing gets people’s attention like a bunch of folks standing in a circle and chanting. Holding public rituals is one of the best ways to raise awareness for a cause. You might hold a vigil for victims of police brutality, a healing circle for the environment, or some other ritual that is relevant to the issue at hand. These rituals serve a double purpose, as they both bring people’s attention to the issue and give them an opportunity to work for change on a spiritual level. Use prayers, chants, and symbolism that is appropriate to the theme, and ask participants to make a small donation to a charity related to your cause.

Begin your public rituals with a territory acknowledgement. If you live in the United States, chances are you live on land that was taken from the native people by force. If you seek to have a relationship with the land, you need to first acknowledge the original inhabitants and the suffering they endured so you can be there. Use a website like native-land.ca to find out what your land was originally called and what indigenous groups originally lived there. Publicly acknowledge this legacy at your ritual, and publicly state your intention to support indigenous peoples. (Revolutionary Witchcraft has an excellent territory acknowledgement that you can customize for your area.)

Make an altar to your activist ancestors. If activism or membership in a marginalized group is a big part of your life, you may want to create a space for it in your home. Like an ancestor altar, this is a space to remember influential members of the community who have died. Choose a flat surface like a tabletop or shelf and decorate it with photos of your “ancestors,” as well as other appropriate items like flags, pins, stickers, etc. As a queer person, my altar to my LGBTQ+ ancestors might include images of figures like Sappho, Marsha P. Johnson, and Freddie Mercury, as well as items like a pink triangle patch, a small rainbow pride flag, and dried violets and green carnations. You may also choose to include a candle, an incense burner, and/or a small dish for offerings. Just remember to never place images of living people on an altar honoring the dead!

Do your research. Staying educated is an important part of activism — not only do your actions need to be informed, but you need to be able to speak intelligently about your issues. Read the news (on actual news websites, not just social media). Read lots of books; some I personally recommend are Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson, Love and Rage by Lama Rod Owens, and (as previously mentioned) Revolutionary Witchcraft by Sarah Lyons. If you can get access to them, read scholarly articles about theories that are influential among activists, like the Gaia Hypothesis or Deep Ecology. Read everything you can get your hands on.

VOTE! And I don’t just mean voting for the presidential candidate you like (or, as is often the case, voting against the one you don’t like). Vote for your representatives. Vote for city council. Vote for the county sheriff. Voting gives you a chance to make sure the people in office will be susceptible to your activism. Yes, your side might lose or your electoral college representative might choose to go against the popular vote. Even so, voting is a way to clearly communicate the will of the people, and it puts a lot of pressure on the people in charge. It’s important — don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.

In my experience, combining activism with my witchcraft is a deeply fulfilling spiritual experience. It strengthens my connection to the world around me, with helps grow both empathy and magical power. I truly can’t imagine my practice without the activist element.

Resources:

Witches, Sluts, Feminists by Kristen J. Sollee

Revolutionary Witchcraft by Sarah Lyons

The Study of Witchcraft by Deborah Lipp

The Way of Fire and Ice by Ryan Smith

[clarissalance]

Watermelon-flavored popsicle

Pairing: Xingqiu x g/n!reader, mention of Chongyun

Warning: light swearing, kissing, a lot of grammatically errors.

Word count: 3404

Summary: A coincident meeting between you and Xingqiu on Yaoguang Shoal might have changed your relationship.

A/N: Here is my come back for summer. This piece has been in my folder for so long but I just don’t want to check the errors and proofread. Luckily, I have found my motivation (no more wifi) and here is the piece. This one is inspired by imagination if I can go to the beach ( I hate corona).I hope you have fun reading this oneshot (and feel my desperation to enjoy the sunny beach) Next up will be Kazuha, I think :D. Please send Xingqiu a lot of love~~ (❤´艸｀❤)

Picture credit:  @polarbear43666 on Twitter. 

Summer in Liyue has always been sweltering, burning, and unbreathable. The sun stands proudly in the middle of clear azure sky, not a single cloud dare to tread near the glowing king, blocking the beam of lights shine down the city. 

Today is also another day of undesirable temperature. Even when the city is a harbor, the cool breezes from the sea can’t calm down the rising heat from the road, nor the glowing businesses or the flock of people going to the market. Living in the city for 5 years, you know not to tread near the market during working hours, so you decide to go somewhere quiet, relaxing and enjoyable. 

Yaoguang Shoal.      

Normally, you would have gone to a teahouse or a bookstore to escape the hot weather, but today, those areas are swamp with people. You might have a brief idea of why they would be so crowded in there. It can only be Yunjin performance, or the teahouse is having a giveaway.    

As much as you love to enjoy her breathtaking performance and intriguing stories, you wouldn’t risk getting trampled by those people. Maybe another day, when people aren’t packing inside the teahouse. 

As soon as you arrive at the shore, the thick scent of salt waffles around the tip of your nose, sounds of waves calmly splashing against the coast. Slowly, you remove your shoes and sink your feet down the fever-like golden sand, heading toward the white bubbles splashing waves. 

You should have brought a flip-flop instead of shoes. 

At the burning sensation on the sole of your feet, you start sprinting toward the nearby small patches of grass hiding under a gigantic shade, hoping to save your sensitive skins. 

As soon as you jump on the lump of grass, you can’t help letting out a painful hiss, jumping like a grasshopper on the surface. This place isn’t very far from the water, maybe you can put on an umbrella here and enjoy the breathtaking scenery.  

Afar, you can see a few white cranes enjoying the cold water while looking for fishes, bathing under the scorching heat. Propping yourself on your knee, you sit down and enjoy the feeling of wind combing through your messy dark locks. From here, the sound of splashing water on the sand, the soothing sensation of a peaceful summer gently sinks down your skin.  

You’re lucky to find a shade in the middle of a shore, under the scorching sun glaring holes on your head. Unlike the harbor, Yaoguang shoal is much more breathable, the cool breeze brings the smell of sea salt dancing on your skin, slowly imbued your silky dark lock with the distinctive scent of the ocean. 

Letting out a lazy sigh, you leisurely drift into a slumber, opting for a relaxing nap while enjoying the sound of nature. 

How great is it to not have someone disturb you? 

“Y/N?” 

Maybe you speak too soon. 

Furrow your brows, you slowly open your eyes, annoyed by the sudden intrusion. The bright light clearly wants to pierce your eyes, but the figure moves closer and blocks the over-enthusiastic sun out of your gaze. You slowly sit up, squinting hard at the dark figure. 

“Xingqiu?”  Widen your eyes at the familiar shade of blue, you look at him quizzically. “What are you doing here?”

The male lets out a breathy chuckle and crouches down, letting light falls on his face.   

“Me? The weather is nice, so I’m strolling along the shore and enjoy the weather.” 

At your comical gaze drilling at his head, and the hydro user finally raises his hand in defeat. “ Fine, fine. I was on my way back to the Harbor after helping the traveler with some commissions.” 

“ The harbor is the other direction.” You dubiously point the opposite direction, a small gust of wind picking up and tousling your hair. “ If you’re heading this direction, Dragonspine is where you're heading.” 

 “What are you doing here?” The young man ignores your remark and changes the topic, eyes curiously wander down your lying body on the grass. 

“ Escaping the heat from the harbor.” You hum and scoot to the other side, sparing Xingqiu a space to sit. He must be drying staying that long under the sun. 

He quickly sits down next to you, slowly peeling his boots and socks away. The area is small, forcing you to stay close to him, your shoulders almost bumping into each other. As much as you love skinship, any physical contact is overbearing in this weather. The scenery would have been more romantic if you’re sharing body heat in the bizarrely cold Starglow Cavern.

Wait… why did Xingqiu sit down and remove his boots? Isn’t he supposed to go back to the harbor? 

“ You aren’t going back to the harbor?” You tilt your head and his side profile. 

“ I was, but I change my mind.” The blue figure has his eyes on the boots, unlacing the footwear. “Sitting here with you is much more breathable than cramping inside the teahouse and the bookstore.”

  …But you didn’t agree to let him stay in the first place. Why is he still here then? 

You just offer him a place to sit down in the shade, just because he was sweating profusely under the sun when you were talking to him. It’s called an action out of politeness!!! He isn’t supposed to take the offer and makes himself comfortable.

Great, now you’re stuck with a body heat that you desperate to get away from. Roll your eyes, you let your gaze fleet over the vast clear ocean in front of you. 

From here, you can slightly make out an outline of Guyun Stone Forest peeking behind the thickening clouds. That majestic scenery, the infamous fight between Osial and Res Lapis, you wonder how big that fight was to create a whole island with a gigantic unique shape?  After thousands of years, you can still feel the rumbling energy threatening to break the seal of lord of Geo, yet something manages to force them down. Perhaps, there might be someone there securing the seal, holding the remaining pieces together. What would happen if that seal finally breaks again? Will the entire harbor engulfed by the anger of the lord of Vortex, or, will the new Geo archon will defend it?    

“A mora of your thought?” A youthful voice calls out, and you whirl your head in his direction. “ You look so deep in thought.” 

“ Ah… I was just thinking about the Guyun Stone Forest.” You shyly scratch your head, eyes don’t meet his. You totally forgot someone is sitting next to you. Xingqiu doesn’t comment, he lets his gaze drift to the Stone Forest, and the silence falls. 

This time you don’t let your eyes stray to the exalted scenery hiding away under those clouds. Instead, you observe the hydro user, who is just a few inches away. His features are soft, yet so define. The sharp eyes, the slope of his nose, and the plush lips. Under the smooth cerulean locks is his signature amber orb. You have always felt enamored under his gaze ever since you first met. That golden eyes are always filled with the determination and sharpness of a predator. You love it when the soft, bubbly Xingqiu turns sharp, or when he’s practicing his swordsmanship.   

“Take a picture, it will last longer.” The hydro user says, his voice remains calm and unwavering, almost make you mistake for someone else. “ How is my face?” 

“ Utterly unacceptably handsome.” Propping yourself on your elbow, you stare into his deep eyes, answer honestly, try to hold your scoff. 

Xingqiu doesn’t comment on your compliment but tilts his head the other way, avoiding your hawking gaze. Obviously, he knows you like to mess with him, trying to pull a reaction out of the shameless nonchalant friend when you’re bored. How you wish he would at least give you an entertaining reaction. 

You remember those days when Xingqiu and Chongyun are easily flustered. Nowadays, only Chongyun is still affected by your antic. How does that popsicle boy not immune to your frequent teasing is also a big mystery you’re looking for an answer to. 

“ You shouldn’t say someone is handsome if you don’t mean it.” After a while, the calm hydro user is back, composed, and relax. How can he be so lax in this atrocious weather, you don’t want to know. 

“ But… you’re handsome ?” 

“ You’re just trying to make me fluster.” He replies, a blush slowly creeps on his cheek. You don’t know why he’s trying to deny your compliment. He’s handsome, and you’re just using that fact to turn him into a tomato. Why does it sound like he’s trying hard to convince himself his face isn't aesthetic to look at? 

You open your mouth but close it. Speechless, you don't know how do you convince him that you honestly compliment his features, not… uh baiting him? Do your compliments sound like cheap-ass flirtatious attempts people usually get in a combo when they visit the tavern?   

Your motive isn’t as pure as it can be but your compliment does: honest, and authentic. How could he twist your words into something so scandalous like that? Outrageous! 

Your lips part to speak, but something cold and hard is shoved inside, and your olfactory bulbs almost explode with flavor (and numbing cold). The feeling of fruity sweetness seeps on your tongue, with a tingle of refreshing feeling dancing on top. Glaring dagger at Xingqiu, you notice his gloating face while biting the signature blue popsicle. Did Chongyun give that to him? 

Plug the freezing item out of your mouth, the vibrant pinkish color glowing under the sun, slowly dripping down your hand. It is a watermelon-flavored popsicle. He could have handed it to you nicely instead of almost choking you off and stop your sentence like that. Nevertheless, you still enjoy the watermelon-flavored popsicle while pouting at the young man. 

“ Where did you get this?” In between you lick, you look up at him, surprised to see half of the popsicle has disappeared. Did he just chomp all that in less than a minute? 

“I bought it, of course, food doesn't fall from the sky.” This young man is much more handsome when he has his mouth closed. You are really contemplated whether to use your handkerchief to shove down his throat. Or maybe a rock could do the job well too. 

“So, pay me.” Xingqiu suddenly brings his hand to your face, mischief glowing in his amber eyes. The audacity of this hydro user must have rocketed the sky after so long not having a good fight. You give him a forced smile while elbow him in the stomach, voice dangerously low. 

“ Our friendship doesn’t even worth a single popsicle? Really Xingqiu, I’m so disappointed.” You fake a sigh, head shaking in disapproval.  

The god-damned bastard avoids your blow without a hitch and even slithers his hand on your waist to tickle you. Oh, he must be looking for death this time. 

With the popsicle still inside your mouth, you sneakily raise your hand, attempting to push Xingqiu into the lava-like sand as revenge. It'd be a perfect touch to your lovely afternoon to see him tumbling on the group while jumping like a hissing cat. 

How naïve of you, to think that he doesn’t spot your little antic. This is the young man always out-performing you in every aspect, even in eating a popsicle. 

Without even looking at you, he catches your wrist effortlessly while still licking the ice cream. His body relaxes, compare to you, who almost tumbling toward him if he doesn't hold you in place. In a panic, you try to wriggle yourself out of his hold, but the young man only tightens his hold, remains unfazed by your swinging attempt to fling his hand out of your wrist. 

“ Let me go Xingqiu!” Instead of laughing at a hissing Xingqiu tumbling on the sand, you become the angry cat here. 

“ So you can hit me? Of course not.” He replies gloatingly, chins lackadaisical, his fingers wrap tightly around your wrist. 

“It’s hot.” 

“ Eat your popsicle then.” His hand holding your wrist brings up to point at the melting ice cream on your hand. “It’s melting.”

Of course, everyone can see that. Shooting pointed gaze at him, you try to shake the tight grip on your wrist a few more times, but nothing avails. He doesn’t let go, and your other hand is busy holding the popsicle. If you have another one, maybe you can peel off his fingers. Too bad you only have 2 hands. 

Sigh out in defeat, you give Xingqiu stink eyes before turning your attention back to the watermelon popsicle, occasionally look down at his grip to find an escape route. You don’t believe you can’t escape from his grasp! 

The hydro user doesn’t let your hand go after he finished his popsicle, instead, he slumps down with one cheek resting in his hand, staring at your face blatantly. You don’t usually mind but being gawked at while eating isn’t as comfortable as you thought. 

“ What?” Finally, you look up to face the mischievous blue boy. 

“ Can I have a bite?” 

“ Obviously n-” He doesn’t wait for your answer and leans in. Your first reaction is to be dodged away, but the sneak has your wrist pinned on the grass, forcing you to stay still. 

As soon as you realize your immobile state, Xingqiu is a few inches away from your face, licking the popsicle, and then biting off the edge near the stick. His smooth cheek brushes past your fingers, the deep blue locks fall on his face. From here, you inhale a hint of mint and sweet vanilla. Instead of the familiar scent of woodsy musky of old books, you notice a whiff of summer and salt on him. 

Stunted by his sudden closeness, you remain to freeze even after he pulls away. 

“W-wh-what did you j-just do?” To your horror, you stutter. Not once, but twice.

“Eat your popsicle.” 

As nonchalant as ever, he shrugs while swiping the remains on his lips, like he isn’t the one who just leans in so close to you. You are too dazed to even realize the popsicle hang close to your mouth is dripping down your clothes. 

Startle at the coldness, you hastily look down and scrunch your face at the mess. Ugh, it’s because of him, again! 

“ Need me to eat that for you?” he offers, but you swear you hear a hint of playfulness glinting in his voice. Quickly, you bite off the remaining before he can steal another bite, forget how sensitive your gum is. The result, you can already imagine, is brain freeze. 

Hissing at the sudden burst of frost blooming in your mouth, unconsciously grab on Xingqiu, squeezing his hand tightly while squirming vigorously. You shouldn’t have bitten off the whole thing, even when it melts. Hand in hand, you can feel the warmth of his fingers caressing your wrist, and they slowly move down and intertwine with yours. That opportunistic guy. 

During that heated moment, you remember yourself instinctively looking for a source of heat. At one point, your brain decided to throw the remaining sanity out the window. It convinces your body that the crook of his neck is the best source of warmth to melt the overbearing sensation in your mouth. And your body decides to do without giving another thought. 

Face buries deep in his neck, you are engulfed in his strong musky scent, naturally, you freeze dead on your track. 

What have you done? 

How do you get up? 

How can you look at his eyes now? 

With the dreading thoughts constantly running around your mind, you can only hit your head on his shoulder blade in shame, earning a rumbling chuckle from the young man. 

“ Don’t laugh!” Your whiny voice is muffled by his clothes. Upon your request, he doesn’t stop at a chuckle but starts to wheeze, chest rumbling. Your cheeks burn crisp with embarrassment, yet you can’t find a single hole to hide. 

“ Hahaha… Why did you do that?” He bursts out ungracefully, his shoulder shaking vividly. Xingqiu is teasing you on purpose!!  

You also want to ask why did you do that too. Why did you do that without even thinking about the consequence again? 

“ Stop laughing!” The audacity of this boy, after you told him to stop laughing, he snorts louder and teases you more. You thought this chivalrous nobleman would only snort for a few minutes,  then he would comfort you like the novel. Too bad, life isn’t as predictable as the novels. What you expect is the comforting hug, or his hand patting your head reassuringly. What you get instead is a never-ending tease and the constant re-telling of the scenario in an out-of-breath voice. 

Moving away from his neck, you pout and sulky. Despite being under the shade and cool sea breezes, you feel the heat rushing at the back of your neck and on your cheeks, a friendly reminder. Fingers fondling the edge of your shirt, you pretend to be deaf at the puff of his laugh. Is it too late for you to move to Inazuma and never see him again?

 Actually, it might be better to start avoiding than do nothing. 

You attempt to stand up abruptly and prepare to sprint off, fleeing away from the young hydro user who is making himself relax next to you. 

Notice the use of the word here: “attempt”.

Xingqiu quickly sees through your plan before you can start it.

  Unlike last time, he saw your movement and stopped your hand in the mid-air. This time, he is a step ahead and caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your head toward him, his mesmerizing golden eyes pierce through you. 

Catch-off-guard by his sudden closeness, the unsuccessful plan is extinguished at the back of your head.

Out of everything, why would he choose this way for your attention? You feel like you have no sanity left every time he does something intimate. 

How weak are you for him? 

The deep amber orbs study you intently like he’s trying to ingrain your face into his memories. The glimmering eyes always full of mischief and playfulness now is like an abyss, easily pull you in and spiraling into the darkness. The bubbly, transparent Xingqiu is replaced by a mature, mysterious, and charismatic man.

The distance between you slowly shorten, and finally, he’s a breath away. You nervously hold your breath, eyes widen at his every movement. Being this close, you can see his fluttering lashes, his sudden quicken breathing, and his plump lips dangling like a piece of meat in front of your hungry gaze. What is this feeling of heat rising up to your chest? 

Like a moth drawn into flame, your eyes follow when his tongue darts out to wet the soft kissable pad, his lips transform into pinkish color, just like the watermelon popsicle. 

Butterflies roaming inside your stomach, your fuzzy mind lets out a weak resistance, telling you to turn away, escape from the cradle of his finger on your chin. 

However, your instinct gives in.

You part your lips and angle up, time stops when his lips meet yours. It is a light brush, yet you can feel your heart pounding wildly inside your chest as the mint frosty scent invades your sense. Your breath slowly turns labored, yet all you can focus on is how soft he felt on your lips and how addicting he’s tasting on your tongue.

When your visions start to blur, and your legs threaten to give out, you finally decide to part away, but the hydro user has his hands cupping on your cheek doesn't think so. 

“Let me taste you again.” Xingqiu whispers, his voice deep and smooth like velvet. 

And then he pulls you in, claiming your mouth again, passionate and intense. He tastes like the watermelon popsicle you just ate, like a sunny summer you used to love, like a soaring kite in the sky. 

You don’t think you hate the feeling of his lips on yours.      

[onebourbon-oneshot-onetear]

Happier- Wayne and Y/N Oneshot

(Not my Gif- Credit to Owner)

Synopsis: Wayne finally says those three little words

Warnings: Cheating, Angst, ooc Wayne (I never feel like I properly write him lol)

Authors Notes: could be read as a stand alone, but if you squint really hard, it could be a sequel to my other story '5 Times Wayne Fell in Love with You'. Like, if you squint realllllly hard.

The toughest man in Letterkenny was not always one of many words. More often than not, he would sit in silence unless he was really worked up about something. Then it was hard to get him to shut up.

Except when it came to you. When it came to talking to you, the man could go on all day long. It didn’t matter what you were talking about. You could say that a blade of grass was interesting and he would agree with you and tell you everything he knows about grass. Which surprisingly enough, was quite a lot.

For as long as you had known Wayne, he had always been like this. When you first moved to Letterkenny from the States, him and Katy were both there to make you feel welcome. When you needed help with chorin’ Wayne was the first one there to help you. When uptown degens wouldn’t stop bothering you, Wayne had gathered all of the boys and started one of the biggest brawls Letterkenny had ever seen. And you appreciated him for it.

You returned the favors too. You always helped Wayne with the chorin’ whenever he needed it. More often than not you would be the one to pick him up off a barstool on the nights he got really drunk, take him home, and make sure he ate breakfast the next morning. You would patch him up after his fights. You both took care of each other.

And yet.

He was still on and off with Rosie. Even after he had knocked out her favorite cousin, they had gotten back together. And it irked you. You had known how you felt for a while. Every time you saw Wayne all you wanted to do was smother the butterflies that erupted in your chest. You knew that facing your feelings head on would only lead you down a slippery slope of heartbreak and awkwardness. So you just turned your back on your feelings and ignored them. No matter how much it hurt whenever you saw Rosie and Wayne together, or whenever he mentioned her.

Katy understood how you felt. She liked Rosie well enough, but she didn’t like how she was going back and forth between liking and not liking Wayne. It wasn’t fair to either of them. And if they didn’t make a decision soon you were afraid of what Katy would do, judging by her past record with Wayne’s ex’s. Granted, you had helped her, especially with the Angie debacle, but that was another situation entirely.

“My brother has been in love with you ever since he first met you. He’ll come around eventually,” She would say, but you could never put any stock into her words. If he loved you, then why was he with her? Why had he never said anything before? It hurt too much to think about so more often than not you pushed it all to the back of your mind.

You had lost track of which side of the back and forth they were at, but judging by how they were sitting close to each other at MoDean’s, you figured they were in a ‘together’ stage. So you sat next to Daryl at the bar, and drank your Puppers, with a miserable look on your face.

Nobody noticed, except for Katy, who sent you looks of pity from across the bar, but you ignored her. It wasn't long until you had enough, paid your tab, and got up to leave.

“Leaving already, Miss/Mr. Y/n?” Dan asked you, a little surprised since you hadn’t been there that long, less than an hour. The group looked at you in surprise as you stood up.

“Um, yeah,” you said, twisting a ring on your finger nervously. You didn’t really like all of the attention you were getting, especially under Wayne’s gaze. “I’m just tired. I’m going to go home and read,” you said, not meeting anyone’s eyes. They would see the half truth in your eyes. You were tired, but you weren’t going home to read. You would probably drink at home, away from the two people that were making it hard for you to even pretend to be happy.

“Are you okay to walk home?” Daryl asked, his way of offering to take you home.

“I’m fine,” you said, sending them a smile and a small wave. “I’ll see you later,” and you left without another word, missing the concerned look that Wayne gave you and the look of disappointment that Katy gave Wayne.

It was colder than you thought as you made your way home. You pulled your sweater around you and quickened your pace. Keeping your head down to avoid the harsh wind beating against your face, you weren’t paying attention to the figure that had appeared in your path, bumping into them.

A small grunt left your as you were bounced back, heading for the ground until two arms caught yours and held you up. “I’m so sorry,” you started before looking up into the eyes of the man you had run into, immediately stumbling over your words. He had deep brown eyes which contrasted with light brown hair. His chiseled cheekbones were pushed up in a grin as he smiled down at you.

“No, I’m sorry,” He said, his voice deep enough to send a small shiver down your spine. Your only reply was a bashful grin. He set you up on your feet, making sure you were okay. “My name is Adam.”

And that’s how you hit it off. Adam walked you home, both of you making small talk the entire way. Once he had gotten to your front door you gave him your cell phone number and you two had been inseparable since. First friends, then more than friends.

While you liked being together with Adam, he didn’t exactly fit in well with the group. He wasn’t from Letterkenny, he was from the city, meaning he wasn’t quite as, shall you say, down to Earth as everyone else. He got along well enough with everyone...except Wayne.

From the first time you had brought Adam around to meet the group, Wayne had been especially hostile towards him. He wasn't even subtle with his insults anymore. From all the years you had known him, you knew that Wayne was just itching to scrap with him. Thankfully Katy sat him down and told him to knock it off.

Wayne loved and respected Katy, and even you a small amount, so his teasing stopped, and him and Adam started resembling a friendship. At least, very slightly. Once that happened, you were genuinely happy.

Months had passed and everything in Letterkenny had settled down. You and Adam were properly dating, even talking about moving in together, Katy was back with Riley and Jonesy, and you still weren't quite sure what was going on with Wayne. And you honestly didn't care. There was no point in bringing up feelings that you had buried deep down.

You still got the butterflies in your chest, but instead of it being a swarm of them, it was only a few. Still there, but enough that you could ignore. You didn’t think you could be happier.

You were coming home from MoDean’s one night when you saw a car in your driveway. Right away you were a little concerned, because it wasn’t your car, and it wasn’t Adam’s. You immediately thought something was wrong and you rushed inside, fumbling with your keys, almost dropping your phone before swinging the door open and finding…

Adam on top of another girl. Naked. They hadn’t even noticed that you had walked in the door. Until you slammed the door shut behind you. Both of them jumped and immediately tried to cover themselves up, Adam already apologizing profusely.

“Y/n, I didn't mean it, it doesn’t mean anything!” He yelled, ushering the other girl out the front door and slamming it shut.

You walked past him, grabbing your backpack and stuffing some clothes into it, along with your other daily toiletries. You weren’t thinking about anything else except getting out of the house. You could barely hear Adam behind you, mumbling his excuses but you only blocked him out.

You finished your packing and pushed past him and back out the front door, hopped in your truck, and left without another thought. A few minutes later you arrived at Wayne and Katy’s house, the only place you could think about going.

You knocked on the door and Katy answered. And seeing her face, you immediately burst into tears and hugged her tight. She immediately wrapped her arms around you and brought you into the house. Through your tears you could see that Wayne, Dan, and Dary were sitting at the kitchen table, looking concerned.

Katy led you over to the couch and sat down with you. “Y/n, what happened?”

You sniffed and wiped your eyes, clearing your throat so you could speak. “I came home, and Adam was with another girl,” You said in between your sniffling. As soon as the words left your mouth you heard all of the kitchen chairs slide out and three sets of footsteps walk into the living room.

“Together, together?” Wayne asked. You barely glanced up at him before bursting into another wave of sobs and nodded.

You laid down on the couch and curled up, letting the tears run down your cheeks. Katy sat with you, stroking your hair and telling you that everything would be okay. At some point you must have fallen asleep, because you woke up with a blanket around you, and the kitchen light on. Everything else in the house was dark.

You stood up and stretched, your eyes still feeling swollen from all of the tears and your shoulders popping. You were extremely thirsty and walked into the kitchen to get water, and found Wayne sitting at the table, a Gus n’ Bru bottle sitting in front of him. He looked at you as you entered the kitchen and stood up. It was silent for a minute as you both stared at each other. You broke the silence first, mumbling a hello.

“Y/n, how’re you now?” Wayne asked.

You smiled at his usual greeting and took a cup off of the counter. “Good, and you?”

“Not so bad,” he said, walking over to the kitchen and getting the pitcher of water out of the fridge. As he reached past you, you noted his freshly bruised knuckles. Your chest started hurting again as you remembered the events of the day, why you were so upset.

You blinked back the leftover tears and looked at your now filled glass, Wayne putting the pitcher away. “Did you guys go over there?” You asked.

Wayne stood still before looking back at you over his shoulder, “Yes.”

“Did you scrap?”

Wayne had set the pitcher in the fridge, closed the door, and turned back to look at you, “Yes.”

You nodded and took a sip of water. “Thanks,” you whispered.

Wayne gave you a sharp nod and you just stood there thrown back into another bout of silence. You sipped your water, and Wayne looked around the kitchen, eventually giving a slight cough.

Not wanting to stay in the silence but not wanting to be awkward, you said the first thing that came into your mind. “How’s Rosie?”

Wayne looked nothing short of perplexed as he looked at you while he slowly answered, “I don’t know. We haven’t spoken for months now.”

Now it was your turn to look perplexed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had ended things.”

“We ended things a few months ago.”

Great. Now you were back in the awkward silence. You had finished your water and didn’t want to hold the glass anymore, moving to put it in the sink, which Wayne was leaning against. You set the cup down in the basin, accidentally brushing arms with Wayne. “Sorry,” you muttered reaching your hand back.

Before you could, Wayne had gently grabbed your arm, holding it in the air. For the toughest man in Letterkenny, he had a surprisingly soft grip. “I owe you an apology,” He said.

You were confused, thinking back to what he could possibly be apologizing for. He saw the look on your face, and continued. “I didn’t handle you dating well, and I took it out on you. And for that, I’m sorry.”

You thought back to all of the times that Wayne had insulted Adam. Even if he never said anything bad about you, ever since you had started dating Adam you noticed Wayne didn’t hang out with you, not as much as he used to. You shook your head, knowing that the apology wasn’t necessary. “Turns out you were right. I shouldn’t have been with him. Who knows how long he had been stepping out on me. I should have listened to you.”

By now, Wayne had slid his hand from the crook of your elbow to just above your wrist. “You deserve the world, Y/n.”

You didn’t know what to say except you noticed the butterflies in your chest had come back full force, staring at Wayne’s blue eyes in the low light of the kitchen. “Wayne,” you mumbled but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

“You don’t need to say anything. You’re going through a rough time. I just needed to tell you…” he trailed off, suddenly not able to meet your eyes.

‘What do I have to lose?’ you thought as you reached up on your toes and laid a gentle kiss on Waynes cheek. As soon as you pulled away, he snapped his head towards you so fast you thought he was going to headbut you. You were only an inch away from each other, staring into each others eyes before Wayne whispered ‘Fuck it’ under his breath and leaned in, properly kissing you.

For a man who did manual labor his lips were as soft as you imagined them to be. He moved his hand to cup your face and wrapped his other arm around your hip, as your arms snaked around his waist, holding him as close to you as possible.

You didn’t even know how long you both had kissed each other before air was needed, and Wayne broke off the kiss. You were still in each other's space breathing heavily as you stared at each other. Wayne ran his calloused thumb across your cheek, studying your whole face. At first when he spoke, you weren’t even sure you heard it correctly, but as your brain caught up with the sound you couldn’t fight the grin that planted itself on your face.

He whispered those three little words. “I love you.”

You kissed him again, him eagerly returning the favor, doing what you had wanted to do for so long. You didn’t even care about the events of the last 12 hours, let alone the last few months. Wayne had admitted he loved you, and that was enough. “I love you, too,” You mumbled in between your kiss. The hurt that you had been holding onto was gone, replaced by pure happiness.

[rocorambles]

Trapped

Pairing: Sakusa x Reader

Prompt: Fantasy

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, Toxic Relationship, NSFW, Fantasy AU, Sorcerer Sakusa, Rape/Non-Con, Mind Control, Manipulation, Obsessive and Posessive Behavior, Degradation

Summary: You should have trusted your gut instincts, the lessons you had learned the hard way about just how cruel powerful men could be. 

Author’s Note: This is my contribution for my HQ Discord Server’s NSFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist here to see how everyone decided to run with this prompt. (Masterlist goes live Friday, October 30th 11:00pm U.K. time!)  

You splutter awake, laughing, but also groaning as a wet tongue slobbers all over your face and you lightly shove the fox that’s currently standing beside your resting head, intent on waking you up to play. Blearily you blink your eyes, trying to gauge what time it is based on the light seeping into the cave you’ve come to call your home. Judging by the bright rays of sunlight, it’s already mid-morning and you stretch your arms above your head, petting your furry companion behind its ears before standing up and treading out into the forest, your friend walking right beside you, its tail brushing against your leg. 

The familiar peace and quiet of the wind rustling past branches and the faint chirping of birds wafts through the air and you smile as you continue making your way to the nearby waterfall, various four-legged animals that have come to be your family and friends popping their heads out of grassy patches and from behind trees in greeting. You can’t even remember the last time you’d seen another human being and you grimace at the thought of your last encounter. 

Orphans, especially female orphans like you, rarely survive for long and you bitterly remember the years of being a street urchin, never knowing when your next bite of food would come, never knowing who to trust in a world full of both humans and magical creatures who’d do horrible things to an unclaimed child and you shiver at the thought of possibly being eaten or harvested for ingredients for countless dark magic spells. But life had only gotten harder the older you became and as a single, vulnerable woman, you began to attract a different attention, no longer able to blend as seamlessly as you once had with predatory eyes trailing after you, resting too long on parts of your body that you desperately wanted to hide from the world. 

You tried sticking it out, finding ad hoc jobs here and there as a maid, as a seamstress, as a waitress. But corruption ran deep wherever you went and disgust makes you recoil when you remember all the times you’d been cornered by all types of men and creatures, received unwanted touches in hidden corners and degrading remarks of what your only purpose in life was. And after being left to sob, pain lancing between your legs, your clothes ripped to shreds, knowing no one would ever take your side, knowing that this would just continue happening over and over again, you vowed to never have anything to do with another sentient being ever again. 

You’d heard rumors of the forest, about its enchantment, about the stories of terrible things hiding away in its heart, but you couldn’t imagine any monster worse than the ones you’ve already encountered and you determinedly march forward, never turning back to look at the city you’re leaving behind. And as you step past the border of trees, even you, someone who’s never had anything to do with magic, can feel the surge of power, feel the crackling energy as you delve deeper and deeper. But maybe the forest could sense that you meant it no harm, maybe it knew that you were just a lonely, helpless soul, maybe it felt generous, felt pity for the damaged woman seeking refuge. Whatever the case was, it left you alone and in all the years you’d made a home in its lush vegetation, not once had you met any of the ghastly creatures you’d heard so many horror stories of. And maybe that’s why you let your guard down when you meet him, finding a false security in the wood and grass-filled world you now live in. 

You don’t bother being quiet or stealthy as you walk. Why would you when there’s never been anyone else around? So imagine your shock when black human eyes are staring at you as you round the corner and reach the water’s edge and panic laces through you when you see how masculine and strong he looks, overwhelming fear making you tremble when you take in the staff you see laying next to him. 

A sorcerer. 

You’d learned the hard way that men were never to be trusted and that men with power and wealth were the ones to be even more wary of. Fortunately you’d only dealt with vile wealthy men and as awful as they had been, you know men gifted with an affinity for magic make those nobles seem as harmless as kittens in comparison. You’d seen firsthand the havoc sorcerors could wreak, seen the charred, mutilated, disfigured bodies put on display at the city gates as an example of the fate for anyone who rebels against the crown. To your knowledge, all sorcerors worked for the royal family, rarely leaving the walled fortress unless sent on a mission or task, but never in a place like this so-called cursed forest. So what was he doing here? 

The urge to flee thrums through your veins, but when he makes no move to stand or get any closer to you, curiosity gets the better of you and you stay rooted to your spot and before you can stop yourself, you find yourself asking the first question that comes to mind. 

“Who are you?” 

When Sakusa had ventured outside of the castle walls for a break from the irritating humans inside the cramped corridors and bustling courtrooms, he had purposefully chosen a place where no other soul would be. His hand had immediately wrapped around his staff as the sound of approaching rustling interrupted his thoughts, but when you had made your presence known, he could only stare in awe, staff forgotten as he took you in. 

You’re different from the usual noble women he sees on a daily basis. For one, you’re barely wearing anything, a makeshift dress of strung together leaves, flowers, and grass the only thing covering you and he can feel his face grow hot as he tries not to blatantly stare at your bare legs and arms. But as he really regards you, he can’t help but feel something wild, something primal in you and he blinks in shock when he realizes that you have the same energy as the forest, as if the forest has claimed you as one of its own and he’s so entranced by his realization that he’s startled by the sound of your voice.

From anyone else, he would have scowled at the forwardness and bluntness of the question, but for some reason, coming from you, he finds himself easily answering. 

“Sakusa Kiyoomi” 

People, conversations, human interaction. Those are all things Sakusa abhors and yet, as you tentatively draw closer to him, staring at him in wide eyed curiosity while the two of you exchange words, he thinks he doesn’t mind any of those things when you’re involved. He comes to visit you as often as he can, something warm blooming inside of him as he sees your hackles relax, notices how you inch closer and closer to him every time he arrives, and he can’t help but compare you to a wild animal and behind the warmth in his chest, something darker lurks, and he wonders what it would be like to tame you, claim you back from the wooded forest that had taken you in, mark you as his own. 

And that thought festers and grows inside of him. 

He does his best to keep it at bay, play it off as just a fleeting idea, but when your eyes and body begin to seep into his dreams, into his every waking thought, he can’t keep the desire down any longer and when he strides towards you once more, he drops to one knee in front of you, asking for your hand in marriage. 

In hindsight it probably was foolish to think that you were as smitten with him, foolish to think that someone who had been scarred enough to escape from civilization would easily just return to the place full of painful memories, and yet red hot anger blazes through him when you turn him down. It doesn’t matter how sweet and kind you are about it, gently letting him down and telling him you’re sure he’d find someone much better suited to being his wife, someone prim and proper, someone educated and knowledgeable of court intricacies. 

Humiliation only fuels his rage as he rises back to his feet and he can feel his magic churning, waiting to be used, dancing at his fingertips, and he has half a mind to forcefully drag you back with him, but he retracts it, pushes it down deep inside of him as he takes a deep breath. No, he wants you to come back and grovel at his feet, beg him to take you in, to help you. He wants you to feel the same need for him that he feels for you and he bites his tongue and restrains himself as his mind begins to plan and strategize. 

He tries to remain as normal as possible, still going to visit you as often as before, but his nails dig into the palm of his hands at the pity in your eyes and he clenches his teeth at the way that you tread around him like he’s a wounded animal. But he takes those feelings and lets them drive him late through the night as he chants strange words, flips through old scrolls, experiments with different spells and ingredients and a rare smile stretches across his face when the pieces finally come together. 

It’s time to take set his plan in motion and in the middle of the night while most of the city is fast asleep, there’s a strange flashing light, a rush of something sinister in the air, and the murmurs of masculine chanting swirling in the air, lingering, and foreshadowing the dark days ahead. But you remain asleep, peacefully ignorant of the shift in the atmosphere, naive to just how much your life will change.  

 You wake up, surprised by the lack of a warm furry body or tongue lapping at your face, and you vaguely wonder if you’d woken up in the middle of the night, but the sunlight filtering through tells you a different story. You feel strange, warning bells beginning to faintly clamor in your head, and you gingerly step outside of your lair only to freeze at the dead silence surrounding you. It’s always quiet and calm in the forest, but where there is usually the sound of nature and creatures, now there is only a deathly silence and you stare in horror as the forest seems to decay right in front of your eyes. What used to be green grass is wilting and brown. The trees you’d spent years climbing and picking fruit from are completely bare. But what makes a choked sob get caught in your throat is the corpses of the animals who’d you come to be so fond of littered around you and your slow stuttered amble becomes a frenzied run, as you race through your dying home, hoping to see any sign of life left. 

But days pass and the state of your home only gets worse. Your throat is parched without clean water to drink, all the water sources near you murky and littered with fish corpses indicating just how toxic they’ve become. Your stomach aches with hunger, no vegetation, fruits, or animals nearby for you to ingest. And a deep loneliness churns inside of you and once again you feel as alone as you did when you were just a dirty street urchin trying to scrape together a living off the streets. 

So when Sakusa comes for his regular visit and finds your weakened body slumped on the floor of your cave, it just makes sense to you, survival instincts kicking in, to drag yourself over to his feet, fling your arms around him when he finally bends down, and sob into his chest. You don’t question the way he’s slow to crouch down to your level and comfort you. You don’t see the cruel smile on his face when he sees you pathetically laying at his feet. You don’t notice the glee in his eyes as you beg him to take you with him. And when he asks you if you’d like to come and be his assistant, you eagerly nod your head and cling tighter to him, burying your face in his comforting and familiar presence as he teleports the two of you back to his living quarters. 

Months pass and despite your initial wariness of returning to live among other beings, you find that Sakusa seems to dislike being around others just as much as you, and the two of you find a comfortable way of life mostly holed up in his living quarters with only the other as company. You’d never really been exposed or taught anything about magic growing up, so you’re genuinely fascinated as you watch Sakusa chant, attentively listening as he tells you what each ingredient is, eagerly following his every step as he shows you firsthand how to mix different potions. And Sakusa thinks that your aptitude for learning, the perfect synchronization the two of you have as you seamlessly work your way into his rhythm, preparing and setting things up before he even needs to tell you, speaks volumes of just how perfect the two of you are together, speaks volumes of how you were meant to be together. 

He continues strategizing, gaining your trust, letting you grow accustomed to his presence, smiling at the way you don’t even bat an eye when his hands linger on yours a bit longer than normal when he hands you something, at the way you don’t tense up anymore when he presses his body against you from behind as he physically guides and shows you how to do something. And he knows he’s on the right track when you take the initiative to swipe a strand of his hair behind his ear as he concentrates on a task at hand, when you perch your chin on his shoulder, peeking over his shoulder as he jots down notes. 

But even the greatest minds make mistakes and when he sends you off to find a certain piece of text for him from the bookshelf in the corner of his room, he forgets to clarify where on the shelf to look and not wanting to bother him, you meticulously comb through every book, forehead scrunching in curiosity when you find a notebook tucked behind, as if it was meant to be hidden. You consider just passing it over, not wanting to intrude on Sakusa’s privacy, but having gone through most of the books and not finding what you need, you wonder if perhaps the thing he’s looking for is in here and that this had just been misplaced or accidentally pushed towards the back of the shelf. 

As you flip through the pages you quickly realize this is a book of Sakusa’s own spells and you stare in awe at how much work he’d done, how extensive his own self-created spell repertoire is, but suddenly your heart freezes when you flip to the last few filled pages. You’re not as fluent as Sakusa is when it comes to the ancient magical language, but you know enough after the time you’ve spent with him, the lessons he’s taught you, to recognize ‘plague’ and ‘forest’ and your throat and heart feel both heavy and panicked when you realize the implication of what you’d found. And suddenly you remember the day he had proposed to you vividly, ice cold shock and realization making you shudder when you remember a flash of something dark in his eyes when you had rejected him. And your hands tremble when you see the very last page, taking note of the phrase ‘mind control’. But before you can dwell on it, you squeal in surprise when the book is plucked from your hands and you’re rooted to the spot by dark eyes pinning you down. 

You want to scream angry words at him. You want to escape. And yet, you do neither, frozen with fear when you remember exactly what happened to the victims who’d defied sorcerers.

“Hmm. This spell’s not quite ready yet, but I guess we can test it out early.” 

And before you can even register what’s happening, a firm hand is placed on the top of your head, the other wrapped around your throat to keep you still as magic surges through the air and you vaguely hear yourself pleading for him to stop, until suddenly you feel trapped in your own body, the connection between your conscience and physical figure severed and you stare in horror as your body goes limp and docile in his arms. 

Sakusa peers into your eyes in interest, humming in thought as he scrawls a few more notes in his notebook. 

“The end goal of this spell is for me to be able to completely control your mind, but right now it looks like I only have control of the section that handles your physical functions if that ugly hate-filled look in your eyes is any indication. But let’s test my theory shall we?”

And it feels like a bad dream as your body submissively makes its way to his bed, seductively swaying your hips as you sprawl out on his bedsheets, eagerly wrapping your arms around the back of his neck as he joins you, bringing him down for a kiss. He’s rough and invasive as he tears your clothes off, calloused hands touching and contaminating every inch of you and you feel disgust as he examines you like you’re a piece of prime meat he’s purchased, coldly and meticulously pinching and prodding you as he observes what makes your body react. And for once, you hate how observant he is, how in tune to your smallest shifts he is, how sensitive your body is as your nipples perk up, as little moans escape past your traitorous lips when he pinpoints your weak spots. 

But what you hate most is the triumphant grin on his face when his dexterous fingers swipe against your lower lips and you internally flinch at the glistening slick that coats his fingers when he holds it to your face, evidence of the heavy arousal mixing with your humiliation and hate. And you try to think of anything else, imagine you’re anywhere but here as he begins to wonder out loud while his fingers twist and turn inside of you, reaching and touching places you’d never been able to explore yourself, if he even needs to tweak his spell anymore seeing how you’re a slave to your body’s natural desire for pleasure. Maybe there wasn't a need to completely control your thoughts and emotions as well.

He hadn’t realized what a slut you are, getting off to anyone using your body, and he leers down at you while he continues questioning you, knowing full well you can’t answer or retort to his crude remarks. And he idly wonders if your mind would naturally break without additional magic if he pleasured you enough, transformed you into a warm body that constantly seeks and craves his touch.

The fear in your eyes at his words only fuels his need to completely dominate you and he grits his teeth as he slides into your drenched hole, eyes closing shut as he just stays still and revels in how tight you are, how perfectly you wrap around him. And when he opens his eyes and sees the glassy-eyed lustful look on your face from being filled, he finally releases himself from the controlled facade he so carefully always wears and lets himself dive headfirst into the sultry, dizzying, primal embrace of lust as he pistons his hips in and out of you at a brutal pace, dark eyes never straying from your face as your eyes begin to roll back and your wanton mewls fill the air. 

He can feel his end approaching, but he’d be damned if he didn’t make you fall apart with him, drown you in inescapable pleasure, and his hand slips between the two of you, fingers finding your aroused clit and all it takes is a few rubs and thrusts before your body is tensing up, back arching, mouth opening in a silent scream, body convulsing and writhing underneath him, your cunt milking him as you’re forcefully brought to your peak. And he joins you over that edge, thick white spurts coating your twitching walls. 

You pray that he’s done, that he’ll release you now that he’s thoroughly tasted and had you, now that you’re just sloppy seconds, used goods. But you’re startled when he lovingly kisses you and tenderly strokes your hair, and your stomach churns at the genuine affection you see in his eyes. And your heart drops, any last bit of hope you had extinguished as he holds your body close to him in a mockery of a loving embrace and whispers in your ear about the future he has planned for both of you, a future where you stay by his side as an obedient, submissive housewife, a future where you’re willing and eager to please him, to love him. 

That was always his goal for the both of you, he insists, and a flame of anger burns inside of you at the exasperated and patronizing sigh he directs your way as he blames you for forcing his hands, for forcing him to do this the hard way, for forcing him to resort to magic when you could have saved everyone the hassle by just accepting his proposal all those months ago. 

Hate and anger twist and coil inside of you and yet, when he kisses you once more, your body instinctively leans into the soft touch before obediently going lax as he tells you to sleep, eyes automatically closing at the command, and Sakusa smiles at your slumbering figure. It’s not exactly how he had planned to go about this, the mind control spell being more of a back-up option he had been trying to avoid, but you’re finally irrevocably his and that’s all that matters.  

[kai-writes-fan-fiction]

In Hiding Part 6

Author’s Announcement: Hey guys! I really appreciate all of the recent feedback and the patience. My life has been pretty hectic these last few weeks, so as a reward for your patience, this is the longest part yet, and I’m really proud of it! I hope you all enjoy it!

P.S. Doctors scare me so sorry if the “medical” part of the story is shitty.

Word count: 2567

Warnings: mentions of blood, bodily harm, non-consensual medical treatment, reader is StRaNgLeD, tiny OCD routine, slight language, non-descriptive violence, and grammatical/spelling errors.

The Avengers were everything you hated. They were destructive, they took whatever they wanted without a thought about anyone else, and they loved behind a façade. You’d seen who The Avengers truly were; they were menacing, inhumane, and lacked empathy. They could’ve just left you alone; you weren’t hurting anyone. You may have been doing some illegal things, but they were minor offenses! You’d never killed, and you were against terrorism of any kind. You just wanted to go home, wanted to be left alone. Your freedom had been stripped away after you’d made your final decision. You wouldn’t fight with The Avengers; you’d do everything in your power to get away from them.

You looked up from the floor of your cell, into the eyes of Steve and Bucky, and you could tell they knew what was coming next. You were stronger than them; you could easily overpower them. They’d seen it earlier when you grabbed their wrists, and every second you sat in that godforsaken cell, you became more immune to the effect of the material blocking your powers around you.

You intimidated them, and you knew it. You knew that your time in this compound was running out, and soon you’d be free. Free. Free. Free. Free. You repeated the phrase in your head five times to lock it in.

You felt that you were ready to share your decision. “I’d never fight for you people, never. Never. Never! NEVER! NEVER!! You people are killers; you take everything for yourselves! You’ve destroyed cities, taken the lives of so many innocents. How can you live with yourselves?” You yelled. Your eyes had begun glowing, and your hair was lifted off of your head as your volume increased. “How?!” You questioned, your eyes shining brighter.

Steve and Bucky were backing into corners of your room, staring down at you. A blue aura began to form around you, illuminating the room in a vibrate blue. Your crossed legs began to levitate off of the ground, and a strong wind began to sweep through the room in a circular motion.

You didn’t want to fight, this trick took all of your energy, and the two super soldiers were helpless, so you decided this would be the perfect time to escape.

As soon as you turned to the wall farthest from the room, which you hoped would lead outside, a particularly strong wave of fatigue hit you. The wind and your aura began to dim, but Steve and Bucky knew not to lunge at you yet.

A string of mumbled curses fell from your mouth, and you let your feet descend onto the ground. This might conserve your energy so you could put more into escaping this wretched complex.

Being back on the ground and looking less powerful, Steve decided to go for it. He jumped forwards and wrapped his arms around you, pressing you into him; you could only wiggle your hands.

Lifting you off the ground, he tried to make it so you couldn’t use your feet as any leverage.

“Fucking dick!” You yelled, thrashing in his arms.

“Language!” He yelled.

You’d had enough of his bullshit and began thrashing more. His grip only tightened, but you were still stronger. There was a vent located right above you, so you flew out of his arms.

You tucked your legs into your chest after he tried to reach out for them and stretched your arms, reaching for the vent. You swiftly pulled it off its hinges and forced yourself into the circulation system.

The tunnels weren’t dissimilar to a maze, you tried to go in one direction, but after 20 or so corners, you have turned around. The alarms blaring throughout the compound, warning everyone of your escape, were bringing about an awful migraine, and you were becoming more and more fatigued by the minute. You wouldn’t stop, though.

You had heard a few voices in the tunnels with you, as well as footsteps. You made sure to avoid them, and after 10 minutes of wandering through the ventilation, you found an air vent to the outside. You pushed hard, and with the last bit of strength you had left, the vent became dislodged. You tumbled out and plummeted about two stories before hiding the ground with a painful ‘thud.’

You crumpled into a ball on the grass, and you felt blood trickle down your forehead. You could also no longer feel your right foot, meaning it was broken. Everything hurt, but your ribs were also a very obviously damaged part of your body. Every time you moved, you felt a shooting pain.

You slowly sat up and wiped the blood from your face, and the amount of blood on your hand was startling. You looked around other parts of your body to assess the damage and found that your knees and elbows were also bloodied, as well as a few scrapes here and there. You lifter up your blue scrubs to get a better look at your side, where a wide purple and blue patch was starting to form. Hesitantly, you placed two fingers on your side, looking for anything broken. The shooting pain was the response, and you pulled your hand away. It was most likely broken, as was your right ankle. It was also a swelling purple and blue mess, and the pain was begging to hit.

You let your eyes fall away from your body to look at your surroundings. You were greeted by vast green forest on all sides, and behind you stood The Avengers compound. It loomed over you, and you could still hear the alarms blaring from the inside. You struggled to get up, and, to no avail, did you.

So, you lay on the ground, your tribulation had failed, and you were doomed once more. You tucked yourself into a ball and cried.

‘How could you be so weak?’ You thought to yourself. ‘How could you let people like the Avengers-like HYDRA-control you like this?’

It would be best if you found somewhere to hide, and quickly. You wouldn’t let The Avengers control you anymore. You couldn't.

You pushed yourself up, so you were on your hands and knees, but you were weak, and I’m so much agony. You kept pressing on, though. You crawled your way to the forest and let yourself fall behind a tree. You must’ve hit a tripwire or a perimeter alert, as a new set of sirens went off and an automated voice yelled your location. You cursed, but you couldn’t go on much longer. With your injuries and your temporary inability to shift, you had to surrender.

—————Avenger POV—————

“We’ve got a location!” Tony yelled through the team's comms. “Kid’s headed East, and it looks like she’s stopped behind a set of trees. I can see her on cams.”

“Who should we send out there? You saw what she did to Steve and Bucky.” Implored Natasha.

“She looks pretty tired. We could probably take her if we needed to, but I don’t think a fight is in store.” Bucky advised.

“How about we all just go out there?” Steve added sarcastically.

“Oh yeah. Good idea, capsicle.” Tony agreed. “Everyone grab your things and meet me in the common room; we’ll all go out and surround her. Bucky, Steve, you go from the East. Natasha and Clint, you guys, take the North. Strange got here a few hours ago, so he and I will take the West. Loki, you’re just going to ignore me, so Thor, go with him and make sure he doesn’t do anything rash. And Bruce? You stay inside; we don’t want a code green, big guy.”

‘Okay’s and ‘mhm’s sounded through the Comms, and three minutes later, everyone was gathered in the common room, looking at one another surreptitiously, not knowing what would greet them on the other side of the doors. They didn’t know whether or not you’d be putting up a fight, but they were about to find out.

“We’re all here? Let’s go then.” Tony commanded. His suit's helmet fell over his face, and he strode forward, everyone else in close pursuit.

—————Your POV—————

You were weaving in and out of consciousness, and you still lay crumpled on the ground in your ball. You felt weak, and you couldn’t think straight. The world was a spinning vortex, and you almost thought you heard voices and feet. You opened your eyes and were met with the face of Tony once more.

SNAP! SNAP! In your face again, but with metal fingers instead of flesh. Tony likes snapping, it seems. You, however, did not. You attempted to growl to ward him off, but you couldn’t produce any kind of sound.

You turned your head slightly to face the rest of the team. They towered over you, weapons drawn and aimed at your face. Typically, you wouldn’t fear them, but in your fragile state, they were pretty threatening.

This wasn't very pleasant. You, one of the most powerful enhanced humans ever, were lying on the ground, bloodied and broken, at the will of The Avengers. They stared down at you, pity written all over their faces. Pity, not a feeling you wanted to be affiliated with.

Two metal arms reached out and wrapped around you, hoisting you up. A sudden rush of adrenaline caused your limbs to begin thrashing about, and the pain from your ankle and ribs subsided. Your sudden movement caused the metal arms encasing your body to pull you closer to the body they attached to. You felt the metal chest and put two and two together. You were in the mostly impenetrable arms of the Iron Man.

Tony picked you up carefully and began walking back into the compound, and the team followed suit. You tried to summon the adrenaline once more, but it didn’t want to come.

Feeling completely vulnerable, you decided to surrender. Yes, it was the cowards’ way out, but did you have another option? Your body was giving up on you, you couldn’t use your powers, and your opponents happened to be the killers of Thanos, another very powerful being.

There was no hope, so you just closed your eyes and allowed the sleep that had been creeping up on you to take over. Your vision faded into black, and the last thing you remembered was the mechanical hum of the Iron Man's suit.

——————————

You awoke to quiet chatter, and a beeping machine you could only assume was a pulse monitor.

As soon as your eyes fluttered open, your senses were flooded with a bright white and the smell of rubbing alcohol.

You looked up from your supine position to find yourself strapped to a table once more, but stronger and additional restraints were added this time. You still felt weak, and your side and ankle were aching, as well as your head.

An IV was embedded in your forearm, and as your eyes traveled the length of the tube up to the bag supplying it, you found it contained a thick blue substance. It must’ve been combating your powers because you couldn’t shift.

You took in your surroundings and found various members of The Avengers watching you. Creepy.

“Welcome back to the land of the living (Y/N).” Chuckled Tony, “You gave us quite a scare.”

The rest of the team went silent, and Bruce, dressed in a white lab coat, whipped around to face you and ran to your bedside. He whipped out a flashlight and shoved it in your face, his fingers following to hold your eye open while the flashlight shined in.

“Pupils are dilating, so no concussion.” He hummed, moving to your other eye.

He moved to pull a stethoscope from his neck and pressed the bell to your chest. You bit your tongue to stop from yelling out when the cold metal touched your bare skin. You must’ve bitten it when you fell because you sensed a metallic taste in your mouth. Bruce was in spitting distance, so you let the blood and saliva pool in your mouth, and you prepared to launch it towards him.

As soon as he lifted his head, you released your spit bomb. Bruce recoiled and began incessantly wiping his face with gloved hands. A hand flew around your neck, preventing you from spitting again.

Blood dribbled down your chin, and you looked up to the face the hand belonged to. It happened to be the winter soldier, and you grinned up at him, blood coating your teeth. He stared you down, and you did the same. The rest of the team just stood by, wearing “What The Fuck Just Happened” expressions.

Bucky finally released your neck, and Banner walked back over, blood-free and with duct tape.

“Shouldn’t have done that.” Tony mocked from behind Bruce as he and Bucky taped your mouth shut.

You tried to shake him off, but your movements were no use. Barnes had a firm grip on your head that prevented you from thrashing about, and Bruce was wrapping your face.

‘Duct tape is the best they can do?’ You thought to yourself. ‘Do they know that duct tape loses its stick when wet?’

You laughed to yourself, and Bruce and Bucky ceased their actions and looked up at you, as did the rest of the team.

“What’re you laughing about?” Bucky snarled.

You only shook your head and rolled your eyes. If they didn’t know, why tell them?

Banner ripped the tape and stepped back. Bucky released your head, and you stared up at the ceiling, hoping they’d all leave.

“The rest of you can go. Bucky, you stay here. I need help controlling her.”

“You got it, Banner.”

The rest of the team reluctantly left, leaving you, Bucky, and Bruce. You looked over to them and stared them down with undeniable murderous intent.

“So, uh, what’re we doing next?” Bucky turned to Bruce, who was still staring you down.

Bruce snapped out of his trance and looked over to Bucky. “She’s still got some injuries from her fall; I need to check those out. Do you have any medical training?”

Bucky nodded. “A little bit, from when I served. Just basic stuff.”

“We can work with that.” Bruce crossed his arms and walked in the direction of your injured ankle.

You tried to get away, but the power suppressors and restraints prevented you from doing anything, so you just wriggled around uselessly.

Banner pressed two fingers to your swollen and bruised ankle, and you bit your tongue to stifle a muffled scream. He moved his fingers to another part of your ankle, and you hit your head against the table to suppress another outcry.

“Bucky, can you grab some Ace bandage? I think the Talus is fractured. We’ll need an X-Ray to make sure, but I doubt she’ll cooperate.”

“I can make her, or we could try sedation.” Bucky offered.

Bruce seemed to rather like that idea, as his brows raised, and he procured a metal syringe.

Forcing it into your arm, you let out a muffled, yet surprised yelp. Immediately after the syringe was removed from your arm, your world began to darken, and you became dizzy.

You tried and failed to resist, but your body gave in, and the last thing you saw was Bucky and Bruce watching you.

To be continued…

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[givemethatgold]

Fix’er Upper Pt. 3

Pairing: Eventual Frankie Morales x F!Reader Warnings: Clumsy injury, more stupid fighting Length: 2.5k Notes: If these two dummies could have one (1) adult conversation they’d be in bed together by now. Instead, we get this! *waves around vaguely*

PART ONE, TWO

Money was tight. You had been trying to ignore the dwindling stack of cash, telling yourself that you didn’t actually need to fix the cracked drywall, replace the old oven, or fill in the missing patches of shingles. 

That ignorance had finally come to bite you in the butt. You were rudely woken at three a.m. to the clap of thunder and the pat-pat-pat of rain hitting the house. You loved storms, the excitement of the lighting, and how fresh the air smelled once the rain had passed. 

You rolled over onto your back so you could watch the lightning flashing between the cracks of your curtains. A tap on your forehead quickly destroyed the excitement you were feeling. The wet ‘splat’ was quickly followed by another, and another, and before you were able to scramble up and search for the closest thing resembling a bucket, it had turned into a steady stream.

“Fuuuuuuuck!”

The next morning, the sun rose and shed its light upon a beautiful scene. The leaves, now free from dust, were beginning to turn, the grass glimmered with raindrops, and the sky was clear. You, on the other hand, were a verifiable disaster. 

Hair unkempt, heavy bags under your eyes, and wearing the first items of clothing you could find in your scramble last night. Your exhaustion was so complete, it hadn’t even dawned on you to change or freshen up a bit before going out into the public eye. All you could focus on was getting to Hank’s Hardware and buying all the shingles you could get your hands on.

Once again, however, you were harshly reminded of your dwindling savings and just how expensive fixing up a house could be. The owner, Allan if you remembered correctly, had shown you the right size and style for your home’s roof and you nearly choked at the price.

“You know,” he had said gently, “we do have the option of a payment plan. I don’t let just anyone use it either. It’s for trusted customers. I have a good gut on who I can trust.”

“Really?” You asked, feeling a little pathetic while also knowing now was not the time to let pride ruin such a good thing. “And, um, what does your gut tell you about me?”

“Welllll,” he smiled, hooking his thumbs into his suspenders and leaning back a little to size you up. “You’re hard-working, feel like you have something to prove, won’t back down from a challenge, and are in way over your head with that damn old house.”

“Oh.”

“No offense, ma’am! Sometimes I forget myself and talk to strangers the same way I’d talk to my friends.” He patted your forearm gently then hooked it back into his suspenders, pretending he didn’t notice you jumping at the physical contact. “But it’s true. No denying you won’t be able to shingle all by yourself. I’d offer, but I’m in no shape to be climbing up roofs.”

“That’s very sweet of you, truly. But I’ll manage! I doubt I could afford a handyman, so it’ll be me and my stubborn self scrambling around up there.” You joked, but it fell a little flat since the both of you knew it was the truth.

“I’ve got an idea...” Hank trailed off, his gaze searching around by the till. “Maybe you two can help each other out?” He fiddled at the computer for a minute, then grabbed a flyer from the corkboard mounted behind the counter before handing you two pieces of paper. One was a receipt of what you owed him after this latest excursion and a detailed timeline of when small payments could be made. 

Glancing up at him, you gave him a watery smile and thanked him for being so kind. Allan waved you off and pointed to the second paper.

‘Help Wanted’ it read, ‘Morales Acres. Light physical labour, quiet environment, rate of pay dependent on quality of work.’

“So friendly and welcoming,” you murmured, sarcastically, under your breath. Not quietly enough though because Allan snorted out a laugh and agreed that the ad was worded very abruptly. However, he vetted for the owner of the farm and suggested you head over to see if he would be willing to trade labour for labour.

Or at the very least, you thought, pay you so you can afford a roofer.

Following the directions Allan had provided for you, you quickly found Morales Acres. Surprisingly, it was a very short distance from your own home, making you wonder if the owner had been one of the people to drop by during your first weeks here.

The driveway was a beautiful, winding drive. The view of the farm was obscured by thickets of trees on either side of the road but you managed to catch glimpses of a pond and a few bales of hay before rounding a bend and driving into the yard.

A small gasp left your lips at the sight. It was picturesque! Something out of a travel magazine, or on every city girl’s Pinterest board. The driveway came to an end in front of a statuesque barn painted in the classic red and white, stone walls cordoned off certain areas that, from where you sat, looked like they could be used to house sheep or hens. A few small sheds were lined up along the other edge of the yard but the main attraction was the neatly lined rows of apple trees all heavy with fruit.

Climbing out of the cab, you slowly made your way into the yard with your mouth hanging open dumbly. It was just so peaceful here and it was obvious that the owner cared deeply for the property. You were enchanted and fell immediately in love.

“You must be the help Allan called to say he was sending over,” a warm voice rang out.

Looking around for the source your gaze widened, then immediately hardened, when you caught sight of who was talking to you.

“You!”

“You?!”

To say it had been a smooth business agreement would be a total lie. You and Market Asshole, Frankie you reminded yourself to call him, had bickered back and forth for the better part of an hour before shaking hands. Surprisingly, you had both argued more for the other person’s benefit, something you had been mulling over since.

If this guy was such an ass, why was he also acting like his help with your renovations wouldn’t be worth as much as you picking apples? You knew your presence disturbed his peace, and that you weren’t as strong as he might have hoped his helper would be, and he still hadn’t trusted you with all the workings of his orchard. 

So, while you weren’t going to argue anymore, you knew you were getting the better end of the deal: you help him gather his harvest and get it safely stored in the barn, then he spends the same amount of hours helping you. While the weather during September was prone to drizzle, you had convinced him that a tarp thrown over the baldest patches of roof would be fine and that the apples couldn’t wait. 

He had grumpily conceded your point but had sworn that as soon as the last of the fruit was picked he’d be over to do a proper job of it. So continued the uneasy truce between the two of you for the past four weeks. The first week was the hardest as your hands, unaccustomed to work, blistered, and your muscles ached from sudden use. You had initially tried to pass the time by making conversation but you got the hint and stayed quiet once Frankie started choosing trees farther and farther from yours.

Slowly, however, the blisters healed and gave way to callouses. Your muscles became accustomed to the work and you were able to carry twice the amount as you had started off with. Your home could now boast electricity and running water everywhere it should be, and the pile of discarded furniture had been reduced to ash by a spectacular bonfire which Jacquie and her family had joined you in admiring.

Today started off as a normal day. You showed up for harvesting at the break of dawn, having discovered you much preferred the cool morning air over being up on a ladder with the midday sun beating down on you. The trees were obscured by a low fog that had yet to burn up, but you knew what section you needed to start on. 

Enjoying the way the fog enveloped you, making you feel like you were in a magical world, you began to hum and your steps took on a dreamy dance-like quality. You had never taken lessons or had even been allowed to make such a spectacle of yourself while living with Brad but now you felt free enough to spin, twirl, and glide. Overcome with the joy your freedom gave you, you began to belt out “These Are a Few of my Favourite Things”, The Sound of Music having been played on repeat when you were a child. 

Once you reached the ladder, you hoisted the basket onto your back and continued to sing whatever songs you could remember while you worked. A particularly boisterous rendition of “Do Re Mi” had you flinging your arm out wide and leaning back on the ladder for a dramatic finish.

The apples threw you off balance. 

With a screech, you fell backward, managing to twist yourself around to land awkwardly on your hands and knees instead of on the basket of apples strapped to your back. You seemed to have come away unscathed, with just scratched knees and a throbbing in one wrist. Thankfully it wasn’t your dominant hand.

“Whoa!” Frankie called out, catching sight of you on the ground with the ladder tipped on its side, “Everything okay? Are you okay?”

Coming to a skidding stop next to you, he grasped the basket and slipped it off your back with ease. 

You took a few deep breaths and nodded. “Fine! Fine, just bruised knees and ego...” you assured him.

“What were you thinking?!” He tore into you, “You could have broken your neck! Or ruined a whole barrel of apples! Then what would I do?! This job doesn’t come with health insurance for Christ's sakes!” Running his hands through his curly, brown hair he let out a huff of air and walked over to where your ladder lay on the ground.

“Un-be-fucking-lievable!” You called out, incredulously. While trying to get to your feet, to march over and wag your finger in his face, you put too much pressure on your injured wrist that caused pain to scream down your arm.

You managed to mask the cry of pain as a cry of frustration and got to your feet. Surreptitiously cradling your hand against your chest, you grabbed another basket and walked past Frankie to start climbing the ladder again. Looking at the ground so he wouldn’t see the tears of pain in your eyes, you mumbled, “I’ll be more careful, alright? I’m sorry.”

Stopping your ascent with a hand on your arm he stuttered out what might have been the beginning of an apology but he couldn’t quite seem to put the right words together so he just cleared his throat.

“Just...” he said in a much softer tone, “just be more careful. Okay? I can’t lose my best worker.” 

The lame joke made you smile despite yourself. 

“Employee of the month,” you replied in a dry tone, “hurrah.” 

You shared wry smiles while a silent apology passed between the two of you. His dark brown eyes held a warmth to them you had never noticed before. Their hue reminding you of every tree in the orchard from the early light to the sunset, golden flecks reminiscent of the sun. His face, weathered from so much time spent outdoors, was marked with laugh lines, worry lines, and a small scar gracing his left cheek. 

Your eyes wandered past the scar to note how long his scruffy facial hair had grown and how it had started to obscure those pleasantly pouty lips. 

Then, with a start, you realized you were staring at this infuriating man’s lips like a hormonal teenager. With an embarrassed squeak, you quickly scurried up the ladder, hooking your elbow around each rung to avoid any more pressure on your wrist.

To say Frankie was coping well with having someone around would be a gross overstatement. 

It’s not that he didn’t like the company or wanted to be alone. The problem was that he was starting to like her company too much, to care too much. And caring too much had been the root cause of all Frankie’s sorrows.

First, there had been his Dad, trying to impress the man who never even wanted kids. Then the force, always feeling like he needed to prove himself and desperate for praise. After that was his wife, ex-wife, and trying to be someone he wasn’t so she would stay interested and in love. The pressure created by caring about these people and the expectations they had for him drove him to abuse drugs. Then his friends came calling and Frankie went against his gut because they had cared so deeply about something and he had cared deeply for them.

His wife, his kid, his family, his job, his friends. He had cared more than they did and he had come away worse off. At least now he was clean and sober, and was very aware of the irony of him now making and selling an alcoholic drink.

No, it was best to stay alone. He loved too freely and put too much stock in being loved back and every. single. time. it hurt him.

So, he closed himself off from you. Initially, he didn’t think it was going to be an issue, especially considering how you two had met. But then he found himself smiling at your stories, idly leaning against a branch so he could watch your graceful moments. He hated watching you leave, knowing you were going home to that piece of shit house that he should really be fixing up for you.

He recognized the signs and nipped them in the bud; working farther away, replying to questions with the fewest possible words, focusing purely on work, and maintaining a professional relationship. It pained him to push you away but deep down he knew it was best for the both of you.

Which brings him back to this moment.

Frankie was too stunned to notice your awkward climb up the ladder. Standing there, dumbly, for another few seconds. Wondering, all the way back to the idling tractor, what the hell had just happened.

One minute he was just driving the tractor minding his own business and the next he was having a mild heart attack after seeing his only worker laying limp on the ground. Then, after arguing like usual, you had shared a...a moment and stared at his mouth almost long enough to tempt him to use it.

Part Four

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