#centuries later when half their bones are dust

[danmeichael]

i need to work on my chengxian fics....

[2kmps]

vash pets your head to send you to sleep, but asks you something important before he does.

notes; 1.1k, very tender vash, tristamp coded, not proofread. wrote this in my car @ 2am, freaking out every two seconds bc was that a person or just my eyes? 👁️👁️

layers of dust reaching across entire sprawls of bedsheet was a normal thing you came across in every inn you visited. no man's land had a way of making everything inhospitable, from the unforgiving terrain of valleys of sand, stone and bleached bones, down to the crevices between slabs of wood underfoot filled with debris and the pillows under your head exacerbating dry fits of coughing while beige granules clung to your throat.

vash was far more accustomed to those conditions than you were, having lived that way for over a century—an earnest confession you still weren't sure you believed. like everyone else on this godforsaken landscape, you had learned to acclimate during your harrowing travels with him, forced to take the heat deep in your skin to your marrow, the dirt and sand into the brittle branches in your lungs.

"want me to shake out the sheets for you?" vash was always courteous, did his best to lessen the blow of suffering you endured while with him. from the beginning, he had never been comfortable with you there, tried running off more times than you could count, but you were smart and determined so he never succeeded.

he didn't wait for you to respond, finding that you were arranging your bags near the door in case of the need of a quick escape. maybe it was guilt or pity, but he slipped his fingers beneath the thin sheets and whipped them out until all the dust knocked off of them. "this place isn't as bad as the last one. you'll sleep pretty good tonight, I think. can you grab my sleeping bag?"

"there's plenty of room on the bed, vash." you didn't make a motion for his bags. in your hands now was a set of linen nightclothes. "give your back a rest. sleep on the mattress for once."

his look was almost incredulous, almost as though you had said something outrageous. "I won't make you sleep on the floor. I don't mind, really!"

"I never said I was sleeping on the floor." you said, inflectionless, eyes half-lidded from the weight of fatigue and soreness behind them. "we're gonna be out on the desert for hours tomorrow. I can't have you die out there because you wanted to sleep on wood."

certain arguments vash didn't try to win, this was one of them, namely because he wasn't actually interested in the floor. so, some thirty minutes later he laid there on the stiff, musty mattress with you, taking in all the smells of age and misuse in his dry nostrils while trying not to open his mouth too wide to suck in any sand.

"not the most comfortable." he mumbled, shifting onto his back after lying on his side for a few minutes. "you sure you want me up here with—"

"it's fine, vash." again, without betraying yourself with a change in tone, you reassured him. you said it to him with your eyes closed, facing him, your back flush to the wall to give his larger body more space. "don't worry so much. just try to sleep for once."

it didn't come easy to him, this you knew. inevitably, he'd be up and around the inn or just outside of it at some point. sleep was a mortal enemy and an elusive love affair to him, a challenging dichotomy that left him tired and worn most of the time. he felt all of it ache in his joint, drag his eyelids down, sit on his shoulders as though his sins weren't enough of a burden.

you saw it and you pitied him, though you didn't have the brashness to say so.

just then, you flinched hard enough to make the bed jerk when his hand touched your head. he apologized quietly, not removing himself from you and let the warmth of his appendages seep through your hair into your scalp, gave you time to familiarize with how it had so much weight to it.

"do you ever regret your decision?" he started stroking your head in short, smooth motions, flattening your hair against your crown. "regret traveling with me, I mean."

you weren't sure why he was asking this during bedtime, but coaxed you to crack your eyes at him, proving you were still awake. his made of brilliant azure we're looking back at you, somehow piercing through the inky night straight into you. they had an eerie, otherworldly glow to them, almost.

"I dunno." you are honest, unsure of the kind of answer he was looking for. did he want comfort, or was he going to try to bail on you again? it had been a while since he last tried. "I dunno. I don't mind it most of the time. you're a good guy, vash, you don't deserve to be all alone in this world."

his hand stopped, but his fingers splayed out a little more. the corners of his eyes started to narrow, crinkles forming in the corners. you couldn't handle how softly, so sweetly he was looking at you now.

"you gave up everything, though." he said, smoothing his hand along that same path on your head again. "you shouldn't have given up your entire life—your career just to…"

he didn't want to finish. your eyes were open fully, the whites of them glistening at him in the dim moonlight.

"you shouldn't have given it all up to be with me." it sounded so unnatural to him, like it was some unfathomable, convoluted thing he had had no business putting a voice to. "nothing—no one is worth that. I'm not worth that."

in these moments, you wished he would let you touch him. all you wanted to do was feel the warmth of your bodies meld together, wrap your arms around him so he couldn't leave you alone in that dusty, dark room, and so he knew he wasn't alone.

"don't talk like that," was all you could bring yourself to say, even though you didn't think it was amiss.

the shadows around his mouth deepened, his smile just a little higher than it usually was. his thumb moved towards your temple, callused pad stroking the skin there, tempting you to lean into his touch even more.

parts of you wanted him to kiss you, because you caught his eyes wavering at times, unsticking from your gaze to sweep lower beneath his thick lashes. you knew he was looking at your lips, and you thought that maybe you had made the mistake of looking first.

he never acted on that as much as you wished he would, but he did keep his hand on you until the gentle motions on your hair finally lulled you into slumber.

pls comment or reblog if you enjoyed! 🫰🏻

[merge-conflict]

wip wednesday uhhhhhh

tagged by @streetkid-named-desire 🙏

workin' on:

adjusting to new work schedule without going insane

listening to schism on repeat until it stops making me feel things

finishing phantom liberty (things are going to go so bad I can feel it. reed and valentine are two birds of a feather. a songbird in hand is worth more than bush– ok idk where I was going with this. why is everyone in this dlc so hot. the edible hit just as lizzy wizzy was doing her thing I was absolutely 👁️👁️ zonked)

[outline] ffor - kerry vs manager death match meeting ft. valentine being the kind of incorrigible and professionally unpleasant asshole you want on your side in an argument –> well-crafted excuse to have johnny watch kerry and go through the confusing mess of jealousy, lust, possessiveness, smug superiority and affection from behind a screen where he can't pitch a fit or ruin everyone's day by being snide or making himself the new center of attention. lol

[draft] ch. 12 of the damn things overlap – putting johnny failover thru some horrors because it's fun ¯_(ツ)_/¯

Featuring my notes from PL on characters (going thru one of my adhd note-taking phases), not intentionally incomprehensible but uhhh gotta write fast while they're still talking:

And a snippet of Johnny definitely not Going Thru It (it's his body unless it's a fear response, then it's V's weird hormones or something idk):

The answering burst of distorted laughter sent adrenaline screaming up the inside of Johnny’s lungs. Half a century later and Smasher was less human than ever: a ghoulish half-skinned skull bolted onto a brutal metal frame and armored with enough heavy plating enough to make the float shift when he did. He towered over Oda, shoulders hunched so the launcher perched on his shoulder didn’t scrape the ceiling. Behind him was the smoking ruin of the hole he’d blown open, the unsettled dust and debris making his red eyes glow like hellfire. Arasaka’s oldest rabid dog. Something about the angle he was leering down at him made Johnny feel like he was standing in and out of a dream, unarmed and paralyzed while his mind tried to catch up with V’s hammering heart. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his arm ached bone-deep, numbness flickering up and down from his elbow to his fingertips. The air stank of charred flesh and scorched metal, like saltwater and bloated decay. He reached again for V, but she was gone and he was alone. No V, no Hand, just him. “Too stupid to stay dead,” Smasher spat, leaning over Oda in a way that made the man instinctively tense, grip tightening painfully. “That really you, Johnny-boy?” Time finally snapped back into focus, adrenaline reaching his smoldering gray matter, and Johnny felt his mouth twisting into a grin– V still haunting her own nervous system, dark laughter bubbling up out of terror like tar. “In the flesh, so to speak. More than I can say for you, you ugly bastard.”

it's missing something, but I won't know what until I take Johnny for more of a spin for the rest of the chapter...however it doesn't stop me from wanting to pick at it.

tagging @wanderingaldecaldo, @fly-amanitaa, @corpocyborg, @vox-monstera (no pressure!!! :3)

[asleepyb0i]

Falloutober Day 4- Broken Glass

Another crunch of broken glass echoed throughout the dilapidated hospital. At least, it was once a hospital. Now, it was a den for mole rats and radroaches. 

Arcade Gannon shoved his boot down onto a mantis nymph approaching him. He wanted to get medical supplies for the Followers, and get out. There was no need for rummaging around in heaps of garbage and debris for anything else. Medical supplies- that’s it.

The researcher sighed, and rearranged his glasses. To be perfectly honest, Julie had no idea where he was at the moment. It wasn’t his job to raid hospitals for stimpaks and med-x, but he knew that their supply was bone dry, and no other Follower wanted to come here. With as many fiends crawling around nearby, he didn’t exactly want to go anywhere near here either. It’s possible that there weren’t even any drugs to begin with, and were all sucked dry by the raiders over the past century. However, cactus juice and used syringes weren’t getting them far, and people needed the supplies.

Arcade shook out the jitters in his shoulders, and reloaded his plasma defender. Walking further into the hospital, and shooting a few rats dead, he checked a couple rooms. Nothing but dust and garbage. A few more empty rooms later, he sat down against the wall, and tiredly rubbed his temple. All he ever wanted to do was help people, and instead, he’s spending the latter half of his younger years playing alchemist and rummaging around in debris. When will this chapter of his life end, and a new, better one be ushered in?

The ventilation system next to him echoed a growl. Something was coming. Arcade scrambled to his feet, and aimed his defender at whatever radroach or rat was going to crawl in. He didn’t expect to hear what came next…

“Addiction?…” a raspy voice hissed from within the vent.

Arcade lowered his gun. “Wh… what?”

The voice within the vent didn’t answer. When he asked again, that same whisper responded with “Addiction?…”

The Follower swallowed the lump in his throat. “The Followers need fixers and med-x. Most of Vegas’ Freeside consists of addicts, and…”

The voice growled, before fading away into the thumping of the vent. Within a few seconds, a few fixer packages slid out of the vent.

“Trade…” the voice hissed.

“With what?”

“…”

Arcade didn’t take his eyes off of the vent. Instead, he dug into the satchel he brought with him for a box of sugar bombs. He set it down in front of the vent. “I know it isn’t much, but it’s all I really have-”

A clawed hand snatched the box of cereal into its claws, and tore it into the vent. The thumping faded away, leaving Arcade alone with the fixers from the mysterious chemist. Briskly, he picked up what was given to him, and made his way to the exit of the hospital. Whatever was in that vent, it was powerful, and dangerous. From now on, he would be staying far away from that place.

[phoenixwench]

weird PSA

OK, possible TMI, but also maybe useful info

I spent much of my young life in a 6th floor apartment a 6 story walk-up POS building with all the usual perks; roaches of every size, mice, rats, bedbugs - yup we had it all.

When we finally were able to leave the big city and move in with my mom's dad the change in lifestyle was immediate, shocking and wonderful....when it didn't suck in brand new ways. So it goes.

Now, almost half a century later, I am living in Florida, home of big-ass flying roaches, every type of ant imaginable (and the occasional rodent issue during the pandemic, when suddenly all the restaurants were closed and all the yummy dumpster goodies went away).

So, being at a lower income level, but with early life experience to fall back on, I want to share a trick that has almost driven my roaches out, with minimal and very selective use of pesticides.

They need access to water. A sink full of dirty dishes is a feast with a side of water. As a bone-bred procrastinator I always postponed doing dishes as long as possible.

No more! As soon as I finish a meal all the dishes are done, dried and put away. Then the piece de resistance - I lightly dust the sinks, while still damp, with basic scouring powder - Comet, the generic stuff - no matter. Even in the drain. The roaches won't willingly walk through it, and those desperate enough to try...die.

OK, I admit it isn't pleasant finding the dead Roachasaurus Rex in the sink in the morning, but it beats watching it scurry to safety when the light comes on! While I still have new ones coming in periodically, my home is no longer user friendly to the 6 legged invaders.

PS - I do this in the bathroom basin and around the tub drain as well.

Side benefit #1 - it also discourages ants

Side benefit #2 - my sink, basin and tub are cleaner with little extra effort.

Bonus info - if you use it, Dawn Powershot kills roaches fast!

Hope this is helpful to folks who unwillingly share their homes with these critters!

[talexior]

Timelapse: https://youtu.be/h9fu-zGRbWs

✨  Commission Info   ✨

--- 

"Vero was born as the illegitimate son of Vorilndil and dryad Azurea. When Vorilndil found out of the existence of Vero, he immediately had him stolen away from his mother and made him his heir, having been unable to have any other children for many, many decades with his wife, Cirlia. But Cirlia ended up with child only a few decades later, a boy named Gaelvdir (or Gael for short). The family was happy, healthy, well respected in their city and Vero was on his way to becoming aChanneler of great renown. It wasn't until a century or so later things took a very sharp turn. One morning, Vero woke up to find his family home nearly empty, several rooms closed up, nearly all the servants gone except his manservant who looked as though he has aged five years since the day before, a maid who only comes in to dust in the afternoons and the cook who had changed from a plump, happy woman to an irritable, sallow faced crone who can’t seem to make anything fit to eat. Asking what had happened, the servants all seem to act as though this is not the first time Vero has “acted this way”. Over the course of the day, Vero had learned the story: his step-mother died of a cruel, maddening illness and his father became lost in his despair. Apparently, Vero has been gambling and squandering the family fortune since. Going into the town, he was barely known and what was known of him wasn’t good. Every time he tried to explain that it couldn’t be the truth, the people became more impatient with him or thought he was a lunatic. That night, utterly shocked and confused, Vero was relieved and overjoyed when his brother paid a visit. At first Gael was brusque, which was strange, but Vero was just so relieved, he didn’t question it. Gael seemed to warm up as the evening progressed. Finally he suggested a toast; the toast itself consisted of an acidic concoction rather than liquor, burning a good portion of Vero's mouth and throat, leaving permanent scarring and a gaping hole on the side of his face, exposing portions of bone, teeth and flesh. Gael left his older half-sibling to die screaming in pain. Vero managed to escape with only his fathers' rapier and spent several months on the run. It took several months more for him to finally realize the wounded part of his face had healed; a bark-like material grew to cover most of the wounds. Experimentation proved that it wasn't magic, or a curse, but actually a part of him. But with no one to ask, no one to turn to for answers, he stopped looking for a reason. And once Vero was healed enough to think things over, he became convinced that he was not crazy, that things were not as they should be. At first he was determined to find answers and to put things back to the way they should be, however as time passed and he could find nothing, he grew sour and morose." One more D&D commission!

[everythingcanadian]

An Offering

Pairing: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston/Arthur Morgan

Rating: Teen

No Warnings

Summary:

John finds a little dirt road that leads off the path he takes to his job he has to keep his head down. Arthur and Abigail explore it with him one afternoon. It's as if they've incited a ritual. Day 18 or Promptober: Cathedral Enjoy the spoopy.

AO3 Portal

The little cathedral sat abandoned at the end of an overgrown dirt road. John had come across it not too long ago when he had been going to and from some stable hand work to keep his head low. He would explore it later. 

It was later. 

Both Arthur and Abigail had come with him for this little adventure. Jack was with Charles and Uncle, safe and sound. It let the trio enjoy a bit of trouble where they only had to worry about themselves. 

The stone church looked older than it should have been. Hundreds of years older. It felt like it too. An old soul attached to the mossy and water shaved stones. The tower at the back of it held firm and tall yet through the openings there was no bell to be seen. It blended in among the thick tree canopy and hid from view. The wooden roof had nearly rotted away, only the bare bones of the curved ceiling stood now. 

Wooden pews rotting away and teeming with life lined the sides of the aisle. Waiting for a long gone congregation to sit and listen to a sermon. Glassless windows half intact with thin stone in patterned columns let in natural sunlight and fed in more moss and leaves. On one side of the main room stood a small birch tree trying its hardest to grow in the mostly shaded cathedral.

What could have been decades or centuries of dust, debris, bugs, and an assortment of other things littered and carpeted the stone floor. The nearly gone ceiling and semi-dense treetops let in the late afternoon sun, illuminating the somewhat still bright stone slabs and walls, leading the eyes to the main piece of the whole church.

The altar at the far end of the gran room stood bare. A simple carved slab of stone. Yet it was clean of debris and moss or growth. The arches in the sides of the stone looked near new with minimal erosion, as if it was never used and just the wind and rain and snow damaged it.

There were no statues. No grand window panes. No frescoes or paintings. Nothing that called to this little cathedral’s small grandeur. 

Abigail giggled as she took their hands, one in each of her own, and pulled them to the front of the church, climbing the one step up to stand in front of the altar. “We should have a little ceremony. Make what we have official.”

“Darlin’ I don’t think what we have here is ever going to be official. In the law or the lord’s eyes.” John said it with a roll of his own eyes. 

“Humour me Marston.” Abigail smiled at him, raising her eyebrows in a challenge. 

John huffed and Arthur laughed at him. “Can’t hurt I suppose.”

“A lady officiant for John and Me? Well I’ll be.” Arthur teased their woman.

Abigail tsked and moved to stand with her back to the altar and beckoned the two men in so they faced each other. “C’mon now. Hold hands.”

“Yes dear.” Both John and Arthur said at the same time, smirking at each other as they did as she directed.

“I don’t know it all but I’ll try what I can.” She cleared her throat. “Do you Arthur Morgan, take John Marston to be your husband. In sickness and in health. In wealth or poverty. In heaven or hell. To love unending. Till death do you part?” 

Arthur smiled at John, feeling his chest ache in a welcomed way. “I do.”

Abigail grinned and continued. “And Do you John Marston, take Arthur Morgan to be your husband. In sickness and in health. With money or nothing. In heaven or hell. To love eternally. Till death do you part?” 

John had to blink a few times and it made both Arthur and Abigail inhale. “I do.” It was a bit choked.

“Perfect. Kiss the groom and seal the vows.” 

“That’s not how that goes.” Arthur teased.

“Arthur.” Abigail huffed.

“Yes dear.” He leaned in and took John’s lips with his. Enjoying the light press together as they signed their love together with this. 

John pulled back and sniffed. “Alright, you and Abby. We’re already hitched so can’t really do it again.”

“You can and you should.” Arthur’s warm affection took hold of the other two. A blanket of comfort surrounded them. “C’mon now, Abigail, come stand here. I’ll officiate your vows first.”

“Fine. Just nothin' fancy.” John groaned as Abigail and Arthur switched places. 

“You better pay attention to this one John, or so help me.” Abigail brushed down her skirt.

John smiled. “Y’look beautiful.”

“I look like I’ve been cleaning all day.”

“As I said. Beautiful.”

Abigail’s expression melted at that, a lovely flush gracing her cheeks. “John.”

The smile John held was soft on the edges and pulled his scars lightly. But it was still his smile.

“Abigail Marston, do you take John Marston to be your unlawful husband. For wealth or poverty. For better or worse. For sickness or health. In your pledge. Till death do you part?”

“I do.” Abigail’s own smile matched John’s.

“Alright then. John Marston. Do you here take Abigail Marston to be your unlawful wife? For wealth or poverty. For better or worse. For sickness or health. In your pledge. Till death do you part?”

“Damn right I do.” John swallowed.

Abigail snorted as Arthur laughed. “If I have any power in me, I pronounce you wedded. You may kiss.”

Arthur watched as Abigail tugged John in and nearly crashed together. The soft sigh from her ripped through Arthur like fire in a match. Bright hot in a flash. 

“Alright. Your turn, you two.” John pulled back and looked down at Abigail’s kind eyes. As Arthur swapped with John for the last of their three weddings John shuffled a little. “Abby, I’m going to do this properly.”

“Oh?” She caught on almost immediately. “Yeah sure.”

Arthur didn’t get it.

John coughed and stood with his hands behind his back. The light filtering in hitting the stone altar behind him just right to brighten the back of the room. “Do you, Abigail Roberts, take Arthur Morgan to be your husband?”

Arthur felt his knees go weak. John suddenly was taking this seriously. 

“Through thick and thin, meagre and plenty, sickness and health, till death do you part?” John’s raspy voice held power like this, a little joke of a ceremony feeling deeper than anything official they could ever have.

It stole Abigail’s breath and she whispered. “I do.”

John nodded. “Do you, Arthur Morgan, take our dear Abigail Roberts to be your wife? Through thick and thin, meagre and plenty, sickness and health, till death do you part?”

Arthur dumbly nodded before catching up. “I do. Yeah.”

“Then it is with my pleasure to pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.” John’s words had a bit of cheek to it. 

As soon as Abigail and Arthur sealed their own vows with a soft kiss they all heard a great clap and rumble. John scrambled away from the stone altar while looking behind him. Abigail stumbled back a bit and looked towards it. Her gasp drew Arthur’s gaze. 

From the very centre, in three, too clean lines, were cracks going down to the floor through the whole altar. Faintly they could hear the crisp ringing of a church bell coming from the empty tower above them. 

Looking at each other they thought it best to leave. Silently and quickly. Whatever had just happened, they did not want to know. Their horses were still where they tied them to the disintegrating front fencing of the church. 

They didn’t dare speak until they had left the dirt path of the cathedral and returned to the main road. And even then it was still quieter than normal as they rode home. 

When John had left the next morning to go to the ranch, he realized that he never passed the semi-overgrown path to the eerie church. Coming home, he tried to find it. It looked as if there was no path at all. He didn’t dare bring this up to Abigail or Arthur. They couldn’t even explain away the faint circular scarring around their ring fingers when they had gotten home. As if the scars had always been there. 

[highways-are-liminal-spaces]

They were not kings.

The crows watched them go, perched eerily still and silent among the tamaracks.

Whenever an animal strayed into the bog, wild-eyed and disoriented, the crows descended. They came from the forest to die, the old or the young or the wounded, stumbling and splashing and ultimately slipping under the black water. The crows would pick clean whatever flesh was exposed—the skull, sometimes, or the back or the velvet dangling in bloody strips from the antlers—but they would never touch what lay below the water’s surface. That was the Bog’s domain.

When they died, the ones who were not kings, the crows did not descend. They watched, heads cocked, as throats were cut and dark blood spilled into darker water, as bodies sank into the peat. There was nothing left exposed for them, in any case, the gathered crowd made sure of that. They were not gifts for the crows—they were not gifts for the Bog, either, not as such. They were explorers, wanderers, thieves—each a new Prometheus, sent forth to bring the sun back to the dark and frigid earth.

A Bog Body is created when a human cadaver has been naturally mummified in a peat bog. Decaying peat produces humic acid, and low temperatures and anaerobic conditions allow the acid to saturate tissues before decaying can begin. Layers of sphagnum and peat then surround the body, preventing water circulation and oxygenation. Skin and tissue is preserved, while bones and genetic material are eroded. Cured, through a loss of identification, of identity.

Some people, half a world away, believe that humans came into this world from a hole in the ground. Later, others will claim it was from a garden. These people have seen the figures rising from the mist, birthed by the dark water, and they know it is peat, not stone or clay or dust, that shaped their ancestors. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Blood to peat.

Burial is an unburdening. It is a giving yourself over to the soil, letting the worms and the beetles toil and, later, flowers will grow. Being transformed, in death, into something so vibrant, so beautiful, so alive. Burning is an escape. It is being carried away on the wind, flying alongside the swallows and gulls to distant horizons. Weightless, free, drifting apart. A wanderer’s last journey.

Bog Bodies endure. They remain. They watch, decade after decade, century after century, as the bog dries up and the tendrils of asphalt take hold where the asphodel once grew. Their ancient empty eyes stare up at an orange sky where the stars used to be.

[terrence-silver]

Yandere old man Terry finding you after you dared to run away from him . . .

@atmostories

---

Vaguely speaking, some fifty years ago give or take, when Terry was still a young man --- or a younger man, rather --- even before the war itself, he was raised under the now vaguely archaic, old fashioned and some would even say offensive mantra of being persistent with what he wanted, especially where attachments were concerned. 'If you have your eye on someone, you should chase them, Terrence, my boy, and never, ever, ever let them go. A real man is unyielding. A real man chases. A real man wears down. Breaks all defenses. Takes initiative. Conquers. That's how a real man wins. Gets exactly what he wants, when he wants it.' --- His old man would firmly, relentlessly tutor him in the true, classical ways of love and passion and the lesson always stuck with Terry in the back of his mind long after his father's bones turned to dust deep beneath the ground. If he didn't chase a thing, he figured he simply wasn't interested. Not truly. It was a passing fling. A passing nothing. If his very blood didn't bid him to move in the most primal way, then it wasn't genuine.

Now an old man himself, Terry was chasing.

The teachings of the dead calling out to him from the beyond.

He cackles in delight at the steering wheel as he pulls up in a neon-lit, flickering alleyway he's tracked you into via the little app he snuck into your phone and it's led him down here - at two in the morning. He wasn't sure what you were trying to do, sweet little thing like you, in such a place, but he figured you spotted his car somewhere down the highway (not that he was trying to hide) or that you simply felt him approaching, in your very bones, like an oncoming monsoon, and hid, anywhere, anywhere you could, like a mouse crawling into the nearest hole. How precious. You've been running around the city for a while now and that too was precious. Like playing hide and seek with a child one chooses to indulge. He pulls up and steps into the darkness between two buildings and hears you breathing somewhere up ahead, a few steps in front of him, in the winding labyrinth of walls, only to find you backed up against a fenced up portion of the passage, writhing and caught. Trapped, were you? Nowhere to go? He stands in front of you leisurely, hands in pockets and merely admires you. What a peach. What a beaut.

-"No more of this buffoonery,"- Fuck, he even sounds epochal to his own ears, extending his hand towards you and effectively grabbing you and your shivering form, pulling you into a chokehold disguised as a hug, tucking you into his jacket, intending to lead you back into the state of the art, underground dungeon he's designed for you underneath his newly renovated dojo office, so you can always be at arms length. Always with him. His little domesticated bunny. -"Time to go home."- Terry softly coos as you weep. Father's advice turned out to be entirely accurate and sound of mind even over half a century later. Who would've thunk it? Seems like the old, traditional ways were the very best. Or maybe he's just went entirely off of the rails? No, no. He was awake. Finally awake. Aware. -"Don't be so fussy,"- He cajoles you in your sobbing state, rubbing your forearm in comfort with a wide smile, chucking. You were such a baby. -"In certain cultures, they still kidnap their potential mates as a courting ritual."-

[sxlver-sweet]

Please i'm begging youu i want to see more fantasy au for tokrev and that pirate would be so good i even have some idess on me already 😩

–🎴

I HAD A FUCKING FIELD DAY WITH THIS I WANNA HEAR YOUR IDEAS PLS SHARE

i’m currently sleep-deprived, so some of these are probably really basic and there’s most likely errors somewhere in here skdkcmdksk

also, requests may be closed, but discussions and more ideas are absolutely welcome.

faerie!kokonoi, who preys on the heartbroken drunkards at upscale bars, listening with a secretive smile as they spill their life stories to the bartender. silver-tongued and clever, kokonoi purrs his condolences, slipping their name into the conversation with ease and feigning oblivion when they, cloudy-eyed and ignorant, hand over their precious bank information and the locations of their valuables.

tailor!mitsuya unable to concentrate on stitching up a torn dress with the incessant clanging in the background and snapping at blacksmith!pah-chin, who’s busy forging knight!baji a new sword. mitsuya chastises baji for being so careless, but all baji does is grumble and turn away, black oil and dirt smeared on his flushed cheeks and long hair clinging to his sweat-stained forehead from his previous sparring session.

wizard!mitsuya spinning golems out of clay and shooing them away with an order to find him more materials to craft matching cloaks for his newest apprentices, luna and mana.

leprechaun!nahoya luring unsuspecting villagers into the forest with the promise of gold coins, only to send branches crashing down onto their heads when they venture far enough. they shout irately and scramble after him as he tumbles, laughing, into the shadows… but it’s no use. he’s too fast.

mermaid!yuzuha punching the shit out of pirates and dragging them down from their ships when they disturb and/or hunt the peaceful merfolk

knight!draken pledging his life to princess!emma

werewolf!baji, who appears to casually laugh off questions about his sharp, prominent canines; when in reality, when he’s secretly sweating bullets. werewolf!baji, whom the others wrinkle their noses at and tease when he orders his steak rare. werewolf!baji, who can’t hide the particularly ferocious, almost predatory glint in his eye that only appears during brawls after the sun has fallen. everyone laughs it off, mistaking his bloodlust for adrenaline. it’s only baji, he’s just intense, they reason.

half-blood!takemichi, who leaps through time with the protective blood of a phoenix coursing through his veins. half-blood!takemichi, whose blood aids him in resisting the beckon of death that pries at the empty body he habitually leaves behind and enables him to keep rising back to his feet no matter who knocks him down.

dybbuk!shinichiro, whose rage inhabits mikey’s body, only flaring to aid in crushing kazutora beneath his little brother’s fist. dybbuk!shinichiro, who plucks away at mikey’s sanity day in and day out, demanding for his death to be avenged. dybbuk!shinichiro, who is the reason that mikey can no longer set foot in his bike shop, because no matter how hard he tries, mikey can’t seem to shut out the eerie groaning of forgotten bikes as they rust away or the crackling squelch of metal colliding with bone that he’s positive he’s never heard before—so why is he hearing it now?

executioner!kazutora, who has no problem with the unjust slaughters that tyrant!kisaki approves, because his unchecked guilt can only be satiated by “cleansing the kingdom of immoral souls.” executioner!kazutora, who hums a crude tavern song as he takes his sweet time lining up his blade with the neck of the shivering woman hunched before him—the shivering woman whose only crime is swiping some bread to feed her starving family. executioner!kazutora, who only finds retribution in the twisted cycle of playing the role of god’s “divine” axe.

knight!toman forming a wall in front of their king to square off against an approaching army, a measly one hundred men with fire in their eyes and swords dripping with blood—a measly one hundred men fully prepared to offer up their lives to protect king!mikey.

jester!hanma, who flirts with the women of the court and openly takes cheap shots at tyrant!kisaki, regardless of whether or not he’s in the vicinity. still, it doesn’t matter how humorous the joke is. no one dares to allow even a twitch of their lips. how hanma hasn’t been executed yet, they don’t know.

pirate!nahoya, who cackles like a madman and jeers at an opposing ship from his place perched atop the crow’s nest

apothecary!souya meeting his future s/o in a field of lavender while he’s searching for fresh herbs. apothecary!souya, who’s mortified by the chalky powder spattered on his overalls and runs a hand through his hair, accidentally smearing a yellow dust through his blue curls. apothecary!souya, who blushes when you kindly offer to brush the powder from his hair. apothecary!souya, who offers you one of the dandelions peeking from his pocket as a gesture of gratitude.

ladies-in-waiting!emma and hina scurrying off to deliver empty dishes to cook!mitsuya, who leans forward expectantly to hear the latest gossip when they approach him with sparkling eyes and poorly concealed smiles.

adviser!draken storming into king!mikey’s private chambers without an invitation to shout at him for neglecting his duties and drag him by the ankle out of bed

sorceress!hina enchanting a four-leaf clover necklace with a spell to keep knight!takemichi safe in battle

spymaster!sanzu scaring the shit out of his scribe!s/o whenever he pops up in the windows of the library in all black with no prior warning

doll-maker!izana, who lives in a secluded area of the woods with his apprentice kakucho and obsessively lines his shelves with replicas of the older brother he wishes he had

knight-in-training!chifuyu working extra hard to impress knight!baji, who had recruited him and taken him under his wing

steampunk inventor!chifuyu, who’s never seen without his trademark goggles that kazutora always pokes fun at and threadbare overalls splattered with oil stains. inventor!chifuyu, who nearly has a heart attack when baji hobbles in on one leg, grinning at him with a face swollen with bruises while waving his detached prosthetic leg in greeting. inventor!chifuyu, who keeps wrenches on his belt specifically to hurl at his idiot friends whenever they come into his shop all beat-up with their bronze prosthetics severely damaged

steampunk!hanma, who has a glass eye with the word “pain” engraved on the iris. steampunk!hanma, who asks kisaki to hold something for him. when the latter holds his hand out with an exasperated sigh, hanma sets his replacement eye in his palm and cackles hysterically when kisaki promptly jolts with disgust and chucks it across the room

cyberpunk!sanzu, who’s already inebriated but continues to drown deeper in the neon lights of the club as he pops an array of glowing pills into his mouth, body numb to the robotic assistants that hum around him and intermingle with the equally delirious crowd in case someone were to collapse from overdosing

masquerade!mitsuya, who smiles at you with such kindness and respect as he guides you onto the marble floor that you immediately resolve to discover his identity at a later date

masquerade!kakucho, who does everything in his power to prevent you from uncovering his identity. masquerade!kakucho, who fears that you’ll be disgusted with his deformed appearance once you see his scar.

samurai!yuzuha, who rescues you from a band of thieves but is perplexed when you insist on repaying her goodwill. samurai!yuzuha, who eventually starts coming to you whenever she needs her wounds bandaged or a home-cooked meal. samurai!yuzuha, who refuses to let you touch her sword with your pure, unsullied hands.

potion-maker!ran, who always despises when rindou barges into his workspace for nothing else than to tip over a couple jars and poke fun at his craft. potion-maker!ran, whose skin and hair have been permanently imprinted with the scent of clove and allspice berries. potion-maker!ran, who concocts love spells and perfumes that grant increased intimacy for the lovesick women who visit him when their own assets aren’t working. potion-maker!ran, who smiles charmingly and calls his female customers “darling.” potion-maker!ran, who has no problem with allowing them to test his products on him in order to guarantee their potency—but only if they’re attractive and have a pretty penny to spare :)

gunslinger!mikey, who almost shoots his big toe off trying to impress the beautiful barmaid across the room

servant!baji, who isn’t the slyest but always makes sure he leaves out a saucer of cream for the stray cats that wander through the town during the night, regardless of how much trouble he gets in. servant!baji, who develops a forbidden bond with his royal!s/o due to their shared love of animals. servant!baji, who is ignorant of the ways of courtship but does his best to flirt with you, however flustered and awkward he may be. servant!baji, who sheepishly seeks advice from his mother about how to impress royalty despite him being unable to offer you any material items.

necromancer!takemichi who doesn’t know wtf is going on and is literally only a necromancer because he fucked up reading a recipe for garlic bread that was written in cursive

vampire!kokonoi, who looks wistfully upon his collection of dusty, old perfume bottles as he recalls how they’d been the most expensive items on the market centuries ago. vampire!kokonoi, who possesses splintered, wooden chests overflowing with outdated currency that will never again be utilized. vampire!kokonoi, who sits for hours and stares at the photo of the young woman that he’s preserved in mint condition for countless years, wondering why he can’t remember who she is

half-blood!mikey, who wonders why his legs are so much stronger than the rest of his body, why he’s always been so much faster than his peers, and why they’re always chock-full of energy. half-blood!mikey, who’s blissfully unaware that the blood of his ancestors is not as it seems. half-blood!mikey, who has zero clue that his lineage marks him a descendant of the minotaur.

farmer!chifuyu, who’s too shy to approach the seamstress’s daughter, so he resigns himself to only admiring her from afar until she makes a move herself. farmer!chifuyu, who’s beyond embarrassed when he accidentally bumps into her, the dirt and grime on his clothing soiling her pristine outfit. farmer!chifuyu, who tries to brush it off, only to panic when the dust on his hands stains the fabric. farmer!chifuyu, who shows up at your mother’s shop the next day to apologize and is nearly chased out due to his kind “not belonging there,” only for you to object and invite him in, claiming that he’s your friend.

jack the ripper!sanzu, who leans up against a dirty brick building with his head low, tongue clicking in rhythm with the slim hands on his golden pocket watch as he decides on his next victim. jack the ripper!sanzu, who dons a simple, shapeless white mask that contrasts sharply with the elaborate feather woven into his top hat. jack the ripper!sanzu, whom others eye skeptically when he skillfully, easily slices his steak into cross-sections with nothing more than a butter knife. jack the ripper!sanzu, who smiles so charmingly at women, basking in their ignorance as he lures them into a sense of false security with a few sweet words. jack the ripper!sanzu, who seals all of his letters documenting his crimes with a lipstick-stained kiss and giggles manically when it smears onto his cheek. jack the ripper!sanzu, who is taken aback when one of his targets whirls on him with anger in their eyes and a knife gripped in their hands, fully prepared to give him a dose of his own medicine.

achilles!izana and patroclus!kakucho. that’s all i have to say. y’all know what’s up👀

soothsayer!takemichi, who’s looked down upon by his fellow prophets because of his frenetic efforts to change the future. while the rest lounge beneath the shade of trees, sweet-smelling smoke curling from their ornate pipes and hazy eyes trailing after people who they know are supposed to die tomorrow, takemichi is doing his best to track them down to warn them of their fate. “he’s just a boy,” the others chuckle, “he won’t make a difference.”

victorian era painter!s/o, who finds seishu inui snoozing beneath a tree and resolves to capture his beauty on a canvas. seishu, who’s well-aware of what you’re doing but decides to let you have your fun. painter s/o, who’s mortified when seishu happens to “wake up” as soon as they sigh with satisfaction and requests to see the picture.

barista!izana, who mixes drugs into his drinks for certain customers while they discreetly slide a handsome wad of cash across the counter

archer!chifuyu, who accidentally spears his superior through the leg while struggling with his bow. archer!chifuyu, who meets kazutora in the dungeons and befriends him during the one night he spends there. archer!chifuyu, who is confused and hesitant when he is abruptly assigned to join the ranks of the prince’s bodyguards. archer!chifuyu, who is white with shock when he sees kazutora stroll into the room, a golden crown balanced atop his head and a wide smile blooming upon his lips when he spots his new friend.

ROBIN HOOD!CHIFUYU

potion-maker!souya, whose face always softens whenever you stop by his shop during your daily mail delivery route. potion-maker!souya, who’s ashamed of himself for having considered exploiting your trust in him and slipping a love potion into your drink. potion-maker!souya, who always offers to make you something befitting the occasion whenever you’re running low on energy, not feeling well, or are nervous about something. potion-maker!souya, who’s too shy to confess his feelings for you.

town crier!nahoya, who sometimes slips a swear word or two into his announcements and prefers to storm the town on horseback, disregarding his elaborate attire. town crier!nahoya, who has definitely snatched you off the street during his routes, leaving you to cling to his sweat-dampened clothes and shout at him for being such an imbecile.

shapeshifter!nahoya, who diligently keeps his eyes closed because he can change everything about his appearance, except for his distinctive eye color.

[no--envies]

The destruction of the Tiger Seal and Wei Wuxian’s death

A really popular theory in the fandom is that WWX died destroying the Tiger Seal, either because of an explosion of all the energy it had accumulated or because trying to destroy it affected him to the point that he couldn’t control the resentful energies anymore. This theory often implies the destruction of the Tiger Seal was a relatively fast process and that WWX started to destroy it when the sects besieged the Burial Mounds, because he didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.

However, the novel explicitly contradicts this theory:

It wasn’t as though Wei Wuxian, after forging such calamity, had refused to destroy it. However, creating the thing had been difficult enough; destroying it was every bit as difficult, and demanded an incredible amount of his time and energy. Moreover, by then, he already vaguely sensed that his own situation was precarious, and sooner or later, everyone would turn on him. The immense power of the Yin Tiger Tally meant that no one dared touch him while he was wielding it—thus, Wei Wuxian kept it, for the time being. He only split the tally into two, so that anyone attempting to use it would first have to put both pieces together. Furthermore, he decided never to use it without thinking carefully through the consequences.

In all, he only ever used it two times, and both times, it shed rivers of blood. The first was during the Sunshot Campaign, and after the second time, he finally found the determination to destroy it. One half, he completely obliterated. But before he was able to finish disposing of the other, the Siege of the Burial Mounds descended upon him. He had no control over the events that followed.

(Chapter 30, Fan Yiyi translation)

This passage is very clear: WWX had completely destroyed the first half of the Tiger Seal before the siege happened. At the time, he was in the process of destroying the second half, but then he died and couldn’t do anything about it anymore. It’s also stated that destroying the Tiger Seal required an incredible amount of time and energy, which was one of the reasons he hadn’t decided to destroy it earlier.

Given the amount of resentful energy the Tiger Seal contained, it’s not surprising that both creating it and destroying it were such difficult processes. Even a much less powerful object like the bell WWX had made for JL took a long time to create:

Wen Ning, “Young Master, is this what you’ve been making for the past month or so, when you were shutting yourself in the Cave on days upon end?”

Wei WuXian, “That’s right. As long as that nephew of mine carries this bell around, not a single creature whose level is just a bit too low can even think about getting close to him. You can’t touch it. It’ll probably leave you affected for some time as well if you do.”

(Chapter 76, ExR translation)

If a bell that could only protect a person from the weakest creatures took a whole month to create (I assume because a lot of energy needed to be stored in it), how much longer would it take to destroy an immensely powerful artifact like the Tiger Seal, which could even surpass the power of its creator and didn’t recognize a master? We’re talking about something that was forged from a piece of metal that had accumulated resentful energies for centuries and WWX himself admits making it into a usable tool was a long and difficult process. Even destroying just a half probably required a lot of time to gradually dissipate all the resentful energy that was stored in it. Since we know the siege happened three months after the bloodbath of Nightless City - and considering WWX probably had other things to do in the meantime, like strengthening the defenses of the Burial Mounds for the attack he knew would come sooner or later - he had enough time to successfully obliterate one half of the Seal and start destroying the other one. Before he could completely destroy the second half, the sects arrived to besiege him and he had to focus on protecting himself and the Wen remnants.

Moreover, the process of destroying the Tiger Seal didn’t only require a lot of time, but an incredible amount of energy as well. By the time the siege happened, he was probably already exhausted. This would explain why he received a backlash and lost control of his army of corpses, since we know demonic cultivation is affected by the mental state of the one practicing it. Besides, seeing JC - the person who was once like a brother to him - lead the siege meant to kill him and destroy everything he was fighting for didn’t help his mental state at all. All of WWX’s guilt and grief at the time were already a lot to bear, but knowing that his former shidi hated him so much that he took part in the siege as the leader must have shaken him quite a bit. We don't see him sad often, but one of the few times we do is when he gets reminded of JC's role in his death while he's watching a group of kids impersonating them in a game based on the Sunshot Campaign (chapter 32).

I think WWX did what he could to protect the Wen remnants, but his exhaustion combined with his unstable mental state made him lose control of his demonic cultivation and receive a backlash, which led to him being torn to pieces by his own ghost army and dying in a really gruesome way.

The fact that he died because his cultivation method backfired and he was torn to pieces by the corpses he could no longer control is stated in the novel multiple times:

“Rejoice, rejoice! Say, which hero dealt the finishing blow to the Yiling Laozu?”

“Who else could it be? His disciple-brother, Chief Jiang Cheng of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect! [...] Sect Chief Jiang killed his own disciple-brother and destroyed his lair for the good of us all. The Burial Mounds are gone!”

[...]

“But that’s not what I heard. I thought one of his evil tricks backfired and he was shredded to pieces by those ghosts of his. Some say that they bit and tore at him so viciously that by the end of it, his body was no more than a slurry of flesh and bone dust.”

(Chapter 1, Fan Yiyi translation)

After a moment of silence, Wei Wuxian said, “What else have you heard?”

“Jiang Cheng, Clan Chief Jiang, brought people to encircle and besiege the Burial Mounds. He killed you, sir.”

“I have to clarify this. He didn’t kill me. I died because one of my techniques backfired.”

Wen Ning finally lifted his eyes and looked at him directly. “But, Clan Chief Jiang, he clearly—“

“It’s impossible for someone to walk on a lonely, single-log bridge safely and soundly for an entire lifetime. It couldn’t be helped.”

(Chapter 43, Fan Yiyi translation)

Jin GuangYao, “It is true that body sacrifice cannot be proven, but whether or not he is the YiLing Patriarch can. Ever since the YiLing Patriarch had received the cultivation backlash and been torn to dust by his ghouls on the top of the Burial Mounds, his sword was collected by the LanlingJin Sect. But, not long afterwards, the sword sealed itself.”

(Chapter 50, ExR translation)

Some of the things that were said about the first siege - like that JC had dealt the fatal blow to WWX - were untrue, but since the backlash is something WWX himself confirms we can safely take it as a fact. Also, a lot of people were present during WWX’s death and witnessed it with their own eyes, so they knew how he died. JGY, who described WWX’s death as him being “torn to dust by his ghouls”, was probably one of them since the Jin Sect was on the frontline as one of the main forces.

In my opinion, WWX started destroying the Tiger Seal not long after returning to the Burial Mounds. What finally made him decide to eliminate such a dangerous artifact from the world was the bloodbath it had caused at Nightless City. He had originally resolved not to use it unless it was really necessary, but he ended up activating it when he wasn’t clear-headed at all, in a moment of extreme desperation and grief after his whole world had crumbled, his beloved shijie had died and everyone condemned him and blamed him for everything that had happened. He wasn’t proud of all the people he had killed and didn’t want something like that to happen ever again, so he finally resolved to destroy the most powerful weapon he had, which until then he had kept as a deterrent to discourage others from attacking him, since he sensed that sooner or later the cultivation world would turn against him.

He knew perfectly well that destroying the Tiger Seal would leave him in a more vulnerable position (though he still had his demonic cultivation to protect himself and the Wen remnants), but he chose to do it anyway because he knew it was the right thing to do. Such a terrible artifact couldn’t be allowed to fall into the wrong hands under any circumstances, and he knew his own fate was sealed since the sects had already labeled him as the scourge of the cultivation world and sooner or later they would come to besiege him. Instead of perpetuating the cycle of violence, WWX chose to willingly put himself in a more precarious position, but it wasn’t the destruction of the Tiger Seal itself that killed him. It was a series of circumstances that his decision partially contributed to.

[stoneworldsimp]

the dying poet

senku x reader

warnings: angst, mentions of food/water deprivation, swearing

day seven.

fuck, fuck, FUCK!

it felt like you had been running for hours, trying to shake this wild animal off. you made sharp turns behind large bushes in hopes of losing it, you’d hold as still as possible behind large roots on the ground, but the animal kept finding you in one way or another.

“please go away,”you panted. “c’mon. you’ve been chasing me fucking forever, can’t you just give up?!”

you were tired; your legs were about to buckle in on themselves. dinner one night was suddenly ruined when you realized the fucker was watching you eat. in the beginning you thought it was only after your food, not you; you threw a random ration away from your camp in hopes to get it away from you. in hindsight, it only worked until you fell asleep.

you were lucky to wake up the next morning alive; your set up had been ripped to shreds, and footprints were on the ground around your body. it was painstakingly slow and nerve wracking to escape your position, but once you had everything you absolutely needed, you booked it.

sprinting for miles after miles proved to be very difficult for quite some time now.

the phone...it’s weighing me down. my bag of food isn’t even half as heavy as the phone.

looking down at the call button in your hand, you thought about tossing the phone. maybe i can fix it.. no, i don’t have any tools, the fucking animal chewed on them like dog bones. is there any way to put the wire back together...?

“FUCK my life!”

you took the phone off your back and threw it to you left, careful not to trip yourself in the process. immediately, you and your body felt the difference. with your new found energy, the run away was becoming easier, and helped you see a large cave just over the horizon. using the last of your energy, you took as large of steps as you can, and practically threw your body into the cave. the animal’s footsteps were nowhere to be heard, but you figured you didn’t want to take any chances and look behind you. you were finally breaking free from being chased, just a little deeper into this cave, and if i can find specific markings then i can backtrack—

a deep, loud rumble took you away from your thoughts. in no time, you were engulfed in dust and thick particles you didn’t know of.

the caved had closed in.

day one.

“i can do it.”

“are you sure? its a pretty perilous trip—“

“you should at least bring one other person with you—“

you sighed, exasperated that you had to defend your case once again. it had been days since the decision was made; you were going to make a trip to another part of the island in hopes to find extremely specific materials for one of senku’s projects... and it was far, far away.

quite frankly, you were the only one fit for the adventure. you were known to travel well on foot, had an exceptional sense of direction and you had a good eye for natural elements, as well as food; you also were unintentionally the least helpful when staying in the village. you didn’t have the crafting skills to successfully make glass or metal components for his experiments, and you never trusted your brain when helping senku with calculations and blueprints.

hearing senku and gen talk about this long trip to another part of the island was almost a dream come true. it was perfect for someone with your skillset, and kept you from being in the way of everybody else.

“it’ll be fine. c’mon, you guys have SOME faith in our traveler, right?”

you turned around, a smile on your face as you caught senku walking out of his lab. thank you, you mouthed.

once senku reached you and the group of villagers crowding near you, he spoke up again. “this trip is a straight shot from the bridge, the only problem would be that it’s going to take some time. possibly a month just to get there. but you,” he turned to face you,”have excellent outdoorsy-type skills that will make it really easy for you to spot what we need right away. everyone needs to stop worrying, because you’ll be there and back in no time. two months will pass like nothing.”

as the rest of the group walked away, mumbling their skepticisms, senku took your hand and tugged you back to the lab.

“what’re you taking me here for? oh wait,”you planted your feet at the front of the lab curtains, keeping the both of you from entering. “are you making me help you with your math again? because—”

“no, you’re pretty terrible at calculations,”he replied. “i have something for you.”

you puffed out your cheeks in embarrassment, but your expression completely changed once the curtain was opened.

on the table, there was a telephone. if was the size of a backpack, but it still had a speaker, a microphone, and a call button.

“i made it for you to take on the trip, in case you have any emergencies. i fully trust you in your own survival skills, but you never know if something extreme happens.”

you gave his hand a squeeze before letting go. as you walked closer to the table, you touched the outer fabric. you turned back to senku. “thank you.”

“you don’t have to thank me. i’m only making something that’s essential to your travels.”

“even still,” you trailed off. “i appreciate it.”

you turned back around and beamed at senku. “i’m not going to call you until i get there. i want to make sure that no enemies try to tail me if they hear me, as much as i’d want to give in right away and hear your voice. something like that...”

“how corny.” senku smiled and pulled you close while you laughed. you jumped a bit when his hands made their way around your waist.

“a bit touchy today,” you asked, grabbing hold of his shoulders. “but i’m not complaining.”

“i’m stockpiling the feeling of you for the weeks to come. we’ve never spent this much time apart before; it’s only logical.”

“i guess you’re right.”

he kissed you, multiple times; each one was deeper than the last.

day eleven.

he brought me a flower every morning, because i always slept in later than him. he’d wake up at the asscrack of dawn, just to have more time to jot ideas down. i used to try and pull him back to sleep with me, but he was so overflowing with plans, i didn’t want to stop him.

you turned on your side.

i remember he went to explore with chrome really early one morning, and apparently they found some huge meadow with a bunch of plants. ever since then, he would bring me a different kind; it was always a single flower, too. they were different colors and shapes, and some were enormous and some were smaller than my finger. he never woke me up for it, though. he would just leave it for me when i woke up on my own. it was always a surprise, almost startling when i’d open my eyes. it was my own pick-me-up for the day, in a sense.. no matter what happened the night before, waking up to a new type of flower would put me in a good mood every time. it was better than a coffee in the morning.

i wonder if he’s looking at the flowers with chrome everyday while i’m gone. man, i still wake up hoping to see a new one in front of me.

sure, reminiscing was fun and felt good, but what’s the point? you had eaten all of your food approximately two days ago, you only had about a teaspoon of water left, and there was no getting out of there. the way you came in had been covered in a dam of rocks. you couldn’t even dig yourself out.

you furiously wiped the tears that fell from your eyes. “senku...why did i think i could go alone?”

day fifteen.

poke, poke—

something was touching you. no, someone was touching you. your head bobbed side to side, in an attempt to shake them off.

damn, that’s persistent.

opening your eyes, you woke up to senku smiling. he was knelt beside your form. “wake up, sleeping beauty! it’s been almost three hours.”

it’s only been three hours?!

you sat up way too fast, and felt lightheaded as you tried to ask,”but...why didn’t you.. wake me up earlier? did everybody...did everyone eat already?”

he laughed. “yeah, sorry. we all thought you were out doing something with chrome. but,” he turned around, to grab something behind him,”i saved some in case you got hungry when you came back.”

you took the food in a dizzy haze. was it even food? you didn’t care too much, it felt like you hadn’t eaten for a long time. any food at this point was good food.

you couldn’t even swallow the first bite. “do you- is there..any water?”

“what?” senku pulled away from you, a look of disbelief painted across his face. it was clear as day.

you hesitated, feeling more lightheaded than before. “w- water?”

“don’t you remember?” he asked. he turned away from you. “there hasn’t been any water in days.”

it’s been days.

your body jolted from its spot, and harsh reality hit you square in the face.

yes, right. you shakily rubbed your eyes to make sure they weren’t cemented shut.

in the cave, finished your food, no water to be found. making yourself walk around was no use, either; without the fuel, your body was essentially just a trembling mess.

you scowled at yourself; unsure of what to do, what to even think.

day eighteen.

you remembered how he kissed you. the first kisses the most; you always had to tell him to not look so terrified. you also had to remind him to not stand like a statue when you kissed. pretty soon, after some reassurance, he got comfortable. there was nothing but confidence in the way he caressed your face in his hands. usually he was the one to pull away; you were so mesmerized, it felt as if the world completely stopped.

they were always quick and out of the way in public. usually, it was on your forehead or your one of your cheeks. the deep kisses you felt when you two were alone were incomparable. soft lips remained on yours for what felt like centuries. he tasted sweet, in his own way—

wait, who?

you licked your lips slowly, trying to think.

it was no use; you couldn’t even remember what he looked like. you lolled your head to the side and stared at the outline of a rock a couple of feet away.

once i get out of here, i’ll kiss him. whoever it was. it won’t matter if it’s just us, or more people. i’ll kiss him forever.

maybe if i go to sleep.. i can see him again.

[merge-conflict]

the damn things overlap ch. 14 - old devils

thank you so much to @streetkid-named-desire for your beta skills they were enormously helpful 🙏

With V out of commission it's up to Johnny to get her out of the hands of Arasaka and back to safety. Unfortunately, Smasher has other plans.

A burst of distorted laughter sent adrenaline screaming up the inside of Johnny’s lungs as he turned to find its source. Half a century later and Smasher was less human than ever: a ghoulish half-skinned skull bolted onto a brutal metal frame and armored with enough heavy plating to make the float shift when he lurched into motion. He towered over Oda, shoulders hunched so the launcher perched on his shoulder didn’t scrape the ceiling. Behind him was the smoking ruin of the hole he’d blown open, the unsettled dust and debris making his red eyes glow like fire: Arasaka’s oldest hellhound. Something about the angle at which he was leering down at him made Johnny feel like he was standing in and out of a nightmare, unarmed and paralyzed while his mind tried to catch up with V’s hammering heart. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his arm ached bone-deep, numbness flickering up and down from his elbow to his fingertips. The air stank suddenly of charred flesh and scorched metal, like saltwater and bloated decay. Black dog dreams. He reached again for V, but she was gone and he was alone. No V, no Hand, just him. “Too stupid to stay dead,” Smasher spat, leaning over Oda in a way that made the man instinctively tense, grip tightening painfully on Johnny's shoulder. “That really you, Johnny-boy?”

>> Read the rest on AO3<<

[omniscientwreck]

With Every Single Thing I Have

Beginning note: ***MAJOR SPOILERS FOR C2 E141***

CW: Character Death, Talk of Death

This is my interpretation of the canon description of Essek and Caleb’s days with some good angst thrown right in there. I have no knowledge of what is or isn’t cannon about the afterlife in Critical Role so this may be canon divergent but I needed it to cope. I hope you enjoy! Title Is Taken From The Song Two by Sleeping At Last

Caleb Widogast is dying.

He’s old, nearly 90 years of age. His body aches with every rain, stairs become more difficult, but his casting never fades. His mind is sharp and he reads, learns, and teaches until the end comes for him. Up in his tower, exhausted and bed-ridden he hears shuffling outside the door before it opens without so much as a touch and a tray of food is brought in. Essek Thelyss glides gently into the room, “Oh good, you’re awake. I prepared a light lunch for you, would you eat?”

Nodding back at the drow, the bittersweet smile that’s become a companion to him in Essek’s presence settling again into his wrinkled features. Essek sits on the bed beside him, book in hand as he often does and the memories written all over Caleb’s face come flooding back.

They had gone back to Aeor after the business in Rexxentrum concluded. Jester had helped Caleb locate Essek and when he found out he wasn’t too late, he was still at the outpost, he’d gone almost immediately. The winter clothes they’d bought all those months ago to chase their lost friend still fit and they carried many memories in them with the promise of more to come.

Their time together in Aeor was long. They took many months scouring the ruins for every book they could find. Between his Vault of Amber and Essek’s Wristpocket as well as a borrowed bag of holding they were able to collect the knowledge of Aeor. They found every device, every tiny dunamantic stone. They went back to the machine, the one that promised Caleb his dreams, closure, a chance to atone. The one that could change Essek’s past, that would give him his freedom.

Essek gazed upon the machine and he decided to remain in hiding. He looked directly at Caleb, made the decision to live forever with the consequences of his actions, because without them they wouldn’t have this. This moment, this trip, these memories.

It is Caleb’s turn now to gaze upon his destiny. He looks into the lavender eyes boring into him with the question Will you do it? His plan is perfect, the only thing that changes is that his parents are not dead and one day maybe he can reunite with them. He can see them grown old, he can tell them everything he’s done. They can be proud of him.

His mind shifts to the Nein, to Veth, Jester. To Astrid and Eodwulf. Back to Essek. It’s impossible to know what would happen if he did this. If he’d be able to come back. Is it really worth giving up everything he knows? Potentially giving up the Mighty Nein not only for himself but for them too?

He reaches into his components bag, smears dust across his forearm and with a green ray he carves away the experiment. He destroys, permanently, any hope of ever going back, in favour of hope for the future. Essek helps him burn everything and when they’re done he can only stare at the drow. The man who’s come so far, allowed himself to be so changed by the love of friends (Caleb’s love) that he went from enemy to beloved companion. He stares and divergent futures flash before his eyes as if he’s staring deep into the Luxon. They all end the same, he dies and Essek lives on without him for many years. The change is in the times in between now and then.

He knows which one he want and if the last two months were any indication Essek had his own hopes.

A week or so later, they ate in the tower. When the Nein first separated the tower had felt empty, he usually elected to sleep in a hotel room or in the dome under the stars. With Essek it’s easier to be there. They’ve fallen into a comfortable routine while researching that involves them spending the day immersed in ancient secrets forgotten to time. They would spend hours in complete silence, reading in tandem or copying runes and arcane patterns and then one of them would find something truly tantalizing and the silence would be broken as they began theorizing. When Essek gets excited his lavender eyes brighten and his whole face lifts and it’s no secret to Caleb that his heart races and his face melts into a soft, tender expression that Essek catches and matches.

After, they’ll go into the tower and eat, served warm soups and breads by little fey cats and then they read in the study in companionable silence until they retire to separate rooms. This night, a week before their time was up, Caleb’s keen mind caught up with him. Suddenly he became very aware of the passage of time, the potential futures slipping away and he rests his spoon on the table, overwhelmed by the shrinking timeline ahead.

They talk that night, instead of reading. They sit in two armchairs in a quiet carpeted room lit by purple globules of light, gently bobbing around their heads and they talk. They talk for hours. Essek tells Caleb his sins and Caleb elaborates on his own. They talk plainly and it’s hard to do, but at some point the chairs moved closer, and then their hands touched, eventually Essek’s hands were folded into Caleb’s.

He felt closer to Essek after that. For the rest of the week it was easier to reach out and grasp his hand, to pull him into a hug. Two weeks later, they talked again and after that they kissed. Their kisses weren’t frequent but they were familiar, a warm comfort over those last weeks in Aeor.

Theirs was not a whirlwind romance. It was something more precious and much more difficult to describe. It burned slow and and steadily rose until something had to be done. They kept in close contact after Aeor, it is those letters that begin the new collection that fills Caleb’s left holster.

They visit occasionally until the burn of the eyes of the Dynasty on Essek’s back became too hot. Caleb has taken to staying in Nicodranas when he and Beauregard are taking a break from dismantling centuries old systems to weed out the rot so he asks Essek to come stay with him. Quietly, out of the eyes of the empire and most of their friends, they begin to build a life. They construct with care, laying a sturdy foundation because though they both know this arrangement is temporary they promise to always be together in one way or another; because though gravity can be altered, it always rights itself and the pull Caleb feels towards Essek, has felt for some time, is a law of his nature.

They allow themselves as long as the other will have them and they spend years together. The kisses become more frequent as they gradually abandon inhibitions. Caleb’s life is a blink compared to Essek and he becomes more aware each year of the limited time he has. He and Essek stay together in varying locations for as long as he can bear it, he realizes now that they have earned this happiness, however fleeting. It will always be a larger portion of his life than it will be of Essek’s so he holds out as long as he can. He begins to teach in this time and though Essek cannot really be free he still has his work studying their findings and occasionally he travels.

Caleb watches him advance so much in their decade together and he gets bleary eyed imagining all Essek will do when he’s gone. They learn together, share every meal, he learns Undercommon and teaches Zemnian, and they spend every possible night together in every possible way. They share a sweet and intense passion and Caleb’s love sinks deeper and deeper into his heart.

When his forehead wrinkles and his hair is greying he realizes his time is up. He has goals, he needs to teach, he needs to fully commit to being in the Empire and his short life must be spent doing as he promised all those years ago, making each place better than he found it. That is the hardest conversation he’s ever had. “I wish it were not this way. That it didn’t have to be, but I do not have as much time as you so I must burn brightly to make my impact. I will always love you Essek Thelyss.”

“And I you Caleb Widogast. When you stumbled into my life all those years ago, Empire infiltrator holding my greatest crime in your hand I had no idea what would happen. You were a variable I did not account for, could never have foreseen. Of all the possible futures in store for me this one, where I am here with you, where I have been here with you for ten years and where I will continue to be by your side thought it is not the same is the best one I could have never predicted.”

They give themselves one last year. They don’t travel, Caleb takes the year off and they spend 328 days exactly together, in bliss. They do their best not to allow the apprehension of good-bye to creep in. Caleb knows it’s not good-bye, not truly and not forever. But when the day comes though he tries to hold it back he cries bitter tears and holds Essek tight and the smaller man shakes with his own sobs. But they loved each other for eleven years, and they manage to continue loving each other for another fourty or so.

Essek leaves and travels for a while to do his own work. This is frequent in the latter half of Caleb’s life but every time he comes back and his friend brings him stories and listens to all of his own. They help each other research, Caleb still tells him everything and relishes every moment they spend together. They no longer kiss but they are still partners.

Caleb’s life has been better, more fulfilling than he could ever have hoped stumbling out of that wretched prison at the beginning of his second life. He learned peace through the Nein and later through Essek and now that he’s at the end of his time he knows he could not have lived a better life.

Caleb Widogast is old, older than he ever thought he’d be and while his bones and muscles give out and he goes to the Blooming Grove where Caduceus has always said he will end up, to spend his final months, Essek follows.

He cooks the soups the cats used to, they remember everything together, Caleb’s mind keen but Essek has kept up well. At just the right time, Caleb knows. Essek is sat beside him in the bed, the wizards reading in tandem as they’ve done before and fallen into again in this late stage. They have been kissing again, Caleb allowing this last indulgence, one last selfish act. Essek needs it too.

“Essek Thelyss, thank you for everything you’ve done for me. My constant companion, the center of my gravity. You who bent time and space for me and taught me so many things from magic to forgiveness. I have loved you all my life from the moment I could and I would never dream to change a single thing.”

“Caleb Widogast. I have treasured every moment we have spent together, you changed my life, saved a man who knew not that he was dying. I have been happy because I know you and I will continue to be happy because you will never be far from my heart.”

“Please promise to me that you will take care of the others. Allow them to care for you. Find new people and care for them and allow yourself to be cared for in return, live your life as fully as you are able, and when you are done I will see you again just as I am about to see my family.”

“I will. You have loved me all of your life and I will love you for all of mine. I will never know someone like you again. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of your companionship. It is an honor to love you and it always will be.”

The quiet conversation fades and they share one final kiss and Essek sits as Caleb drifts to sleep, gently running his fingers through his hair. Then he goes to get Caduceus. Caleb Widogast is dead.

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

Essek Thelyss is dying.

He is nearly 740 years old and he is in decline. He, like his friends before him, retires to the Blooming Grove to live out his remaining days, however many they might be. Caduceus’ kin are caring and when he shows up on their doorstep they expect him. “He told us you would arrive one day. Welcome home and thank you for being here.”

Essek’s life has been a thing of remarkable chance, nearly improbable. He has learned to manipulate as much as he can but even he could not have foreseen the path he ended up taking. He has lived so long, and his life has been full but he is tired.

Fjord had been the first of the Nein to pass. After him Caleb. After Caleb the group coalesced around him. They had never shared many details, but they seemed to know. Keeping his promise to Caleb he allowed them to care for him. To bring him food, to message him to make sure he was okay. They invited him on adventures when they needed and he never turned them down.

They continued asking him to teleport them and every single time he did. Kingsley goes next and then Beauregard. Those years are full of so much loss condensed into such a tiny portion of his existence. He isn’t used to things happening so quickly and he begins to reach out. New connections. He finds people to care for, to mentor and to bolster. He dedicates his life to using aliases to research and study and publish materials to help the mages after him and Caleb. He finds himself beseeched by parties of assholes for assistance and while he never fights alongside another group he makes himself useful in any other way in his ability.

He always imparts the lesson to leave the world better than they found it, and if they listen, if they are the same as his friends, the best people he’s ever known, the world will survive yet. There is a pause between good-byes for a number of years. Then he loses Yasha and Jester. Jester is one of the hardest, the friendly little blue tiefling with a heart for adventure who hugged him when touch had still burned. After her goes Veth and after Veth, finally Caduceus goes back to the earth.

He promised Caleb to live a full life, but every year, the anniversary of the day they met several lifetimes ago, he visits the Blooming Grove. He walks the grounds, he sits with Caleb and he tells him of his research, he reminisces and he whispers love to the flowers that grow. They are fiery orange and yellow with some deep purple and blue spattered among them. Caduceus says on his first visit that the blue ones are called forget-me-nots. Essek picks one every year and presses it into a book, like Yasha showed him once upon a time.

Caduceus and Essek drink the tea from the flowers Caleb gave them. For centuries they sat together, telling stories, having extended conversation year after year. Some years Caduceus travelled so Essek made his vigil alone, but he never forgot Caleb and he never forgot the Mighty Nein. They lived as long as he did for they were in his heart always.

The last time he visits Caleb they talk for hours. “Every good thing I have done, every positive emotion and happiness I have known in these centuries has been because of you. You allowed me to feel again and the best decision I could have ever made was letting my plan go to allow myself to grow close to you.”

He is lying beside the grave twirling a delicate blue flower between wrinkled, aching fingers. “Caleb Widowgast you have lived with me for a long while and I thank you again for the gifts you gave me while you were here. I hope you are proud of me. I love you to the end of my days my friend.”

He falls asleep then, in the night of the Blooming Grove, fireflies and an infinite expanse of stars casting gentle light across his stilling form.

As Essek Thelyss fades he finds himself again in a garden. It is brightly coloured and lush, well cared for. There is a small cottage there and as he glides to the door, drawn to it as if by gravity, it opens and he sees copper hair, vibrant blue eyes, and the widest smile he’s missed the most, “I told you my friend, we would meet again.”

“I never doubted you Caleb Widogast.”

[cupcakemolotov]

My Only Love: Part 2

Well, ages later, and I managed this.

When Stefan and Damon find a coffin holding an original, they hope they find an ally. They find Caroline instead. Part 1 on A03

Warnings: Alternate Universe; Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; original!caroline; hybrid!Klaus;Canon-Typical Violence; Blood Drinking; Blood and Gore; Character Death (Not OTP); Not Salvatore Friendly; Biting; No Smut Yet

                                                       -

Skirts and nails and lips bloody, her left hand curled carefully around the strange device she had plucked from Stefan’s hand the same way she’d taken his secrets, Caroline swept out of the dank and dreary basement to find just how the world had changed. A hundred years surely had more than one fascinating new thing to marvel at, and she wanted it all. 

But mostly she wanted her husband.

It was unfortunate that the house was both astonishing and an utter disappointment. The windows were boarded, and the time-worn furniture and fading curtains were as alien to her as the wide expanse of the rooms. There were no gas lamps or candles here, but strange and delicate things made from blown glass that hung from the ceiling and turned the room nearly noon bright. Some of it was tacky, the colors were atrocious and who picked out those chairs? 

Did this modern work not believe in pretty yet comfortable? She was quite certain Klaus had insisted on owning a set of chairs just like those in the 1800s and she hadn’t liked them then either. And what was that fabric?

What kind of place had she been put away to rot?

Outside, she could feel the burn if the sun and frustration clawed at her. When her father-in-law had left her to rot, he’d taken everything he could. Her daylight ring, the pretty jewelry Klaus had gifted her the morning of her abduction, her favorite hair combs. But right then it was the lack of daylight ring she raged at the most. 

Caroline stared at what looked to be the front door with impotent longing. Somewhere out there was Klaus, free from the machinations of father who had hunted him all her life and she wanted to see what changes that freedom had wrought, to taste the triumph from his tongue. To feel him beneath her hands, to know they were free. 

It'd only been a handful of hours to her memories since she’d seen him last, but she could feel the ache of centuries in her bones. The lack of the man who had stood with his hand curved around hers for all the years of her life. Her nails dug into her palms, gouging little half moons, and she took a slow breath. 

Klaus has broken his curse. Mikael was dead, and she knew her husband was hunting for her with the same need that sat in her bones. He’d come to her as soon as he knew she was awake. She’d woken in a world where they’d won. Her lips curved as she recalled Stefan’s words, the angry, bitter pill of her husband’s triumphs clear in his gaze. Below her, she could hear him grieving, the death of brother the song that would usher her into this new existence.

It was fitting she decided, for this young vampire who wished to destroy Klaus to understand the pain he wished her to suffer. He’d wanted her family destroyed, and instead sacrificed his own. She’d leave him that agony for a while yet, her compulsion ensuring he would stay where he was, keeping the cooling corpse of his brother company. Right then, she had something far more important to do. 

Carefully, she wiped her fingers clean on the skirt of her dress, mourning the ruined fabric of it even though it was already liberally covered in blood. Stefan had carried no handkerchief to offer her and she had no wish to search the house for something more suitable to wipe her hands on. She’d already seen more than enough of this place, and wished nothing to delay her husband finding her. 

Hands mostly clean, she considered the smooth shape of what Stefan had told her was a phone in her hand. A strange, modern device that connected people's voices to voice, sometimes face to face. A wonderful little thing that would bring Klaus to her, when the sun was high in the sky and she had no way to go to him. 

It was fascinating. Stefan’s explanation of how to use it and just how radio signals worked had been quite poor, when she wished to know every facet of the device. What kind of world had it become that such fascinating technology should be so badly understood by those who used it? 

Klaus would help her learn. 

For a moment, her finger hovered over the strange cover, this screen and she let herself wish this reunion would happen when she was a little more composed. A hundred years, and she was dressed in a relic of the past, dust covered and splattered with gore. The gore bothered her less than the dust, the ancient wrinkles she had no way to improve. And what was the point? She planned, hoped to be quite naked very soon. 

Pushing aside that niggling vanity, she carefully copied the motions Stefan had shown her to work the phone. Thankfully, English itself hadn’t seemed to have gone through so many changes it was completely unrecognizable, the shape and form of letters familiar even if utterly strange in this… digital format. First, the odd thing he’d called a passcode. Then she found the green box at the bottom with the strange symbol, followed by recent calls. 

There it was. His name. Klaus. 

Such a simple thing, such a lifetime of need. 

Pressing his name, her brows drew down sharply as nothing happened. Muttering under her breath a number of curses at incompetent things, she carefully prodded the screen until something changed. An unexpected jolt of noise startled her, a loud sound that she supposed was ringing. She was going to have to have so much to catch up on.

“Stefan, rethought my offer?”

The sound of Klaus’ voice, so clear and with that soft mix of charm and menace she knew so well, unexpectedly clogged her throat. Fingers flying to her mouth, Caroline swallowed hard. It was one thing to hear that her husband had triumphed, but it was another to hear his voice. To viscerally know that he was alive and if she could just get her voice to work, he’d be here. 

“Klaus.” The single word came out rough. There was a sudden, fraught silence, and she wondered if the blasted device had stopped working.

“Who is this?” Klaus’ voice was sharp, dangerously bladed, and her eyes narrowed at the threat she could hear beneath his words. 

“I am told,” she said in tones that had cooled considerably. “That you should be able to understand me as easily as I understand you. If you require an introduction to your wife, century between us or not, I am going to be very displeased, Klaus Mikaelson.”

Behind him, there was a crash, a noise that sounded like bone breaking. Her brows furrowed, ears straining to catch any hint of sound. “What was that?”

“Caroline.” Her name was clipped, a thousand things she couldn’t understand in his voice. “Where are you”?

Spine snapping taut in irritation at the blatant order in his voice, the way he ignored her question, her fingers tightened on the screen. “I believe the vampire Stefan called it a boarding house?”

“Stay there.”

Her jaw dropped as there was sudden silence, the screen changing to once again and it occurred to her that he was no longer listening to her. The screen cracked beneath her grip, and she tossed it away. Clearly her husband had forgotten a thing or two in the intervening years such as her dislike of rudeness.

Stay there. 

As if she was a minion. 

As if they hadn’t seen each other in decades and decades. Blowing out a slow breath, she wrangled her temper. He certainly knew where she was but had given her no indication how long it would take him to reach her. Maybe she should head back downstairs and entertain herself with Stefan until he arrived. 

Debating, she blinked when outside, there was a noise, a blur of movement, and then the door opened with a wrench that nearly removed the door from its hinges. Her breath hitched in her throat, and Klaus stared at her from the perimeter of the room, eyes hotly yellow. 

His hair was shorn shorter than she’d ever seen it, the cut and make of his clothing as strange and foreign as the wolf in his eyes. But she knew him down to her bones, and she took half a step towards him without thought. But when he continued to just stare at her, to watch her with a carefully set expression, her remembered annoyance sprang to the surface. 

Hand sliding to her hip, Caroline stopped moving and narrowed her eyes. Temper and the smallest bit of hurt turned her voice hard. “I cannot believe the very first thing you're making me do after being released from that box is remind you that I am not…”

His face lost its passiveness, something vibrant and wild crossing his face before the distance between them disappeared with the curve of his palm on her jaw, and the press of his mouth, firm and plush and wanting, swallowed her complaint. Hands grasping for the feel of his shoulders, his spine, she pressed back with the same gasping need he always elicited in her, teeth sinking into his lip as both a need to taste and a chastisement for his behavior. He groaned against her mouth, tongue chasing hers as she slicked along the blood, and her head spun as he tangled himself in her skirts as they staggered backwards. 

His palm pressed against the back of her skull as he pressed close and her spine hit the wall, so close that hip, thigh and stomach were all one line of burning contact even with her skirts and his clothes between them. There was nothing passive in his touch or kiss as they let mouths and hands roam, and she dug in with her nails, demanding more. 

When he pulled back, lingering so they breathed heavily against each other’s mouths, his hand left her face to cup her hip, pulling her even closer. His gaze flickered down the line of her chest, to the blood splattered material that was both his and the other vampires, and his mouth curved slow and pleased before returning to her face. When he spoke, his voice was low and raspy, a thousand benedictions behind his eyes.

“Caroline.”

[fangirlshrewt97]

Underneath Your Clothes

Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)

Pairing: Joe x Nicky

Read on AO3

                                                        ///

You're a song Written by the hands of God Don't get me wrong 'Cause this might sound to you a bit odd But you own the place Where all my thoughts go hiding And right under your clothes Is where I find them Underneath your clothes There's an endless story There's the man I chose There's my territory And all the things I deserve For being such a good girl honey

- “Underneath Your Clothes” by Shakira

Nicky hummed mindlessly to the Italian song that was floating in through the open window. The singer was barely sixteen, but his voice was reminiscent of the great crooners. He always left with a tidy haul at the end of the day whenever he stopped by their corner. Nicky made a mental note to give him one of his pastries if he caught him before he left for the day.

The timer went off as the kid finished off his song. Nicky removed the baking tray into the oven, closing the door behind him with his hip. He placed the tray on the counter before turning off the timer. He smirked at it, a novelty “Italian Chef” timer Nile had gotten him for Christmas a few years ago. That had been a fun one.

He transferred the baked goods into a couple of large boxes once they had cooled and set the tray in the sink to soak. Once that was done, he cleaned the rest of the kitchen, satisfied only when the counters gleamed and the rest of the dishes were either put away or drying on the rack. Wiping his hands on the kitchen towel, he stepped away from the room. Rolling his neck, Nicky massaged one of his wrists, relieving the tension built up from a day spent rolling and preparing dough.

Glancing at the clock showed that it was 3 in the afternoon. Not bad for a day’s work. Checking the doors and windows were properly closed, Nicky made his way further into the house. Some of their down times were spent just catching their breath from a rough mission. Others, like this one, were to ground themselves back into the world, to remind themselves that their lives did not have to just be blood, vengeance, and seeking to bring justice to the evils of the world.

The breeze that drifted through the bedroom was tinged with the warm sunshine of the Mediterranean sun and the salty tinge of the sea. He leaned against the doorway, smiling softly at the sight that greeted him. Joe, sitting up with his back to the door, both hands in the air, fingers interwoven as he grunted from the stretching exercise. Once he finished, releasing a heavy breath, he placed his hands at the small of his back, curving backwards as far as he could go. The next exercise was placing his hands firmly by his hips and twisting his body until the cracks rang out. Nicky winced at their volume. Unfortunately muscle tension was not something that their healing cured.

Joe had decided to volunteer himself to help out with the renovations happening at the orphanage down the street because his husband had the largest heart that Nicky knew of. For the past three weeks they had been here, Joe would wake up without complaint when Nicky woke him at sunrise and leave for work. He would usually return after sunset, having stayed behind to wrangle the kids for dinner, hair covered in dust, plaster, paint, or on one memorable occasion, all three. Nicky occasionally dropped by to help with the kids, otherwise he occupied himself with cooking food for the crews and for the children.

But today was Sunday, so Joe had spent his day off sleeping most of the morning and afternoon away except for the meals Nicky had forced into him.

“Need help?” Nicky said softly as Joe grunted for the third time trying to stretch his arms all the way up.

Joe turned his head to see him quickly, shooting him one of his signature smiles. His shoulders betrayed his tiredness though. “I would never say no to your hands on me, ya amar.”

Snorting, Nicky made his way over to Joe, going around the bed to stand between his open legs. Gently, Nicky cupped the back of Joe’s neck with both hands and dug his thumbs into the space between his jaw and ears. Joe groaned, tipping forward until his forehead rested on Nicky’s stomach.

“Don’t stop.” Joe whined as Nicky moved to massage the back of Joe’s neck.

Nicky dipped down to press a kiss to the top of Joe’s head, the root of his palms  skating their way down his back in a firm press. Joe’s spine seemed to melt beneath his hands as his husband went floppy in his arms. He repeated the motion twice more, switching to a faster pace, and then to using folded fingers.

“Maybe you should take a break Joe, just because our bodies don’t stay hurt or ache doesn’t mean we cannot be sore if we push ourselves hard enough.” Nicky said while bringing his hands back up until they rested on Joe’s broad shoulders.

Joe let his head fall back, eyes half closed as he peered up at Nicky. “We are so close though Nicky. Just one more week.”

Nicky sighed. “Alright my love.”

Joe smiled at him and fully closed his eyes, nudging his head back into Nicky’s hands.

“Si, si, I am getting to it.” Nicky said fondly, bringing his fingers up to bury themselves in Joe’s curls. Systematically, he gathered the hair into two fists, squeezed, and then relaxed, moving to cover all of Joe’s scalp. He moved down to squeeze intermittently at his forehead, then to his ears, tugging and rubbing at them. He pressed his thumbs to Joe’s temple, the hum from his husband’s throat vibrating through his hands. A firm swipe down his proud nose, another two across the faint field of freckles spotted near the bridge of his nose. Strong hold of the jaw, fingers curling through the beard.

When Joe was halfway to sleep, Nicky leaned down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. And then another two over his closed eyelids.

Joe’s eyes fluttered open. “Hayati, I love you more than anything in this world, and will give it to you if you ask me.”

Nicky raised an eyebrow when Joe paused.  “But?”

“But I will fall asleep on you if you try to have sex with me right now.” Joe said sincerely, and with regret in his eyes.

Nicky laughed, fondness overflowing from his heart at his ridiculous fool.

“I will do my best not to have sex with you now then.”

Joe let out a mournful whine which just made Nicky laugh harder. It seemed to increase in volume when he stepped away from the reach of Joe’s outstretched hands.

“Oh you will survive Joe.” Nicky said as he walked over to their dresser. He hummed as he sorted through the contents of the drawer until he found the bottle he was looking for.

Opening it, he inhaled deeply, a content smile forming as the soothing scent of sandalwood and rose oil rose to greet him. Turning around, Nicky snorted at the sight. Joe was leaning back on the bed, body weight resting on his elbows as his head tipped back. The line of this throat called to Nicky.  

Moving towards him, Nicky placed the oil on the bedside table. He then gently pushed at Joe’s shoulders, the gentle shove enough to send Joe falling fully against the mattress. Carefully, Nicky threw a leg across Joe’s lap, hands running over his chest before they paused at the topmost button of his shirt.

“I thought you said we weren’t having sex.” Joe pouted at him, hands coming up instinctively to rest at Nicky’s hips, their warmth seeping through the thin cotton t-shirt Nicky had on.  He sometimes wondered if it would be possible for skin to indent from the constant press of something against it, like water cutting its way through a rock, or a leaf falling in wet cement. Wondered if at a microscopic level, his skin would be marked by the whorls of Joe’s fingertips.

“We aren’t.” Nicky said as he unbuttoned Joe’s shirt. He paused when it was fully open, lightly running his fingers across the length of the toned chest he could recall from memory.

In the later afternoon light, Joe was painted golden, and Nicky went dizzy with the wave of want that suddenly washed over him. So long together, and yet Joe made him burn hotter than anything else he had ever known.

Joe was his miracle, more than his immortality, a miracle in the shape of a man who had found it in him to not only forgive a man who had committed unspeakable atrocities against his people, but to love him so deeply, Nicky could feel it in his bones. The sun rose from the east, the Mediterranean was home, Joe loved him.

Joe let out a little giggle when Nicky’s fingers caressed his sides, a ticklish spot Nicky was not afraid to exploit when he needed it. That wasn’t what this was about though. Joe did not need a tease. He deserved a reward.

Humming in apology, Nicky set about stripping Joe down and manipulating him until he was laying at the center of the bed on his stomach, naked. Joe for his part let Nicky shift him to his heart’s content, settling heavily into the mattress.

After arranging him comfortably, Nicky straddled the back of Joe’s thighs, armed with the bottle of massage oil. Pouring a handful out, he closed it tightly before wringing his hands, making sure to oil them thoroughly. He placed his hands on Joe’s shoulders, thumbs settling near the start of Joe’s spine while his other fingers curled around the meat of Joe’s shoulders. He squeezed tightly, pushing his weight into it as he worked to relieve the knots he could feel underneath his hands.

Joe started moaning, a deep and heavy sound that Nicky tried to tune out lest they distract him.

Here were Joe’s shoulders, that had once slung an injured soldier across them, a child who had come to frontlines in the name of patriotism. He had trekked through the trenches till he’d delivered him to a field hospital.

Here were his arms, corded with muscles honed through fighting with scimitar and broadsword and gun, but also honed with the manual labor of tilling fields and repairing houses.

And here, his forearms, his wrists, his hands. Long fingers capable of creating masterpieces that could rival the artistic geniuses of the past centuries.

His strong back, his spine, which bent but never broke, that never stayed down for long. That did not bow in the face of injustice, and willingly took punishment to spare an innocent the scars that would not mar his skin for long.

His hips, which had seated countless kids when they had downtime during rescue missions, a throne and a safety cushion from which they could learn the old names of the constellations, and about seeing the beauty even in the war-torn landscape.

His ass, which Nicky would truly never get enough of.

Further down, his thighs, his calves, hard from decades of walking, running, marching, criss-crossing Earth. Nile had attempted to do the math once, to see how many miles they had walked in their long lives, how many times had they theoretically circumnavigated the globe. The average person from the 21st century would walk 110,000 miles in a lifetime. She had despaired trying to figure out if she should combined Nicky and Joe’s steps or count them individually, and then given up entirely when faced with Andy’s history.

His feet, soft only because of their healing powers, feet that had carried him barefoot over every terrain, through grass and sand and snow and sea.

When Nicky reached back up to place a kiss on Joe’s neck, he heard Joe’s soft snores.

Smiling softly, he pressed another kiss to Joe’s cheek and got out of bed.

He returned to the kitchen, scrubbing the baking tray clean and leaving it to dry. He grabbed one of their disposable boxes and placed two pastries into it. Checking to make sure he was dressed decently, Nicky jogged down the steps of the house just as the busker was placing his guitar back in his case.

“Lorenzo!” Nicky called, signalling for him to wait up. Lorenzo blushed, and huh, maybe Joe wasn’t so far off with his theory the kid had a crush on Nicky. He gave him the box, Lorenzo accepting it with wide eyes.

Nicky shrugged and looked at his sweetly. “You should eat enough to have the strength to keep singing.”

Lorenzo grinned and nodded before waving bye to him. Nicky watched until the kid had boarded the bus before making his way back home. Just before entering, he purchased a handful of dahlias from the flower vendor.  

Joe had shifted to his back when Nicky re-entered their bedroom, his arm slung over his stomach, fingers twitching as though they were searching for something. Nicky placed the flowers with the vase by the bedside table so Joe would see them when he woke up.

Walking one last time around the house to make sure everything was locked up, Nicky removed his own t-shirt and pants so he was in just his underwear. He folded the clothes neatly and placed them on top of the laundry hamper before he crawled into bed. Gently lifting Joe’s arm, Nicky settled on top of Joe’s chest, ears filling with the sound of Joe’s heartbeat.

A subtle hitch in Joe’s breath and the tightening of the arm around him alerted Nicky to his husband’s wakeful status.

“Thank you for the wonderful massage, cuore mio.” Joe breathed softly.

Nicky turned and nuzzled into his side, making him let out a laughing gasp. “Anytime, vita mia.”

Joe drifted back to sleep within a few breaths. Nicky laid awake for some more time.

Nearly a thousand years he had been by Joe’s side, had had the permission to touch him like lovers do. And yet the thrill of it was always present, the gift never unappreciated.

He did not know whether or not he would ever atone for all the sins he committed over his long life, and at this point he did not much care.  The only person who’s opinion mattered to him was right here.

Joe, who had seen first hand what Nicky had done. Joe, who had been killed by his hands. Who had killed him his fair share of times. Who had allowed him to stumble his way but never left him. Who had heard every secret fantasy and dream and fear Nicky had thought of, and promised to guard them. Joe who had been with him for every adventure and story this crazy life threw their way.

Joe who spent their vacation helping with renovations at an orphanage.

And here, bare between them, this was Nicky’s reward. Call him selfish, Nicky would share a lot with the world, but this was his. This love, this trust. This life.

Joe was his. His love. His territory. His sanctuary. His to keep.