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ilianasbruce · 17 hours ago

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“The man on the altar.”

word count: 3,400

summary: Bruce understands what religion meant

warnings: full +18 content with some religious themes. minors do not interact, please.

notes: hello, hello!!! i’m back with a piece that had been rounding around my head for a long time. it’s actually a small one that i dreamed about when i thought of ‘what would Bruce think of sex if he was young and in love with his wife?’. i highly believe that young lover Bruce’d be obsessed with his wife; he’d be following her until the end of the world, she’d mean too much to him. and he’d mirror her actions, her love, and learn about the physical intimacy. this piece will be exploring the thought as i did in my previous works but i plan to sweeten and enrich my vision in my future pieces.

i must say that Bruce that i am writing and analyzing based on my views; i heavily try to write and create him based on his experiences, thoughts, and views of the world through my own reading and listening to comics. i had seen enough content about Bruce’s terrible representation, both as a father and lover and it is so heartbreaking to see them constantly. Anyone who portrays him in that way, specifically comic writers and fiction writers, either way, do not want to know about him or they just do not know him — just writing him out of his character. i’m not here to judge, i’m a writer here, too but i wish people could write based on what they really saw in him, not the constant circling of his constant representation. i am very open to your ideas, notions, and views, beautiful strangers!! please, if you have any of them, come to my ask-aways and let’s discuss them!! thank you so much for your reading and support of my fiction. i love you!!! happy reading!! ♡

Bruce was nearly a virgin before you. There was no shame in that. He had been bruised, stained with a tragedy throughout his life; unable to escape from the haunting echoes. He had no time or chance for it.

Bruce had been crumbled with his own wrath. His rage had him in the situations that resulted in the person who was today. His initial catalysts weren't coming from No man’s land. It had a name. Tragedy was a mere word for someone or people who only knew the paper meaning of the word. No one knew the exact meaning, sense, or form of tragedy, except the ones who had lived through it. The ones who had seen, felt, maddened by its unmistakable seconds of it.

Bruce knew that very well.

Tragedy bent Bruce in a way that could not be remedied. It gave him some traits, woke the early thoughts in his small mind without his comprehension of their meaning. The blood-covered concrete under his ricocheting gaze, in the middle of his beloved parents’ freshly warm corpses and his mother’s beautiful eyes — all created a bunch of sentiments, views of the world. And they shaped him in the ways.

Anger and justice — those were the ones rooted in Bruce since the tragedy, the first beliefs craved in his mind, those he couldn't breathe the air without. They were in a sense opposite of each other. How could an outraged person know what justice was from their chaotic vision? To know and understand justice?

Justice could be done with an open mind. Fairness and proper judgment must be the main characteristics of the man who sought justice. Not the anger. Not the wrath. Not the rage.

Bruce was painted with anger, that was why he never understood the need. He was blinded by the darkness of his tragedy. He chose wrath as a lamp and reached the destination he desperately searched for.

And there he was. Tall and ready when he hit his destination.

But an unfamiliar ache started in him when you came into his life; when you became his. Bruce felt it, the ache, as he felt anger for the first time, the meaning of it truly after the tragedy. And he felt the exact, familiar sense when he discovered something new, just as wrath itself before.

The ache formed itself into a need as he felt deeper. Need had started to consume him day by day when you were flourishing in this stormy life. Oh, how it burned him, left him confused but aware at the same time. He wanted you to be his desperately, the sense too intense as he laid his eyes on you every single time. He knew what it represented, what it threatened and he did not feel any shame about it. So, when you became his wife, he got what he scorched for — you.

You two had your first time on your honeymoon, away from Gotham for a few days. You were both young and in love, inexperienced and eager for each other. Bruce was your first in many things and physical intimacy was one of them. Sex was something that you did not engage in before him, partially making you equal to him. It was him with whom you learned about the intimacy between the lovers.

Two lovers — one belonged to the Sun and the other to the darkness. But Bruce refused to belong to anything, except you.

His loveliest, prettiest lover girl.

You tasted so sweet, melted in his mouth every time he kissed you. Or you dripped on his tongue delightfully when his handsome face was between your soft thighs feasting on you, which became the explicit definition of ‘heavenly’ in his terminology. You spun in Bruce’s mind ferociously — unconscious of your vision in him. You got him on his knees, got him obsessed with you.

He could not stand any chance against your love. He could not dare to leave your warmth. He altered his angles to the opposite directions, to the ones that he did not heed what they meant. He was blinded by you — his precious Sun in the dusk-covered life of his. And only Alfred did see his obsessive devotion to you.

Alfred, who brought Bruce up like his own blood son and raised him after the tragedy until Bruce left him for twelve years to come back with the unimaginable idea. Alfred, who sometimes riled Bruce up with his persistent worries about his safety and his recklessness about his own body, was stunned for the first time by how Bruce was towards you. How Bruce’s sharp and keen eyes were glinting when he heard your voice. He saw Bruce’s almost unhealthy love for you with his bare eyes.

He saw Bruce in different forms. He saw the silent delight in Bruce’s spirit when you were at Manor, doing something trivial. He saw his eased shoulders or the quiet excitement in his posture when he was with you. He saw how he appreciated and lavished you. He saw how he followed you as the Northstar. He saw, he heard and he was never expecting his son to be smitten like this.

So, when Bruce gave you his last name, his consumerism started, too.

Oh, after your first-ever sex, you nearly started to doing it once a week for the whole month. Him being tired? No worries, he had you under him with languid, deeper thrusts. Him being still energetic after being beaten up by thugs and your gorgeous eyes filled with sleep? He got you, ‘baby’. He circled around and came back to you. Again and again, with obsession and devotion.

You gave Bruce something he lacked and ached — peace. Peace meant everything to him in every sense, including the bed. Once the cold sheets he slept for the recovery or he flinched from them with nightmares, now were the real bed. The bed he had once heard the meaning of, but never knew until you slept in. His expensive, crispy sheets now were marked by your scent. Or the nightstand had your book. Anything in that damned room that he did not cross until his body couldn't handle the insomnia now belonged to you, too.

Oh, that room had seen Bruce’s lovemaking to you as the whole witness. It had absorbed your sweet sounds when he thrust into you. Your soft ‘Bruce’s, or his hushed curse words echoed through the room.

You taught Bruce many things during your marriage, even though you were just as young as him. In fact, you were a few years younger than him. If you did marry when Bruce was twenty-six or almost twenty-seven, you were just twenty-two or twenty-three.

Young and free, new romantics.

Your love taught physical intimacy to him. You were sweetly affectionate and loving — his lovely girl who also looked so good on him. The first time he let you ride him was when it was a rainy afternoon and he was at Manor. He did have nothing to do so at the moment, it was either early for the Batman or the city was quiet that Bruce wasn't in the cave. Must of been something that got you two worked up and you ended up making out with him on his lap.

It was you and him on the armchair, in the reading room of Wayne Manor. He kissed you like he was feasting on you. It started slow, dragging his fingers under your white tight-covered legs while his lips honored you. Then, he gave you the kisses one by one instead of taking your breath away with one. You couldn't get enough of him; you never did. So, you pulled him over and over again when he broke the kiss for another peck on your sweet lips.

You were pulling him by his dark hair, now messy between your fingers while trying to mend the craving under between your legs. He must have sensed that to offer you ride his thigh first. When he put you in the right position, he murmured ‘Ride it, baby.’ to your lips before capturing you in the next kiss. But when you whispered a confused ‘But,’ to the broken kiss, he knew what he had to do.

That afternoon he carried you to your bedroom and stripped you until your delicate set, you sitting on his hips. You looked so adorable in your matching set, looking into his eyes with a flushed face and reddish lips from his kisses. His fingers wandered through your soft skin, over the silky material of your panties, so warm under his fingertips while you reached for another kiss.

Bruce had to teach you how to be on top since you were a virgin to the experience. Oh, how he gladly enjoyed being your tutor, but in fact, he hadn't done this sufficiently, either.

That one afternoon could be one of the best of times in Bruce’s life. All your softest sounds from your lips, your flustered cheek against his shoulder, and your scorching, viscous walls around his cock could be the death of him in the sweetest way. Your hands were on his bare biceps, nails digging into his pale skin from the sensation of the new angle you two were trying. He was ushering you with sweet words of ‘That’s my girl.’, ‘It’s all yours, baby, ride it.’ and you were glowing with his thickness.

His hands were around your thighs, helping for you the first time — not that he minded to have his hands on you. His eyes were half-lidded with the pleasure your pussy gave him, head rested against the headboard of his bed.

He could be doing that for the whole day if he could and he would not be drunk on you enough. But you were still sensitive to your inexperience and his stamina since Bruce had you on your back against the sheets every week. And he did not want his pretty girl unable to enjoy sex as much as he did.

Speaking of the devil, Bruce unquestionably had insane stamina for his age. Both on the streets and in bed; he could fuck you for hours without sweat on his forehead. All you had to do was lay prettily for him, your legs and arms around him— a habit of yours, to feel him closer as much as you could — as he thrust you.

Or he could eat you out, no, devour you to the point you’d be whimpering about how ‘it was too much’. It was never too much for him, not when he had you all to himself forevermore. Your legs around his head, probably on his broad shoulders, as he rolled his tongue between your folds. Sometimes he’d just eat you fully, with no fingers involved — just to see how much you could go. Or sometimes, his fingers would be diving into you in and out while his tongue worked in your pussy. You were a mess every time, fingers gripping the hem of your pillow or in his messy, inky hair with no chance against him.

He one time ate you out just because you were irritated with him due to his reckless driving and jumping from the Batmobile through the Gotham Bridge. You and Alfred were having almost a heart attack on the comms, just looking at each other in a dead silence. And Bruce? He shut you up that whole night with his lips and fingers in your core. You were too dizzy and sensitive to stay mad at him, and he was nuzzling you like a puppy with exhaustion, making you two fall asleep as soon as your heads hit the pillow.

He knew you so well, your character and your body as if he was your husband for ten years, instead of months. He was overly good at analyzing; he could be into the detective arc for a year but when you were in his bed every night, he had learned you as the back of his hand.

Bruce loved to come back to you and nuzzle you — he had been mirroring your affection and giving you what you gave him every day. He’d come back, straight to the shower after his patrols. And he’d glimpse at your sleeping form under the quilts. Or barely awake one with a relieved, small smile on your lips that he came back in one piece. You’d find him holding you tightly or cuddling you. Cuddling most of the time led to his favorite position.

Missionary.

Any version of that position was you two’s favorite.

Bruce thrived for you when you were looking up at him with your prettiest eyes, your hair slightly messy on your pillow creating a vision for him, and your hands on his shoulders to keep him close to you? Whispering or moaning into his mouth when he kissed you as well as dived in between your warm thighs? Letting him show you how much he loved the bed you were in? You made his head spin with your intoxicating love.

Bruce had you in that position every single time. You loved it, too, there was no lie in that. You loved him so much that you were aching and wanting him to be close to you. And it was the only position you had him as you wished.

You wanted to be with your Bruce skin-to-skin, face-to-face as much as you could as if he’d disappear suddenly. You made it clear whenever he was buried inside of you so sweetly, so thickly and your legs around his waist, calling his name with love. Either your arms around his neck or your nails scratching his back muscles as he fucked you. You both were touch-starved for each other and you were fixing that in sex.

Bruce knew your clinginess all too well and he’d reassure you during sex every time. When he could see how tight you held him, he’d murmur ‘I am here, baby.” or “Not going anywhere, my love.”. You were just so sweet, wanting him as much as he wanted you.

Bruce made love to you. That was undeniable. He did not thrive in sex for some stupid time-wasting activity or weird position trying. Sex wasn't something that crossed his mind heavily during his twelve years of wandering. But if it came to his head, the idea of it was too intimate for him. Bruce was a lover. And he’d adore his beloved in the most intimate way.

And when he was in Gotham after twelve years, twenty-five years old, and being perceived by the Gothamites as the ‘handsome bachelor’ or in the next year trying to work out on his playboy act, known as ‘sex appeal’, ‘player’ or ‘definition of sex’, he despised it. He loathed it because that was not who he was but he had to be for the sake of his dual identity. He had been touched by people, gazed at by people and it disgusted him. They treated him as a mystery and dream, tried to touch their repulsive hands on his body; even a hand on his arm became an invasion of him. But people did not care and he started to learn to set it aside.

However, when he became your lover, your husband, he was at peace and the only person he wanted to be touching him was you. And Bruce loved to be intimate with you. Thus, sex became his favorite act.

What was the meaning of sex when he couldn't see your beautiful face when he was inside you with his deep, languid pace for both of you to see you were the one he belonged to? What was the meaning of it if your soft skin wasn't under his rough fingers, his lips to worship you? To mark you with his lips like a devoted prayer as his offering at your altar? Kissing every inch, every curve of your body, knowing it, and owning it as a map as his great treasure. Marking you with his burgundy-colored stains to show who loved you.

What was the meaning of it if he did not find his peace? He had found it truthfully, in many aspects. One of them was that there were the nights he was irritated and when he moved in and out of your core, you bestowed him an idea unconsciously. He was silent on the tongue, only his breathing — he was always silent when he was frustrated — just focused absentmindedly. You noticed him since he came home, slided under the covers without uttering a word. Your hushed voice pulled him out of his vexation, your ‘Baby, w-what’s wrong?’ altered his senses. He realized that he had someone who could listen to him. Why not try? Now, he was talking to you about his anger — only his anger —as he made love to you.

“I,” he muttered through his breath one night after his patrol. It was four in the morning and he was furious. “I almost lost it, baby.” he thrust his hips at a slightly rough pace, having you with whimpers and clutched hands on his shoulders.

“Fuck, he almost killed that small girl before I did something. Gonna lose my mind.”

He’d fuck his anger out himself, try to escape from the constant adrenaline of his rage. And you were so loving towards him to watch him with fluttering lashes and flustered cheeks under him. Offering your small words or worries to him with your sigh of pleasure.

He’d speak about what itched his brain. Sometimes either how he was terrible that night or he didn't know if he could keep up and you were there under him, kissing his lips as he confessed. Uttering words of ‘It’s okay.’, ‘M-My hero.” or ‘I love you so much.’ on his lips. What was the meaning of sex if this was not the thing he had during it?

And there were the times he was beaten up.

Truly.

His muscles were aching in the shower at three thirty-five one night after he made it home, to you. He had bruises on his skin, his jaw, and arms, all reddish and burgundy. You caught his gloomy eyes in the dim light of your bed lamp with the sleep in your posture. You’d wait for him sometimes, he’d not let you stay awake for him, but you did. How could you not?

He’d look haunted on those nights as if he was back in that alley again as if he was reliving the exact moments. You’d never know what made those memories revive in his mind again, but you knew when he slipped under the covers, to your arms. He’d do what he knew was right because he knew what you should do. And you did.

He’d slip in you with no protection — just bare and him. As if he was testing you if you’d let him, his real self to love, to have you. It was a trick of his mind. He’d play with his pace; sometimes rough, sometimes gentle. He would be lost mentally but there in your arms, in skin and bones. You’d pull him for many breathless kisses as much as you could, to ease and reassure him that he was there in your arms, not alone, not scared anymore. Your husband and safe in your arms.

He’d press his forehead against yours until he came with a repressed groan in his throat, his seed dripping between your folds, his breath hot against your lips. You’d stay there for a long time, just like that. Pressed up to each other, breathing and intertwined in love. He loved the feeling of you; the scent of yours as a reminder for him that you were there with him, wrapped around him as he was nuzzling you. He’d feel better, so much better than before he made it home.

So, if sex did not involve you, he was not interested. As if sex was created just because of you, for him to consume and love you. You made his bed a shrine. For both confessing and worshiping you. Bruce was never a religious man, he was the man of science. But for you, he became the one.

He now understood the essentials of someone’s religion. How those people were strict and at the same time, safe with their religious beliefs. How they felt the connection, the yearning to be close to their deity. How they thought highly, how they envisioned them as remarkable. He saw that, felt that, and had that in his own house, in his own bed.

thank you so much for reading! ♡

#batman #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x batmom #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #batman x batmom #dc comics #batman and batmom as newlyweds!!!#bruce wayne x reader smut #bruce wayne smut #batman x reader smut #batman smut

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elodieunderglass · 2 days ago

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Ok, so Bren’n’Blaw have been riding shotgun with me at work this morning and I’ve got questions.

What did they think when Bill married Helena? Did they like her? Do they think she’s good for him? Bad for him? TOO good for him?

Not that she would ever need help making or disposing of a body, but I assume they would help her, if only for her family’s sake. But does Helena like them?? Does she know about the mutual murder pact between the B’s?

Also, I assume they’re versatile fixers. In the normal course of things I wouldn’t think a dead body would turn up more than once every other year or so. In the offseason, do they help fudge financing at tax time? Do they hunt down deadbeat dads and encourage child support? Are they the scary but competent but no you were right the first time actually unnervingly scary people at the horse auctions you never try to scam?

Oh dear, I’m so sorry, what a pair of shifty hitchhikers!

When Bill was courting Helena, she set him some quests. Sure, he made her feel safe, and she fancied him in a weird way that grew on her, and it all represented a massive two fingers up to her parents; but she was still lowering herself to marry him, and figured she might as well get some errands done. Helena does not mind about the crime. She thought this was a relevant perk.

Bren’n’Blaw helped with the quests. They have very little sense of what is normal, and at the time, were painfully loyal to Bill. They knew Bill wanted to marry and raise a brood of champions, so they buckled up and trotted off to slay Helena’s dragons for her. That’s probably what women like. Who knows. Despite their fascinating personal lives they are not romantic themselves.

They did not like Helena being English. They were unfazed by her snobbery. They admitted that she is very pretty. I don’t know if Helena converted to Catholicism or was an outlier for her time and place and class who already was, but surprisingly, that wasn’t something Bren’n’Blaw actually cared much about.

She, in turn, understood their utility, but disliked everything else.

When the twins arrived, and Helena discovered she didn’t like them, and Bill was working two jobs across two countries before fully retiring from being a jockey, he naturally deputised his henchmen to look after the babies. Blaw and the Saint were simultaneously very good and very bad babysitters (“baby want smoko” / “put baby in pelican mouth” level of bonkers, but physically surprisingly capable of keeping babies alive, and cheerfully interested in doing so) and they pressed the rest of the family into service. Helena kept having kids, and not liking them, and Bren’n’Blaw kept throwing them loosely into the back of the Land Rover and feeding them on horse vitamins, and potty training by letting them run wild with nothing on the bottom. Everyone liked this state of affairs, and Helena got to pick towering magnificent quarrels about the PEASANTS STEALING HER CHILDREN, without having to wipe any snotty noses or pack any lunches. Perfect!

Bren’n’Blaw were furious about the loss of Charlie and spent a lot of time looking for him - never stopping, really. It became a kind of quest in itself, and obviously was always doomed to be fruitless. This schism started sending major cracks through a family that would otherwise be clannish.

In theory, on Albert’s death, Blaw and the Saint inherit the stud operation up the driveway and the old house, with Bill’s stronghold always having been the training yard. I think the stud operation has to close down, though - they’re all fading in influence and cash.

These days they’re getting on in years, and there are a lot of competing tensions - Bill’s spinal injury, the lack of succession planning - and they spend a lot of time on horsey errands. I think they disappear quite a lot of unwanted horses, which are always a problem, and in addition to training racehorses and doing a thousand all-consuming horsey chores, they probably practice a certain amount of weird DIY vet stuff and quasi-farrier work. There are vague disputes around the territories of other racing dynasties that I intend to fictionalise heavily. They do a surprisingly good line in looming, for ex-jockeys, and can do menacing for a discount.

They are not very nice people, mostly because of the lack of moral compass, but they are devoted to Killie.

They sound like a loopy pair of unadoptable bonded rescue cats who are also comedy Arthurian knights. Sorry.

#Killie #might need a tag for the toxic horse dynasty B generation

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whisperofwonder · 1 day ago

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We Don't Need Memories

Miya Atsumu x reader - 1k words

I've had a vision of this in my head for a while. I'm not sure it came out like I wanted, but I'm sharing anyway!

Atsumu has been too quiet in the bedroom for a suspiciously long time. He could be folding laundry or finally organizing his dresser drawers, but something tells you that's not the case. You haven't seen him do either in the month and a half you've been living together. With a sigh, you set your laptop aside and get up to investigate.

In the bedroom, Atsumu's sitting cross-legged on the floor. When he hears you creak open the door, his gaze snaps to you, frozen with one hand inside a familiar shoe box - one that you'd tucked in the back corner of the closet. Some of its contents are already spread out on the floor. So - he's discovered your secret.

"Hi," You say in a small voice, feeling a little bit guilty, even though you have no real reason to be.

"This is yours?" He asks, watching you as you sink down next to him. It's a silly non-question. Who else's would it be?

"Yeah," You admit as you reach for a magazine clipping on the floor. The newest pieces had been on top, so this is from only a few weeks ago, when the Black Jackals had been featured in an article. Under that is the newest team profile booklet, and a newspaper cover page from the Olympics last summer.

"You saved all this?" Atsumu asks, paging slowly through the pamphlet you'd picked up at his first ever Black Jackals game.

"I did," You nod, watching him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. He's never been one for sentimentality, and you're afraid he'll think all of this is stupid. You've been saving things for quite a while now, because unlike him, sometimes you like to look back at where he's been, see how far he's come. Lately, you've even been thinking, maybe, if it comes to it, your future kids might like to see some of it too.

"How far back does this go?" He asks, digging through until he pulls out a cutout from your high school newspaper, featuring the team right before nationals in his second year. "Ya kept this from high school?" He asks in disbelief, looking intently at the faded photo of the old Inarizaki team. Finally, he looks up at you. "Why?"

You remember being 16, picking out your new boyfriend among his teammates on the front page of the school paper, so handsome in his uniform. You're not quite sure, even now, what had compelled you to actually cut it out and save it, but you're glad that you did. It had lived in the front cover of one of your notebooks for a while, until a few new clippings joined it. You'd finally converted to the shoe box after he joined the Jackals, and you'd cut out an article about him joining the team.

Since then, you've added advertisements he's done, glossy pamphlets from special games he's played in, and every article you've come across that so much as mentions his name. There's a whole chunk of Olympics memorabilia that you'd rubber banded together. Suffice to say, the humble box has grown pretty full over the years.

You shrug before answering his question. "Because I'm proud of you." It's the simplest answer, and it also happens to be the truth. You look down at the banner in the old article. "And maybe you don't need memories, but I like having them."

"Course yer proud of me," He says roughly, gingerly setting the old article back in the box. "Look at all this stuff I did." He pats the top of the pile.

"You don't think it's weird?" You finally ask with a quiet laugh.

"Nah," He says nonchalantly. "If ya wanna hang onto all this stuff, I don't care." He looks back down into the shoe box, perhaps blinking a little more quickly than usual.

"Okay then," You say, matching his tone. Something else in the box catches his eye, and he reaches for it. The two of you spend the next half hour paging through everything.

A few days later, after you've cleared the dinner dishes off the table, he hands you a thick envelope. You peek inside, and see that it's mostly photos. You look at him with a frown.

"I found some more stuff. For the box." He clears his throat. "I thought this stuff belonged in there, too."

"Oh," You carefully pull the bundle out of the envelope, surprised. The photos are glossy without a single fingerprint, almost as though he'd just had them printed. The first one is from after nationals in your third year, and features the two of you with matching wide smiles. You remember the feel of his sweat-slicked cheek pressed against yours. You smile looking down at your past selves. You look so young.

Most of the photos are similar. It's you and him, smiling together before or after his biggest matches. There's even one of you, wearing his Jackal's jersey, cheering in the stands. You have no idea when it was even taken.

Along with the photos, you're surprised to see some familiar scraps of paper. They say things like "I'm proud of you" or "I love you", decorated with cartoony hearts. There are even a few with goofy volleyball doodles you'd made. You've been hiding these silly little notes in his suitcase every time he travels, but you never dreamed he'd save them.

"Tsumu," You look up at him, his name the only word you can form. His expression is almost unbearably fond.

"Ya don't have anything like this in there." He shrugs. "Felt like it was missing something important."

"I didn't know you kept any of this," You say softly, spreading it out on the table in front of you.

He scoffs. "Yer not the only one who can save stuff." Abruptly, he pulls in close, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on top of your head. "I love you," He murmurs into your hair.

You smile into his chest. "I love you too."

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu #atsumu x reader #moon writes #moon writes hq

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itsnotcasual · 2 days ago

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you guys that keep assigning the marauders to one direction members have got it all wrong because you don’t know their hearts and their souls like i do!!! nobody asked me so im telling you my in-depth analysis anyways.

credentials:

i ran a larry account and still have zayn as my pfp. suck it.

i’m tired of you all leaving out louis so he’s going first as a very obvious sirius black. you keep assigning zayn because he’s gorgeous and wears a leather jacket but louis is literally right there pulling pranks, playing sports on the side, and having gay allegations thrown his way and you’re all just ignoring it and i’m SICK OF IT!!!!! NOT TO MENTION!!! HE IS ALSO GORGEOUS!!! AND ALSO CAN WEAR A LEATHER JACKET!!!!

liam is peter. you’re all blinded by the teddy bear nature of his face pre-surgery but if you even slightly kept up with them you’d know that he tried and failed to be as big as the other members on his own so he had to settle for talking shit about them on podcasts instead. and ykw!! liam was right when he said that he was supposed to be the front man, it was OBVIOUS (#whoremembers let niall sing) but it was even more obvious that a majority of people tuning into 1d were tuning in for harry, not liam. just like how peter was technically there first, best friend to james, but wasn’t the one people cared as much about. also yes, he’s dead but i also was keeping up with his allegations and went through hell online defending them as a teen so i’ll say what i want!!! liam died and i mourned for my childhood but he also objectively sucked at being a friend to the boys after the band!! he is my peter!!! he betrayed them and we would have never gotten a reunion anyways PURELY because of him (zouis would have made up eventually i just know it)

zayn is remus. boo me all you want but it’s true. zayn plays yu-gi-oh, he’s artistic, he owns a farm and can’t name the chickens because he’s afraid of getting attached. people who bought into the Bradford Bad Boy marketing tactic OPEN YOUR EYES!!! HE IS A NERD!!!!! HE IS A SOFTY!!!! HE HAS SOCIAL ANXIETY THAT HE OVERCOMES FOR HIS KID!!! he’s remus. i’ll accept no other answers.

niall is james! “but issitcasual-“ i don’t wanna hear it! niall gets away with fucking EVERYTHING!!! he caused a feud between ed sheeran and ellie goulding and came out of it completely unscathed. his biggest controversy is the japan incident and not seasoning his chicken. niall fans practically grew up in a stable household with 2 loving parents and its all because niall is a beloved creature of this earth. he can’t do wrong he’s a golden boy and so is james.

harry is the only one i could accept multiple answers for but they’re all still wrong answers because honestly??? i don’t think harry really knows himself yet or isn’t showing us that actual version of himself and is just relying on really good marketing (valid honestly the north remembers how you all treated underaged harry styles) some days he’s remus some days he’s sirius some days he’s james but most days to me he’s marlene. i think he struggles with his identity in a lot of ways that ive seen marlene portrayed, i think that he’s changed and grown a lot which is usually something i see done with marlene’s character (like after her trip in tcoptp). I think no matter if its sexuality or just fashion or personality that he has a lot of discovering to do still.

until then i’d also slightly accept harry as remus for wolfstar/larry purposes.

thanks for coming to my ted talk i have thought way too much about this

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miss0atae · 13 hours ago

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Ah I love imagining crazy relationships, so here is my take on « Finding Dean a Boyfriend ».

Dean thinks he has found his way back to his family. He has done his time and paid for his misgiving past. When Alan and the rest of the X-Hunter Team allowed him to come back, he thought he has made it. His past was behind him and he could finally build something new. His kindred family is loud, sometimes obnoxious. Alan and Jeff had a rough argument but they made up, Charlie and Babe seems to be be very much in love and As for Sonic and North they will one day finally tell their feelings for each other. Dean can only watch them navigate their relationship and he is amused by all of this. However, deep down he starts to feel lonely. He loves his family dearly, but sometimes he gets a little bit tired of playing counselor. It was fun at first. He could finally help them, show them they could trust him and it worked. So why is he feeling this way? He tried to numb this feeling with more work. After all, he still has this residual guilt from what he has done before and he feels like he must make himself useful. Dean is carrying something heavy and hard inside his chest: the fear of being mistrusted.

He can't stay in the garage all the time. At night, he has to find something else to keep his mind from imagining the worst. So, he goes out, but not too far away. He just watches people, the same way he is watching his family. That's when he noticed him. The curve of his smile was what he had noticed first. Then, it was the way his body move, as thought as if he knew his place in the world. When he moved, he was giving this aura of confidence in life, something that was lacking in Dean's world now. He had seen him before, maybe, but it was the first time he truly looked at him. He saw the way he talked to people like he had no worries. He saw the way he was living life to the fullest and he felt jealousy for like a second before feeling guilty again. What was his name? He wanted to know it, but he didn't dare asking. So, he left without a second thought. He was just a guy he saw once that caught his attention, or so he thought. However, he still found himself wondering how this man could be the way he is. The envy was still there hiding behind a tons of guilt for having bad thoughts.

Turns out it wasn't wrong, he saw him once. This man is working with Pete and Charlie at the lab where they are all trying to find the suppressants they need. This is a pressing matter for some members of his found family so he did care a little about it. The man has a name: Touch. They have nothing in common: Dean is now a mechanic and this man is the sharpest mind in the country (at least that's what Charlie said). Their life are so different. If it wasn't was for Charlie and Jeff needing the suppressants, they would never have crossed paths. Ah and also that one time he saw him, but it doesn't count… or so he thought. Dean never knew, but that one night he saw him, Touch also noticed him. How could he not? He saw what other minds couldn't. Even if they didn't talk, Touch knew there was more to see in Dean that it may look liked. He wanted to be seen. This need was so transparent for whom has already felt it. Touch felt drawn to him because of this and that's why he was the one who made the first move. There was a hunger, a desire maybe? A longing certainly, the longing of knowing him.

Their courtship began. Dean wouldn't let himself fall so easily, but Touch has always loved a challenge and discovering new things. The more he is getting to know the mechanic, the more he is falling for him. He will not give up. After all, he is giving his all at work, so it would surprise no one to know that he is doing the same in his private life. Slowly, he is uncovering everything: the past glory of wanting to be the best racer, the betrayal he did to his loved ones, Tony, the prison and of course the guilt… so much guilt and fear of falling out of grace again. Dean has always wanted to be loved and Touch is more than ready to agree to the request. He wants to show him that there is nothing wrong in falling in love and accepting to be loved. Dean would, at first, reject his flirting. Why would this scientist want to be with him? However, the small and constant attentions, the respect he gave him and the way he would never judge him from his past finally made him lower his walls. Dean doesn't dare to claim being his. Touch may look like he could be easily knock down, but in the intimacy he is the one leading the dance and Dean loves to be doted on.

Things were really the best… at least until HE came into the picture.

I made this entire story just to be able to talk about Touch again.

Okay y'all, @michaelkiettisak and I have decided that Dean deserves a boyfriend after playing relationship counselor for his gay dads JeffAlan and NorthSonic.

However, I think he needs an older man, because patience is a must, and also he's a big puppy loser man and needs some guidance. Alas, there are no available DILFs/hot loongs to be found, so let's invent a boyfriend for our fail-son who's trying his best!

I think he can't be from a rival team -- residual guilt and fear of renewed mistrust would keep Dean from even looking there.

A scientist who works with Pete, or a friend of Alan's would make sense...

I'm rotating this idea in my head, because I'm not sure what feels right yet, so help me build our boy Dean a bf!

#pit babe the series #fictional story #ch: Touch

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speaknowgirl3184 · 7 hours ago

Text

What The Stars Forgot To Save

Rhysand x female reader (Post-war, after ACOWAR)

Rhys discovers a truth you've hidden, that you've slowly been dying since the war. You didn’t tell him to spare him the pain. Instead, he finds out when it’s already too late to stop it.

Warnings: ANGST, major character dealth, illness, grief. (Let me know if I forgot anything).

Word Count: 3.5k

Masterlist

There were some things even starlight couldn’t fix. Not even the High Lord of the Night Court, mighty and terrible and beautiful as he was, could touch them. Could reach inside and pull the rot from your veins, could save what the war had already claimed.

You knew that the moment the Cauldron went still. The moment its pulse faded from the earth, from your bones, and left behind silence and ash.

The skies over Velaris had bled gold and fire. The city had held its breath, a trembling heartbeat waiting for word, had you survived? Had he?

You had. But just barely.

You stumbled from the wreckage of the battlefield with lungs burning like smoke-choked chimneys, with blood crusted in your hair, with magic hanging around you in tatters. You had used everything, everything, to shield a line of young Illyrian soldiers when that blast hit, too fast and too strong to redirect. You remembered the pain, then the numbness. Then nothing.

And when you woke in the healer’s tent, surrounded by murmurs and antiseptic magic, the only thing you felt was cold. A deep, marrow-soaking cold that no warmth ever fully chased away.

The Healers didn’t meet your eyes at first.

They were careful. Gentle. Their hands were warm, their voices softer than starlight.

But nothing could soften the truth.

That magic had carved through your insides like a blade dipped in poison. That your body was still here, still breathing, but it had begun unraveling from the inside out. Slow. Irreversible. Inevitable.

You had fought like a god. And the war had claimed its toll.

You had, maybe… a year. Two, if the Mother was feeling cruel.

They asked if they should summon Rhys.

You said no.

Because the very thought of telling him, of watching that beautiful, beloved face crumple beneath the weight of a grief he couldn’t stop, was more terrifying than death itself.

You remembered what it had done to him before. When Feyre died. When Cassian was almost lost. When Velaris was nearly torn from the map. You had seen Rhysand at his lowest. Shattered. Gutted. Hollow-eyed and haunted.

And you couldn’t… gods, you couldn’t do that to him again.

So that night, when he found you wrapped in blankets and sitting in your favorite chair in the House of Wind, pale, trembling, but smiling, you looked up, and said, “I’m okay.”

You let him gather you in his arms. Let him press his lips to your temple and whisper, “I was so scared.”

You lied.

Because that was easier than breaking his heart. Easier than watching him try to rearrange the universe for you, to drain the stars of their power, to strike bargains with the Cauldron long dead if it meant keeping you alive.

You didn’t want your last days to be spent watching him bleed for something he couldn’t save.

So you smiled. And kissed him like nothing had changed.

And you lied.

From that night on, your entire life became a performance, a delicate, devastating waltz between truth and love.

Rhysand, with all his power, all his centuries of knowing people and dissecting lies, didn’t see it. Because he didn’t want to. Because he saw the woman he loved still smiling at him, and he believed that was enough.

And you let him believe it.

Because he had finally found peace again. He had you.

And if you had to burn from the inside out to keep that peace for him a little longer, so be it.

You laughed through the nights, even as your lungs rattled like broken glass. You kissed him like you weren’t counting every heartbeat. Like you weren’t memorizing the feel of his hands, the rhythm of his laugh, the way he whispered your name like a prayer.

He’d pull you into his lap on the balcony overlooking the Sidra, warm wings curled around you, and you would press your ear to his chest, listening to the life you couldn’t hold on to, couldn’t share forever.

And when he asked, “Do you ever think about the future?” You smiled and said, “All the time.” You just didn’t tell him your version of it ended far sooner than his.

-----------

Rhysand noticed, of course.

How could he not?

He was the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history. He could command the skies to open, bend shadows to his will, feel the tremor of a heartbeat across an entire continent. He could read a court full of scheming monarchs with a single glance.

But when it came to you, his mate, his beloved, Rhys saw only what he wanted to see.

Still, the cracks had begun to show.

First, it was the mornings. You used to rise before him, brush your fingers through his hair and whisper sweet nothings as the sun gilded the curtains. Now, you slept long after he stirred, curled on your side, lips slightly parted, brow furrowed with pain even in dreams.

“Rough night?” he’d murmur, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You’d yawn, stretch, wince, but only for a moment, and smile. “Just tired,” you’d say. “My body’s still catching up from the war.”

At first, he accepted that. Cauldron, how could he not? The war had cost everyone something. And he knew how hard you’d fought. He’d seen the bruises, the blood. You were allowed to be tired.

But then came the flinches.

The way you subtly tensed when his hand brushed your ribs. The quick, barely-there hitch in your breath when he pressed too close. The way you shifted in his arms like you were trying to shield him, not from an enemy, but from the truth of your body’s betrayal.

He asked you, one night, after catching the flash of pain in your eyes as you shrugged off your dress. His voice low. Gentle.

“Are you alright, darling?”

Your eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Of course,” you whispered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

But there was something wrong in your voice, like the edges had been worn thin. Like you were holding the words together with sheer force of will.

His gaze searched your face, full of stars and suspicion, and something else, something raw, something afraid.

“…Are you sure?”

And you, Cauldron, you were so good at lying, leaned in, pressed your lips to his, and murmured against his mouth, “Just tired. That’s all.”

That damned phrase became your shield. Your mantra. Your mask.

Just tired.When your hands shook holding a teacup. When you nearly collapsed on the balcony stairs. When you refused to join training with the Valkyries, not once, not ever, though you used to love the rush of it, the laughter, the power.

You avoided the Healers like they were ghosts. Refused to step into the training fields, even on your good days. You said the wind hurt your lungs, too sharp, too cold, but you never explained why. Never said what it reminded you of.

He chalked it up to trauma. To war wounds. He didn’t push.

Because deep down… some part of him knew.

And some part of him couldn’t bear it.

But he believed you. Because he wanted to believe you.

Because he had to.

After everything, the pain, the loss, the impossible resurrections, Rhys needed one truth to be simple.

He needed you to be okay.

He needed to believe that the happiness he’d found in your arms wasn’t built on a fault line. That the joy that bloomed between you in those rare, quiet moments, tangled limbs, whispered jokes, sleepy kisses, wasn’t just a beautiful illusion doomed to crumble.

He couldn’t see it. He wouldn’t. Not until he had no choice.

And Cauldron, Cauldron, if that didn’t make it worse.

Because every time he let it go, every time he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Rest, my love,” and walked away without pressing further…

He was unknowingly letting you slip through his fingers.

-----------

The night you collapsed in the foyer of the House of Wind was the night everything, every lie, every whispered half-truth, every smile you wore like armor, unraveled.

It was a quiet evening. The kind you once lived for.

The wind was gentle through the open archways. Moonlight painted soft silver on the floor. You’d lit the candles yourself, humming softly through trembling lips as you arranged the plates, knowing Rhys would return within the hour.

A diplomatic visit to the Day Court, only a couple hours. You could hold out two more hours.

You’d kissed him goodbye at the winnowing circle, fingers clenched tight in his hair as if your body already sensed it was your last goodbye. He’d teased you for being so dramatic, eyes twinkling, brushing a kiss over your brow and saying, “It’s only a few hours, my love. I’ll be home before the moon is full.”

You had smiled.

And prayed the mask wouldn’t slip.

Because your hands were shaking, not from nerves, not from some innocent flurry of anticipation, but from the storm clawing its way through your insides. The pain had worsened. You could feel it now, pulsing beneath your skin, dragging your heartbeat out of sync, thinning the thread that tethered you to this world.

You only needed to last a little longer. Just a few more weeks. Maybe days. Enough time to write the letters you’d been putting off. To memorize Rhys’s scent in your pillow one last time. To make your peace.

But death did not care for your timing. For your dignity.

It came swiftly. Cruelly.

You were halfway across the foyer, holding a tray of wine and figs, you’d wanted to surprise him, greet him with softness and sweetness, with the illusion of normalcy, when your knees buckled.

There was no time to cry out. No warning. Just the sensation of your legs vanishing beneath you and the sound of glass shattering as your body crumpled to the floor.

And then, darkness.

-----------

When Rhys returned an hour later, smiling from the adrenaline of flight, a gift in his pocket, your name on his tongue, he didn’t expect to find the House silent. He didn’t expect the wine to be spilled across the marble like blood. He didn’t expect you, his mate, his light, his world, sprawled on the cold floor, lips pale, skin clammy, your chest barely rising.

He didn’t remember screaming. But the walls remembered. Velaris remembered.

And when the Healers came, when Azriel arrived white-faced and shaking, when Cassian knelt and whispered, “Please, please don’t let this be happening,” Rhys just stood there.

Frozen.

Like if he didn’t move, this moment wouldn’t be real.

Like he could stop time and change the outcome with sheer will alone.

He fell to his knees beside you as they lifted your body from the floor. His hands hovered over yours, but he didn’t touch you.

Couldn’t.

As if afraid that even a single touch might break what was left of you.

-----------

You awoke three days later in a healer’s tent, the world muted and too bright all at once. Your body felt like lead. Breathing was a chore. Your veins were fire.

And beside you, sitting like stone, unmoving, unmoved, was Rhysand.

His face was bone white. The shadows under his eyes were cavernous, like something had been hollowed out from within him. His hands rested on his knees, clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned a sickly blue.

And his eyes…

Gods, his eyes.

They weren’t full of rage. Not even heartbreak. Not yet.

They were full of silence. Of knowing.

You tried to speak, but only a broken breath escaped.

And still, he didn’t touch you.

Not your hand. Not your cheek. Not the bond that pulsed faintly between you.

Because he knew.

Because everything he was, everything he believed in, was you, and you had lied to him.

-----------

“You knew,” he said at last. Not a question. A quiet, lethal statement. His voice was low, too low. Velvet and ice. The kind of tone that came right before storms.

You’d heard him speak to kings like that. Enemies. But never you. Never you.

You tried to sit up, gods, it hurt, tried to reach for his hand, for the bond that still pulsed faintly between your ribs, a final tether.

“Rhys…” you rasped. “Please…”

He stepped back.

The rejection was a blade. It cut cleaner than any battlefield wound.

“How long?” he asked.

You hesitated. He saw it. His jaw clenched.

“…Since the war,” you whispered. “Since that blast. The Healers—”

“Since the war.” He repeated it, hollow. Like the words had punched the breath from his lungs.

And then silence fell.

The kind of silence that stretches and stretches, until it screams.

You saw it all on his face, the unraveling. The horror, the disbelief, the betrayal.

For all his power, all his cunning, he’d never seen this coming. He hadn’t even known there was something to look for. And now, all that was left was the wreckage.

“You were dying,” he said finally, eyes burning with something ruined, “this whole time, and you didn’t think I deserved to know?”

Tears broke past your lashes before you could stop them. You reached for him again, shaking, fingers trembling with weakness. “I didn’t want to hurt you…”

His laugh was nothing like the one you loved. No warmth. No joy. Just bitter, broken frost.

“Don’t you get it?” he snapped. “You did hurt me. Everyday. Every godsdamned day you smiled like nothing was wrong, while you were dying right in front of me.”

You looked away, the shame catching in your throat. “I didn’t want to make you carry that weight,” you whispered. “Not after Feyre. Not after the war. I just wanted… peace. For you. Even if it meant—”

“Lying to me?” he cut in. The words hissed from his lips like venom.

And then. “If you loved me…” His voice cracked. “…you wouldn’t have lied.”

The room seemed to go still. Even the candles stilled, their flames pulling inward.

You flinched.

He saw it.

And for one fragile, flickering moment, he looked like he might break. Like the weight of those words had finally reached him. Like he wanted to take them back.

But the damage had been done.

The lie, the one you’d carried like a crown of thorns, had shattered everything between you.

And now, your body was already fading.

Your magic waned with every breath. Your bones ached with goodbye. Your heart, the one that had always beaten for him, was winding down like the last hour of a dying star.

And he couldn’t stop it.

All the power in the world, and he couldn’t save you. Couldn’t go back. Couldn’t undo the secret that had cost you both everything.

-----------

He stayed with you, in the end.

Even when you told him not to. Even when the pain took your voice, your strength, your dignity. Even after everything, the lie, the silence, the breaking, he stayed.

He sat at your bedside as the days dwindled. As your skin grew paler, your breaths shorter. As the light behind your eyes, the spark he’d fallen in love with, dimmed with each setting sun.

He didn’t speak much. Not at first.

What words could he offer that wouldn’t turn to ash on his tongue?

Sometimes, he just watched you, like if he memorized every detail again, he could etch you into time. The way your lips curved when you smiled, even weakly. The shape of your hands in his. The sound of your heartbeat, flickering through the bond like a dying candle.

He held you through the worst of the pain. Let you bury your face in his chest when the spells wore off. Pressed kisses to your brow while your body shook from the agony.

You still apologized.

Still whispered, “I’m sorry I lied.”

And Rhys, your Rhys, your mate, your moon and stars, broke every time.

Because he wasn’t angry anymore.

He was grieving you while you were still breathing.

“I dreamed of a future with you,” he whispered, voice cracking as he threaded his fingers through your hair.

You were curled against him, barely strong enough to lift your head.

“I saw us,” he continued. “In the townhouse, old and ridiculous. You scolding me for tracking shadows into the kitchen. You holding our child for the first time. I saw the years, all of them. I thought we had time…”

A tear slipped from his cheek and landed on your skin.

You brushed it away with a trembling finger. “You did. You had me… for a while.”

“I wanted forever.”

“I know,” you breathed. “So did I.”

And you meant it. Gods, you meant it.

But some stories weren’t meant for happy endings. Some hearts didn’t get the luxury of growing old together.

Some were destined to break, beautifully, tragically, like stars burning out before their time.

-----------

The morning you stopped breathing, the skies over Velaris broke.

Not softly. Not gently. But with fury, with a kind of rage that only grief could conjure.

Clouds rolled in from the sea, black and churning. Winds howled like mourning spirits through the Sidra’s valley. The river surged past its banks, flooding the lower cliffs with salt and sorrow.

The sky wept, and somewhere in the heart of the storm, the world itself shuddered.

Rhys was holding you when it happened.

He’d barely slept in days. Hadn’t left your side. He’d clung to hope longer than even the gods might deem merciful. Every breath you took, every twitch of your fingers, he watched with the desperate reverence of a man begging the stars not to abandon him.

That morning, your skin was cold. Too cold.

Your lips parted once, as if to say his name, or maybe just breathe, but no sound came.

And then… You were still.

Your chest stopped rising.

Your body, already fragile, already fading, finally let go.

But Rhys didn’t.

He pressed his forehead to yours, arms tightening around you as if his hold could anchor you back to him.

His magic flared, uncontrollable, wild shadows and threads of starlight lashing the air. He called your name. Not aloud, but through the bond. Over and over again.

He poured everything into you. His power. His soul. His heart.

He tried to restart what had already stopped.

Tried to breathe for you.

Tried to will your spirit to stay.

But even High Lords couldn’t command the dead to return.

When he realized you were gone he didn’t scream.

There was no roaring. No thunder of wings.

Just silence.

A silence so sharp, it carved into the seams of the House itself.

The bond between you, once full of light and love and laughter, went quiet. Not like a flame blown out.

Like a star collapsing in on itself.

Like the end of a song that would never be played again.

-----------

Velaris remembers you in flowers.

Not statues. Not songs. But in petals that bloom in the cracks you left behind.

They grow in the gardens you once tended, vines curling around stone archways like your laughter still lingers there, like the soil itself remembers the shape of your hands.

They grow along the Sidra, where you used to sit with a book in your lap and sunlight in your hair, where the city still leaves offerings without realizing they do. A cup of tea left on the bench. A folded blanket. Petals, always petals.

And on certain days, when the wind is soft and the stars are shy, the scent of ink and starlight drifts through the streets, the scent he wears now like mourning, like memory.

Rhys never took another lover.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he already gave away every piece of his soul, and when you left, you took the best parts with you.

He still speaks to you. Sometimes in dreams. Sometimes aloud, in that quiet voice he reserves only for ghosts and prayers.

He keeps your favorite book by his bed, worn and marked with the little notes you used to scribble in the margins. He’s read it so many times, he’s memorized the words… but he still turns the pages, just to feel like you’re near.

He hasn’t touched your side of the bed.

No one goes in your study.

Your mug still sits by the sink, your coat still on its hook.

And every night, without fail, he climbs the rooftops of the House of Wind, alone, wings tucked in, heart bare, and gazes up at the stars as if they might answer him.

He doesn’t cry anymore.

There are no tears left to give.

Just silence. And the bond, now hollow, echoing with all the things he never got to say.

And every year, on the day the world lost you, Rhys returns to the river.

He comes at dawn, before the sun has the nerve to shine. Dressed in black. Alone. Unseen.

He kneels at the water’s edge where the Sidra runs quiet, and lays down a single white lily.

It’s always a lily. Because you once told him they meant “returning to innocence.”Because he couldn’t save you. But maybe… maybe he can keep your memory untouched by the tragedy.

And then, he whispers the same words he’s whispered every year since you left:

“If love could’ve saved you, you would have lived forever.”

The lily floats downstream.

And he watches until it disappears.

Until there is only the river and the wind.

And the ghost of you still etched into every star.

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

a/n: I hope you guys are crying like I am rn. Anyways If you guys have any recs for fic ideas plzzzz let me know I cause I am runnings out!!

#angst #masterlist #fluff #rhysand acotar #acotar masterlist #acotar angst #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand #rhys acotar #rhysand x reader #rhysand x y/n #rhysand x you #rhys x reader #a court of wings and ruin #rhysand angst #rhysand fluff #rhysand fanfic

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b33zlebubz · 2 days ago

Text

Ingydar | thaw

joel miller x reader | mdni 18+ | ao3

previous | next

tags: reader uses she/her pronouns, blood gore and death, mentioned cannibalism, sexual tension, frostbite/hypothermia, amputation, everyone is touch-starved

You're a loner in the woods. A ghost story to the kids, a tale of caution to the hunters. A rumor of smoke on the mountain and a glow between the trees. Joel Miller finds himself tangled up in your story and slowly discovers that you're not nearly as dangerous as you've made yourself out to be.

The crunch of the snow under your feet is the only sound that breaks the silence as you walk. The sun just barely peaks out from beyond the trees, a thin streak of purple on the horizon, fading into the dark abyss above. It’s about six in the morning, you think. Early enough that sleep still pulls heavy on your eyelids as you step past your outhouse, then your shed.

Instead of stopping there, your feet carry you into the deep of the snow, past where you stopped shoveling just a few days before. Your face stings from the cold and your arms feel heavy and tired, but there’s something that’s pulling you out into the woods. A duty you’ve neglected for too long, too busy or too tired.

You walk about twenty minutes up to a summit, a shelf on the mountain where the trees thin out and the breeze dusts snow across your shins. It bites the skin at your face, makes you squint against the breeze, but you press on. Clumsy footsteps on the fresh expanse of snow, you should have brought your snowshoes.

Eventually, you come to a graveyard. The stones peak out from beneath the snow, dark streaks across the field. Some are rock but the ones after the Outbreak are all wooden, near the back. Haphazard and rushed, each carved with initials and a date. Sometimes marked with a heart, sometimes a cross or a star, but mostly nothing at all. Nobody’s been alive to mourn them since you burned it all down.

You keep walking to the end. To an unmarked grave pressed off to the side, facing East instead of West. Shunned. Abandoned. Not by you. You stop in front of it and just stare. Purse your lips. Shift your stance. Roll the golden ring back and forth on your finger. Thinking. Looking.

Something dim twists in your chest, something akin to guilt, but you shake it away and kneel down in front of it. You scoop the snow away from the sight with your hands, toss it behind the stake. Fingers sting with the cold as you dig away the two feet of snow until they’re red and numb. Until your hands hit the dirt beneath it. Just as you’ve done countless times before with leaves, ice, or twigs. Clear the area of the debris. Make sure the stick sits straight in the ground, that there's no cracks or damage.

You don’t remember what Markus looked like, when he died. You just know there wasn’t much left of him. Your village split up what they could of him while you were away, the only time you couldn’t come to his rescue. The elderly would’ve gotten to eat first if they still followed the rules. The strongest would’ve gotten the scraps. When you returned to Ingydar you really don’t remember much other than the white hot anger. The smell of gasoline. The heat on your face. The guilt. Burying the bodies, sticking unmarked wood in the Earth, never to spare them a glance again.

The guilt you feel now is softer. More domestic. Less to do with the graves and more to do with the ring on your finger. A guilt you never deserved to live long enough to face, nevermind meet someone who could tear your chest open and place it there. Someone who should run far away, but never does.

You don’t know for sure who all died, who all escaped your wrath and ran away. If anybody ended up in Jackson. You never really cared to check, just buried the bodies so you wouldn't see them again. You don't know if you could face anyone alive, how you would react if you did. How they would react, seeing you. Knowing what you did.

When you’re done, your boots don’t sink into the snow anymore when you stand in front of the gravesite. The stick is straight and the area clean. You let out a breath and rest your hand against the frozen Earth for a moment. Let your thoughts linger on Markus’s company one last time. His smile, his kindness, his weed and his music.

It would be the last time you visit him.

You return to your lookout feeling a little lighter. The sun casts warmth over your back as you walk, melting the stiff February snow under your feet. It’ll probably thaw for good over the next couple days with the exception of the occasional squall, if your instruments are correct.

You climb the stairs and try to be quiet whenever you open the door. There’s no memory of it behind the dull throb of a headache behind your eyes, but your records are strewn across your desk. There’s a small pile pressed off to the side—everything Radiohead you owned. A gift for Ellie, sorted and put aside late the night before.

You kick your shoes off before making your way to the bed, nearly tripping over something warm and solid on the floor.

Joel grunts, stirs softly in his sleep, but doesn’t wake. He’s sleeping on his side, his bad ear up, golden light casting a streak over the small scar on his temple. Something about having him here is comforting, at ease sleeping on the floor by your bed. Hungover, maybe, but comfortable. Soft. Something you could get used to.

You climb back into bed. The nightmare doesn’t come, this time.

The last time you saw this highway, you were driving to your post a few months before that horrible day in September. The weather was warm and your windows were down, letting the breeze stir your hair. Bags of supplies filled the back of your truck and your rifle—shiny, new, and unused—sat in the backseat. Steering wheel warm under your palms from the sunlight as you tapped your finger to the beat of some song on the only radio station that reached Ingydar. Even after everything, it still gets stuck in your head sometimes.

***

Now, it’s the fur of a white horse that meets your hands, rubbed a little raw from the reins. She’s pretty; snow-white and quiet, a thoughtful gift from Jackson for the journey.

It’s just so you stop slowin’ me down, Joel had huffed, flushed from getting accused of maybe caring about you and your forever-freezing feet. Don’t get any ideas.

You were just satisfied to see him flustered, for a change.

Joel’s horse snorts not far behind and you’re searching for the source of a horde that's been seeping in through the cracks of Ingydar into Jackson. Now, sixteen years have passed since the Outbreak, and that song rears its stupid head again.

“She’s fightin’ me, now. More than she used to. Stopped comin’ by for movies, seeing me in the morning…hell, she’s still sneakin’ out.”

You swear this is the most you have ever heard Joel speak. The frustration ebbed from him in steady, silent waves whenever he met you at your tower for this trip this very morning. You tried starting conversation multiple times to no avail. Several comments on the weather and Jackson falling flat as you get nothing but a grunt or a few clipped words in reply. Little did you know all it took was a simple question of how’s Ellie to get him talking.

“She fully move into the garage?” You ask, although you’re only half listening, uncrumpling a handmade map shoved into the pocket of your hoodie.

“Yeah,” he sighs heavily from off to your right, gaze focussed ahead. “Although half her shit still sits in that fuckin’ room.”

“Okay. Well,” you’re used to this by now. “If it’s space she wants, then give her that. See what happens.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

You flick an eyebrow up at him, “why, exactly?”

“It…” he hesitates, considering something for a moment before shaking his head. “It just is. She’s too reckless, makes it hard to do my job. Look out for her.”

You level him with a deadpan look he knows well by now. The one you hope he knows means you’re on to him—that there’s something missing. You know he’s keeping something from you, something involving Ellie, maybe. Something before Jackson, maybe even before he met Ellie. but you don’t press. Just offer advice whenever you can.

Joel returns your look with twice the stubborn resolve.

“It is,” he insists. “I promise.”

You roll your eyes and let it go. Squint at the paper in your hands, using your other hand to block the sun from your face. It’s hot on your back, choking out the late-February air that clings to your skin. Leaves the snow under your horse’s hooves slushy and stiff as winter stumbles to a close. Threatens a thin sweat under your hoodie and forms icy rivers where streams used to trickle.

“Well, I’m no parent,” you reply. “But no teenaged girl really sees eye-to-eye with her dad, usually. Just…back up a bit. Let her come to you.”

He only sighs. Deep, heavy, for the hundredth time in the few hours you’ve been scouting. Lacking that frustration you’ve come to know well and replacing it with something sad. Clearly, this is weighing on his shoulders more than he’s letting on, and something achingly familiar flashes behind his eyes. A grief, maybe.

He doesn’t reply and your gaze lingers on him for another moment before focussing back on the task at hand. Flicking the map in your grasp meticulously put together the night before. Whenever Joel asked for a written record of Ingydar and its dilapidated buildings, Infected were one of the last things you expected to mark down on it. Red scribbles of pen label which buildings and roads the infected are most prominent, leading the whole way back through the woods to the highway you find yourselves at.

You pull on the reins and the horse snorts as she comes to a stop at the asphalt.

The entrance of a concrete tunnel arches up high above you, almost hidden through the veil of vegetation starting to bud underneath the melting snow and a faded green road sign that blocks the entrance. Thick icicles drip from the concrete and echo through the thick black of the tunnel before you, lined with yellow tile streaked with rust and dirt. You scrunch your nose at the smell that wafts with the cold breeze of the underground: metallic, rotten, old, and wet.

“Help me out here?” Joel says, already off his horse. He tugs on the end of the collapsed sign, igniting a groan of thawing metal that echoes endlessly into the dark. You’re quick to help, jumping off the saddle and helping him push. With another loud whine of metal, the sign gives, and you pull it off to the side of the road.

“Jesus,” he breathes at you, and you ignore him.

“I’m still calling bullshit,” you huff. Joel wanders inside, barely scared. Just wary as deep brown eyes squint into the dark. He flicks on his flashlight and runs it along the walls, studying.

“Bullshit or not, sweetheart, it’s still worth checkin’.”

Your boots squelch in the slushy ground as you step closer to the tunnel. You listen close for a moment but hear none of the infected he thinks are inside, just the sound of water dripping and running along the torn-up road. He clicks his flashlight on and shines it into the dark—nothing. Not one sign of life or the absence of it.

“You really think they’re coming from here?” You ask, quieter now as you pull a maglight from your belt and shine it along the water damaged, rusted walls.

“You said it yourself. Survivors make a wrong turn into the tunnel and never come back out the other side,” Joel reasons, pulling out his own flashlight. His other hand sits on the revolver at his belt. He nods in confirmation at the tunnel.

“They’re collectin’ in here. Stuck somewhere, maybe.”

You shouldn’t have done it, really; make a comment on the uptick in infected around Ingydar and your surrounding stomping grounds. You hadn’t expected Joel to lock up at the observation, send out more patrols, suddenly spend more time scouting than hunting. Searching buildings and basements for whatever might be causing it or patrolling the very outskirts of the woods to see where they’re wandering in from.

You know better than to doubt him, though. His stories of travelling with Ellie seem tall, but you trust them over your judgement and very limited knowledge. You rarely leave the area enough to know what major cities are like and how everything else around them is affected.

You don’t know how to handle a horde.

Thoughts drift to what he described to you. The stories he told over drinks or through smoke the past few weeks he’s been visiting you at the tower, disturbing and almost fantastic. Hordes as large as concert crowds. Infected so far gone that layers of fungus act as plates of armor, thick and bulletproof. Spores that poison the air, take root in your lungs, strangle you slowly.

You shift your hold on your rifle, glance to him. “We end up infected checking this out, I’ll beat your ass.”

He huffs. It's been getting easier and easier to make him laugh recently, lighten the mood, and you take a certain amount of pride in it every time his lip twitches with amusement. Even now, whenever he's walking directly into the complete unknown. Into a horde or a patch of spores.

“We’ll more likely be torn apart before you can,” he mutters evenly.

You scoff and adjust your hold on your rifle. “That’s hardly comforting.”

He shrugs, reaches back into his bag and pulls out two of Jackson’s gas masks and radios.

“Could be nothin’. Could be somethin’,” he tells you, tossing you a mask. “But we won't know until we check.”

You sigh and lift the device to your face, adjusting the straps around the back of your head and pulling the remaining ones tight to your face. Joel holds up a small radio next. He presses the red button on the side, changes the channel until his radio sings at his waist, echoing his voice as he speaks.

“This one’s for me. 17.8 is Jackson if shit really goes sideways,” he tells you, voice muffled through the filters of his mask. “Got it?”

You nod and catch the small radio when he tosses it over. Slightly-shaky hands attach it to your belt as your eyes scan up the ceilings, adjusting to the dark. Mushrooms sprout through cracks in the concrete and a deep uneasiness takes hold in your gut as you take a few steps into the dark.

“Hey,” Joel says suddenly, stealing your attention. His gaze softens, just a little, and it catches you off-guard; how sentimental he can get during the strangest of moments.

“What?”

He dips his head just a little.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, evenly. “I’ve got your back.”

He’s said it before. Whenever you suggest splitting up while hunting or whenever infected cross your path up the mountain. Helping you over fences or guarding whatever building you scout. This time, though, it feels more sincere. Less temporary, with the way the moment lingers. Or maybe you’re reading too much into it.

Nevertheless, you take a breath, nod, and press on into the darkness.

A stream of run-off water flows between your boots as you walk into the endless darkness, the end of the tunnel collapsed or hidden by a thick veil of vegetation—you’re not sure. Each step feels louder than the last, though, echoing across wet tile and moldy concrete as you keep your gun ready.

“There’s nothing in here,” you shine a flashlight over a body pressed off in the corner; a runner shot dead months ago and left to decay. Even a whisper sounds earth-shatteringly loud.

“Doubt it,” Joel mutters ahead of you. “Keep your eyes open.”

You let out a breath and catch up to his side. “This what the cities are like?”

“Sort of,” he sweeps his maglight over where old blood is smeared across the wall. “What isn’t collapsed is usually festerin’ unless a Q.Z. is established.”

You remember the buses that came through Ingydar a few days after the Outbreak, the FEDRA that abandoned you and your town for the bigger cities in the state. You remember watching them fly past like none of you existed, how you had to discourage people from chasing them. Watching how those who didn’t listen ended up shot on the side of the road by the very people sent to aid them.

You shake the thought from your head and keep moving.

“Looks like the end is collapsed,” you say. “Maybe we should—”

Your foot slips.

You’re falling before you realize it, concrete slamming the breath from your lungs before your ass hits shallow water. A bright and loud yelp echoes through the concrete as you come back to yourself, blinking at the darkness that has suddenly enveloped you. Your flashlight hits the water somewhere in front of you with a splash, gone. You blink, shocked, up at the ledge about twenty feet high.

“Shit,” you seethe.

“Fuck!” Joel’s voice sounds out from somewhere above you and a light cascades down into the sinkhole you find yourself in. You scramble to your feet, splashing in rancid water as you squint up at the light of Joel above you. Rocks cascade down to your feet as he scrambles to find a way down.

“Don’t follow me!” You pant before he can fall as well, voice strained as you hold your hands up. “I’m okay. There’s no infected.”

Your eyes adjust to the dark enough to see Joel let out a breath. Brown eyes darting around as if he doesn’t fully believe you. Either way, he nods, gets a hold of himself, and moves on to the next thing.

“I’ll have to look for something to help you out,” he tells you, panic thinly veiled. “You’ll be okay?”

You take another glance around. Rocks jut out from the walls, damp but coated with fungus. Climbable. The only issue was the sound of falling water somewhere nearby and the pull of a current under your feet. If you fell again, you weren’t getting back out.

“Yeah…” you take a breath to steady yourself, nodding. “I’ll be fine.”

He shifts his weight. Clenches and unclenches his fist. Glances around like something, anything, might give him a clear answer as to what to do.

“You’re sure?” He says, and it's the most nervous you’ve heard him since Ellie was in your bed with frostbite.

You nod as convincingly as you can. He hesitates, visibly swallowing before he’s off, boots echoing through the rocks as his flashlight dims and disappears. A breath leaves you and you take a moment to steady your raging heart.

Shaky hands find purchase on a rock. You try hoisting yourself up but the stone snaps under your hand and you splash back into the water. You try twice more in different spots just for the same thing to occur, blood swelling hot where the rocks scrape your skin. Breath huffing and loud through your mask.

There’s a noise off at the other end of the hole. A shuffle, a splash, in the direction the water flows under your feet. You freeze, turn so that you’re facing the noise. Not that you can see, everything is pitch black. Your heart leaps into your throat as you swing your rifle around, listening close.

Nothing.

“Joel?” You yell out, feet swishing in water. “Where’s that rope?”

No response.

You flick the safety off your weapon and back yourself up against the jagged wall. More noises sound from before you. The shuffle of clumsy boots against rocks. A soft growl. The shift of water.

“Shit,” you huff, raising your weapon to your shoulder with your heart in your throat. You try counting the growls, the different pitches, but there’s too many to keep track. Panic ebbs at your nerves, blooming down your spine all the way through your fingers.

“Joel!” You yell out, and one of the infected launches at you. Pins you to the water.

You’re quick to kick it off, raise your gun and shoot at it. The echo of the blast makes your ears ring as you fight blindly against snarling teeth and broken hands. You hear one infected hit the water from your shot, but there’s more. You don’t know how many there are, but you know there’s at least four hands pulling at your clothes as you try to climb up the side of the hole.

You slip. You fall. You shoot twice more. The infected keep coming. Your heart rages on in your throat as you keep shooting. Each shot lights up the room, revealing each mushroomed head you shoot down.

Eventually, there’s just noises. Growls and clicks. You whip around. Eyes dart left and right in the dark as you search for danger, gun swinging until you don’t know which direction you’re facing. Where the noises are coming from. The room seems to spin as you try to figure out where the wall was, where the infected are.

“Joel?” You breathe, and there’s no answer. Your heart rate picks up in your chest. “Joel!”

Again, nothing. Darkness. Snarling. You turn in circles in the dark. Looking, searching. A way out. Joel. Something.

Something grabs your shoulder and you startle, kicking your attacker off. You raise your gun just in time for a flashlight to shine in your face.

“It’s me!” Joel rasps, raising his shaky, bloodied hands; one of which holding the end of a rope. Deep brown eyes swirling with panic. “Jesus, It’s just me.”

You let out one breath. Then another. Joel’s breathing is just as heavy as yours as you both settle. Shaky hands loosen around your weapon as you realize there’s no more danger.

You huff out a breath and reach out to pull him up, “Fuck.”

He sits up out of the water with a grunt as you stumble backwards, strength seeped from your bones. Your hold on your rifle slips as the drop in adrenaline seeps the remaining energy from your bones.

Joel yanks you into his chest and your breath hitches.

Strong. Solid. Warm. You blink, for a moment, before you have the stunning realization that he’s hugging you. Tight. Like you'd fade away if he lets go. Your hands hover awkwardly in the air behind his back as your mind short-circuits, tries to wrap around the idea. The warmth and the safety.

“Joel?” You breathe, confused.

“Scared the fuck outta me,” he huffs, tightening his arms around you. He lets go before you can think to return the gesture and places a hand on your cheek, tilting your face up to look at him.

“Couldn’t find the rope,” Joel breathes. “You alright?”

Your eyes now adjusted to the dark, you catch the concern in his eyes, flashing behind the mask. The solid warmth of his shaky hand. Makes you think, for the first time in many years, someone might actually take the time to bury you after you die. Might have actually cared. Mourned you.

That’s when you feel it, for the first time. A foreign emotion that claws its way up your stomach and blooms in your chest. It would’ve brought tears to your eyes, if you had time to process it.

“Yes, yeah,” you force the words from your throat and they come out strangled, choked. “Not bit.”

“Good,” he says as you both catch your breath.

You feel like maybe you should acknowledge it, the moment that passes between the two of you. The thing you just shared, the something that ticks in Joel’s eyes that's similar to how he looked at a frozen Ellie. But you don’t, and neither does he.

His hand drops and the moment, the feeling, is a memory.

He shifts his flashlight, redirecting your attention to the corner of the room where water runs down into another hole in the Earth. There’s infected, there. Runners and clickers alike all stuffed inside, clawing and snarling desperately to get to you, but stuck between stone and rock. Fingers raw and bloody from clawing at the muddy concrete.

You think of Ingydar. Of Markus. Of thirty or so citizens lined up to be searched for bites. The crack of the gun whenever somebody unfortunate sported teeth marks in their skin. The start of the Outbreak whenever groups of them stumbled along the streets, got stuck in doorways and in basements just like this.

Joel’s hand on your shoulder snaps you out of it, pulling you away from the sight.

“Come on,” he breathes near your shoulder, yanking you from the depths of your mind. “Let’s go.”

You space out for a while, on your way back. Too caught up in your thoughts as the trek back up the mountain drags on. The steady rhythm of the horses lulls you into your mind as you both make your way slowly, tiredly, up the mountain. As the adrenaline drains to a dull thrum and clouds threaten miserable weather on the horizon, your limbs are rendered cumbersome. Your back tender from the fall and hands stinging from the rocks, thoughts buzzing with what ifs.

***

But Joel is injured.

By the time the first downpour of the season rains down on you both, you start to notice it. His head bowed down as he clutches limply at his side where blood speckles his clothes, turning blue denim purple. He’s pale, breathing strange, and it immediately makes your throat tighten.

“Joel,” you rasp, nervous. The first word exchanged since leaving the tunnel.

He blinks, glances wearily down at the blood like he’s just now noticing it himself. Moves a shaky hand away from it and wipes the glimpse of red off on his jeans. He shrugs.

“Not a bite,” he murmurs dismissively, voice tired. Low. “Just got caught on a rock.”

You stick close, anyway, as the trek falls back into the quiet. Let your thoughts wander to the rifle at your back and what you might have to do if he’s lying. Let the memories of Ingydar seep through and bleed into the present.

Scared the fuck outta me.

His words, his tone, his voice—all gravel coated with honey—bounce around endlessly in your brain. Make you clutch the reins of the unnamed horse a little tighter, stick a little closer to his side. You know it's irrational, that he has enough sense to tell you immediately if he was bitten, but you worry just the same. Try not to let it show.

Whenever you both finally get back to the lookout, it’s dark.

Joel struggles, stumbles when his feet hit the ground. You’re quick to catch him with a hand under his armpit and his breathing is labored, heavy. Face pale under the rain that plasters his hair to his face.

“Fuck,” he breathes, struggling free to stand on his own. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I am,” he insists, but he doesn’t fight you whenever you keep a hand at his back while you both walk up the stairs, slippery from the remaining ice and the rain. It drips from your clothes in steady dribbles, chills your bones until you open the door and the warmth of the inside hits your face.

His legs finally give when he steps inside and he collapses into your desk chair. His head rests back against it as he grunts, pulling his hand away from his side just for it to come back red and shaky.

“Fuck that hurts…”

“Easy,,” you advise softly, coming to his aid. He lets you maneuver him forwards enough to pull his clothes aside. Prod at the skin of his hip just for his blood to ooze onto your hand.

“How bad is it?” He breathes.

The wound is angry; red, irritated, and bleeding, but not enough for anything to be life-threatening. A deep scrape he likely got whenever he jumped down to save you. Definitely not a bite. Definitely not something worth being so worked up about. The adrenaline drains from your system and you let out a quiet breath of relief. Reset. Focus on the task at hand.

“Not bad,” you assure him, breathing, as you start tugging at his jacket. “C’mon. Shirt off.”

He grunts as you peel the waterlogged, bloodied jacket and flannel off his shoulders and toss it aside. You make quick work wiping the wound clean with careful hands, revealing the scrape underneath it. There’s no sound other than the gentle pidder-patter of the rain hitting your roof, Joel’s breathing. His eyes are on you the whole time you work. Steady, curious. He watches quietly, head bowed, arms limp.

You step closer, kneeling down beside him. Your hand brushes his thigh and his breath hitches, flinches. Tense.

You glance up at him, “Joel?”

“Sorry,” he breathes, sounding rough. Pained, almost, as he shifts in his seat and clears his throat. Gives you a nod to continue, eyes locked out the window and jaw clenched through his beard.

You don’t give it much thought, too focussed on getting the bleeding to stop. Pressing a cloth soaked in disinfectant to his side.

Eventually, the wound is cleaned and bandaged, and your hands hover over his skin with nothing left to do other than to sit with the fact that he’s here. Shirtless. Skin warm under your touch. His chest rising and falling steadily and his skin flushed pink along his collar.

He’s stronger, now, gaining weight back steadily as the weather warms up and the animals return. Olive skin damp with mud and rain water, shiny in the low light. There’s a scar on his right side, you notice. Angry, deep, and old. You can’t tell what it's from.

“You shouldn’t have jumped in with me,” you comment, low and tired. “You could’ve been bit.”

He huffs, like it's funny. “So could you.”

Your throat tightens from his carelessness, bringing with it an anger that bubbles up before you can stop it. Thinking of Jackson, what might happen to those people just because Joel wanted to save you.

“What about Ellie? Tommy?” You insist. “You think I want to bring them your corpse?”

Something quick flickers in his eyes and he sighs, “Sweetheart—”

“Stop calling me that.”

Your tone hardens and his mouth shuts quick. For a second he just looks at you, and you think he notices the shake in your voice. In your hands. The rain picks up outside, static against the metal roof. You pry your gaze away quickly to stand, but he stops you with a hand on your arm. Not forcefully, not at all, but it still makes you flinch just the same. Freeze to the floor.

“Hey,” he says, quieter than you deserve. “Sit for a second.”

You huff a breath, trying to reel your thoughts back in and away from his body. “I’m fine.”

Joel squeezes your arm.

“You’re not,” he insists.

You almost seem to recoil from his thoughtfulness, from his gaze when it lingers on your face. It wraps around you tight, warm and suffocating. Inevitable. The fact that he can read you, now, that he’s paid attention enough to know your tells.

“I thought you were bit,” you manage, voice unsteady and wavering. It’s easier to talk about it when you’re not looking at his shirtless form draped over your desk chair.

“I would’ve said so.”

“I know. I know you would,” you mumble, pacing. “But if you were, I…”

You trail off whenever your throat closes up unexpectedly, and you find you can’t finish your thought. It sits in the air, anyway. Heavy. Too heavy for either of you. Nevertheless, you press on, feeling the need to continue with his eyes on you and half the thought already out in the open.

“Y’know…” you clear your throat, but the tightness remains. You push through it the best you can. “You were in my nightmares. Every night up until a few weeks ago, instead of him.”

Thunder rolls quietly over the sky, dark and heavy. The wind whistles against the windows when a particularly strong gust assaults the tower. Joel shifts, stands up slowly with a creak. You fidget with your ring and keep talking. Keep forcing the words out even when they hurt.

“Never could figure out why. Tried not to give it thought,” you continue, letting out a breath. “Didn’t want to.”

You feel him, hovering behind you. Hesitant, quiet, but there. You feel his hand when it reaches out and just barely ghosts over the skin of your elbow. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, what he's getting from your words. He doesn’t speak for a while, but when he does, it's low.

“Do you still have that nightmare?”

You find you can’t speak. Instead, you turn, slowly, to face him. Heartbeat in your ears, a shakiness to your clenched fists. He looks at you with something hazy, something understanding. Wanting. Just like you.

It makes something snap.

You step forward and kiss him. He grunts, surprised, but he’s almost as quick as you are to melt into it. Lift his hand to your face to keep you there. Suddenly, it’s greedy. Ravenous and messy. Starved, as he bites at your lips and pulls you close and your heart skyrockets between your ribs.

Then, he pulls away. Just a breath, just enough to speak into your mouth.

“We really doin’ this?”

“Are you kidding me?” you huff, exasperated, barely letting him finish. You shift closer, close enough to press him back against the table, and it pulls a rumble from somewhere deep and unexpected in his chest. “Yes.”

Thunder shakes the sky again. The rain picks up, muted but consistent as it slides off your roof. Running down your windows and coating the outside in a dense, white, bitterly cold fog. The dead still moan and claw through that tunnel, Jackson still keeps breathing and building between the mountains, off in the distance.

The fire in your stove burns bright just the same.

The next morning, it’s foggy. Dreary and cold. Splotched with slushy snow and deep brown mud. The kind of morning that usually kept you anchored to the bed with a warm mug of water, a dusty book and tired eyes, but not this time. This time, you blink your eyes open to the sound of your front door opening and shutting, and a chill to the sheets carefully tucked around you that wasn’t there a few minutes ago.

***

Joel.

You throw the covers off and leap to your feet, nothing on but the shirt you wore yesterday still spotted with rotten blood. There’s a bruised ache in your core that makes you grit your teeth when you sit up too quick, pulling your jeans back over the bruises between your legs. You barely have your shoes on before you stumble to the door, squinting against the light when you burst through. Ignoring the biting cold.

He’s there when you step outside.

Joel Miller’s eyes snap towards you when your hands meet the freezing banister, soften a little at the sight of you. He’s on his horse, the deep brown one. Favoring his side as he gets situated. Two crows squawk when they flutter away from the railing at the sight of you, skin chilled from the air.

“Tommy’s expectin’ me. Already late,” Joel explains, sincere and a little frazzled. “Didn’t mean to leave before you even—”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, nodding in understanding. “Go help Tommy.”

He lets out a long breath. Nods. Smiles something warmer than you’ve seen from anyone in a while as his breath fogs in the mountain air.

“Go back inside,” he advises, softer. “I’ll be back later. Promise.”

You return his smile, leaning over the banister. Movement catches your eye and the horse you borrowed shakes its head free of water in its mane, pressed off behind the shed.

“What about the other horse?”

Joel’s eyes flicker to the animal in question. He shrugs, pulls on the reins to head out.

“Name her well,” he says, unconcerned. “She’s yours.”

You settle on Ingydar.

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@astrid-sorensen

#the last of us #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller #ellie williams #joel tlou x reader #joel miller/reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #the last of us hbo

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mudandmire · 12 hours ago

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OOhh I love these questions!! (lmao, I see you Wigs)

Long Story- I have to go waaaay back. I think at first I was drawn to how out of the blue it was. Azris popped up on my feed once and I laughed and said, "surely not!" And then dug deeper into it because, from where I stood, these two had nothing to do with each other. And then. Oh, and then. I went deep. Reddit posts, Tumblr metas, fanart (chefs kiss), and I slowly donned my tinfoil hat with the biggest grin. Because these characters, though they intrigued me separately, consumed me together. And then I started reading fics. And oh. Oh Man, I was Completely Lost. The talent, the craft, the dynamic that came alive with these creators, and I had So Much Fun experiencing the dynamic that they inspired me to get back into writing.

Honestly, I don't really know if I have a consistent theme that I explore in my fics?? I do love my motifs and imagery, but none of them are the same in each fic so I think in general I explore different motifs when I write Azris.

I think by far my favorite fic I've ever written for Azris, maybe my favorite thing I've written ever, is 'In This House'. The premise was way out of my comfort zone, and something I'd never done before, but man, seeing that fic come together and mold out of its original concept idea was addictive. Watching each layer of narrative peel away until I was left with the heart of it, what it was telling me to focus writing on. Damn. Seriously proud of that one.

Bold of you to assume I'm organized enough to have a routine. Yeah, no, sometimes I get ideas and most of the time I write down the bare bones of it. Like a paragraph of concept. But I think most of it comes down to rumination. Most of the construction work is done in my head just thinking through the story I want to tell, and then looking to the left, seeing what kind of avenues are available that I'm not looking at properly. dunno if that makes any sense, but finding the right vibe for the tone helps, so usually I'll also pair that with a specific song or sound that inspires in me a particular emotion. Like, for 'In This House' I literally just happened upon a song called 'In This House' in the early stages that had the right haunting, loving tone I was going for.

I'm terrible at headcanons, so uh, here goes nothing. For Eris I suppose I like the idea that he enjoys long baths in his Secret Gay Cabin and also has a little journal full of sketches of flora he finds in the woods. For Azriel, I guess I've always imagined he has the most abysmal handwriting, not because of the scarring, but because he simply does not care enough to put That Much effort into writing reports. And for Azris, goodness, I don't know what constitutes as a head canon lmao, but I love the idea that Azriel is the only one who can see through Eris's pompous language into the truth of what he's saying. I like the idea that when they're together, Eris can be snarky like always, but sometimes he could just say "I'm tired" instead of avoiding it, and Azriel will accommodate. ALSO same goes for Azriel, Eris gives him room in every space, every conversation, to say more than he thinks he needs to. (maybe that's how Eris learns Azriel is quite the talker in bed ehe).

No I have not.

Maybe!

I have two things that are going to continue after Azris week and I'm very excited to explore them further. One of them is the therapy au, which is my beloved right now, and I just hope I do right by Azriel and Eris in that situation lol.

uh, not gonna lie, non-fiction short stories, personal essays, fiction short stories, etc. I had the opportunity to read and edit A BUNCH of short stories these past couple of months and learn more about what makes them work, their structure, and all that. Also, other fics and writers!! I love that I read about these two losers falling in love over and over again, and every time I see a new way their connection is described, it's like I discovered them all over again. It just inspires me more! Nature, too, plus music. I like to shake them up in a cocktail maker and see what comes out ehehe.

Been there, baby, everyone has, and you're not alone in that situation. I'd say to being stalled, start something new. That's what I needed, I was so stuck on the idea that this one idea had to be It, had to be Perfect, and yet I've enjoyed myself so much more working on all of these little one-shots just to see the limits of what I can do in them. I'd say to anyone who wants to participate in Azris week but doesn't feel ready or good enough or whatever other lies their brains tell them- DO IT!! Write your thing and Do It. I know that's what everyone says, like 'perfection isn't possible you just have to get the words out' but they're RIGHT so just send out your little thing, your imperfect attempt, but it's Yours, and see what happens!!

Azris Week 2025 Self-Spotlight

Only five more days until the main event! To continue fostering more community between Azris creators, instead of having user-submitted writers or artists answer some questions, creators can interview themselves!

Pretend you can see my jazz hands.

These questions are for ALL Azris creators - writers, mood board creators, artists, you get the idea! At the end of Azris Week, anyone who has filled out the below interview will get added to a master list so that everyone can see your thoughts. Feel free to add your own questions at the bottom, if you think of anything else you’d like to say about your Azris Week creations.

If you aren’t doing anything for Azris Week 2025 but want to participate anyway, go ahead! No one will stop you and you’ll still be included in the master list.

Questions

1. What drew you to Azris?

2. What themes do you explore most often in your fics? Do you have a favorite image or location that you return to again and again?

3. What is your favorite fic/art that you’ve made? Why?

4. What is your writing/drawing/painting setup? Do you have a routine that you follow?

5. Give a favorite headcanon about Azriel and Eris, separately, and Azriel and Eris, together.

6. Have you worn wigs?

7. Will you wear wigs?

8. What upcoming projects are you excited about?

9. Name some influences on your writing or art style - could be fellow writers, poets, singers, nature, etc.

10. What encouragement would you give someone who is just beginning a project? Someone who is stalled on a project? Someone losing steam/interest?

#azrisweek2025 #this gave me huge perspective on how far I've come #also how frickin AMAZING this community is!!#love y'all 🫶💖

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maryasmorevna · 1 year ago

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why are you, as an adult in 2024, still hung up on reylo. why are you still mocking the shippers. why do you believe yourself to be superior only because you dislike a stupid ship from a fucking space fairytale. girl (gnc) get a grip

#it's ridiculous. this ship is... stupidly cliché. like if you know fandoms at all #you could easily guess why people would be into it. hello?? have you tried to watch tfa without your hate-on-kyle-ron goggles?#did you watch their scenes together? you don't have to like something to recognize the hints #hell. at the time i didn't really like jonerys but i realized they were going to be a thing when i read agot in 2011 #like folks. it's been nearly TEN LONG YEARS. let it go. LET IT FUCKING GOOOO #and for the lucy/cooper shippers out there who think reylos are (again) delusional when they compare the two ships:#no. *you* are being delusional only because you think reylo is unsexy and uncool (which is your right to think btw. obv)#if you can't see why someone would like both of these pairings for similar reasons... idk what to say honestly #people compared it to hannigram... honestly. again i see why they would appeal to anyone who's into both ships #i really do. but... unpopular opinion (since i'm more of a clannibal fan than i could ever be of reylo):#they are more similar to reylo than will/hannibal. there i said it #i'm not talking about the writing (admittedly the quality of it was questionable). i'm talking about tropes #never mind that imo the ghoul is more akin to vader than kylo but whatever #hannibal is an unapologetic kind of villain. he's not gonna have a redemption arc and that's okay #cooper is an antivillain who used to be a good man and became a disfigured cruel bastard. a parody of himself #lucy is him. him before the bombs dropped before he discovered the person he trusted the most wanted to commit genocide #nice. moral. polite. infused with the Good Old American Values™. he's basically her dark side #all of this is very hannigram/clannibal. i'm not denying it at all #but what'll likely happen is that lucy's actions will have a positive influence on the ghoul and remind him of what it means to be a man #and that's way more reylo-like. sorry.#beauty&thebeast/villain with some hidden good in him+morally righteous heroine/enemies to lovers etc.#i mean. hello??..... having said that. i'm not so much of a reylo shipper anymore and tbh never was. i really liked it at the time #but i was never fond of the st era. my fav characters are vader and leia and revan from the old eu. just saying #*and* it's also not impossible lucy gets darker with the ghoul as her traveling companion. in fact i wouldn't dislike it at all #if done well i mean #but i would still like for people to be intellectually honest and less puerile. god knows i have my notps #but i really don't give a fuck about the shippers. good for them i guess? i have better taste lmao but that's heavily subjective #val rambles in the tags #val speaks #txt

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into-the-milgramverse · 2 months ago

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I wonder what could be implications of the "save data"

Does it mean there'll be another round where we could pick different options? Does it mean that prisoners are dead and their souls are uploaded into Milgram? Does it mean they're all from different times? Or

Hear me out here. What if, like, at that point when they felt the guilt crashing down on them, Milgram kinda, well, basically kidnapped them at that point in time? So the time outside is also kinda frozen. And what if that's the point at which they'll be brought back after they get out of Milgram? Like.

Imagine Fuuta, who's last moments before he woke up in Milgram was in his bedroom. So, if he gets voted innocent, he gets dropped off back into his bedroom.

Absolutely insane to think about the shock that would bring to the family tho. Imagine your son goes to his bedroom in pyjamas and then next second he's running out of his bedroom, shaken up, looking like he hasn't slept in years, with serious eye injury, and wearing some sort of weird uniform. And as you rush him to the hospital, he's saying something about Milgram, being kidnapped, getting beat up, hearing voices, feeling watched, Amaneism, judgment, etc...

#What's most painful to think about tho is that‚ while those that are alive it would be noticeable something happened #for those who aren't‚ no one will see anything odd about it for the most part #Like. Example. Shidou is shown being alone after his family died‚ right? So there's no one to check up on him.#If somehow Milgram transfers the dead prisoners back to the starting point where it took them‚ no one will notice they were ever taken away #Mahiru too i feel like it's implied that she and her boyfriend attempted to kill themselves together but she wasn't successful #But that's not really known if the dead her gets transferred there.#And Haruka was neglected so him being found dead in his room wouldn't surprise anyone. Like. It will be shocking‚ sure #But with how he's been treated by his family‚ no one would suspect that he was taken to some magic prison and died there #For Shidou and Mahiru I guess we'll have to wait for their videos to come out. Who knows‚ maybe they were already dead‚ maybe they weren't #Shidou is the only one who's death would raise some eyebrows tho after some testing is done and its discovered he died from a stab wound #(if that's how Amane killed him)#But that's about it. It would become unresolved murder. A man found dead after being stabbed in his own home #(no may they'd know it was in prison that he got stabbed in)#but there'd be no evidence left behind as to who did it.

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gemkun · 1 year ago

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anonymous said : Mr. Ratio, I have an embarrassing problem. My teacher told me I’m not allowed to take notes in class to study later. He said if I really pushed myself and cared about my studies I should be able to memorize the lesson without needing notes to review later. Is he right?

⸻ ❝ your teacher would benefit revisiting the education system. what an antediluvian belief. ❞ even his desk , possesses a great deal of notes , bearing a myriad of annotations towards his current project. ❝ revising is essential. our memories atrophy if we do not exercise consistent practice , and as such , topics will slip from our grasp. it is an inevitable fact , that from this point onwards , you will face frustration as you cannot recall what was said earlier. ❞ steepling fingers , alabaster obscures only slightly , where empty eyes remain fixed on the asker. granting complete and utter attention , towards a raised issue that concerns him vastly.

❝ individuals each have their varied learning approaches , but our minds are a tool that must be sharpened and polished to maintain their prime condition. dismiss your teacher and his words , he clearly fails to comprehend this critical truth. continue to review where necessary , and discover the best technique that suits you. ❞

#* ✦ 𝐈𝐈. ❮ asks ❯ ⸻ ❝#* ✦ 𝐕𝐈. ❮ muses ❯ ⸻ ❝ 「 veritas ratio 」#he has a passion if you cannot tell #but yeah there's an assortment of studying techniques and learning methods out there #it took me so long to discover mine and i've left university now #there's no “right” way there's only the one that works for you #but revision is something that im sure everyone agrees needs to be done #in the workplace you have constant meetings to revise and review how the flow is going and how to improve #even in programs they tend to have you reflect on what occurred so you may learn from it and continue to grow #you need to review to prioritise the important points of the lesson so you can study efficiently too #theres a reason why lectures are also recorded so you can revisit them later

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depressedtheatrekiddo · 8 days ago

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Me thinks Jason Todd doesn't believe in the State nor likes it ergo he should be an anarchist xx

#and also authority. authority sucks.#maybe I am projecting and so what #being an anarchist would make him sooooo good #I never read enough about comic characters to feel comfortable to really really create content about them #but damn #jay would rock it in the unions #he deserves a little revolution as a treat #(throwing this into the void hoping that if it reaches someone it's the right people <3)#maybe I could accept him trying different revolutionary ideologies ughhh discovering himself and what does he really want for his community #I'd love a fucking analysis of jason todd through different ideologies (I could. idk. make it once I know more about him. [which 🧍])#this is NOT because he gets called 'the angry robin' I will throw a chair to your faces if you'll dare to #relate angriness with anarchism #get out of here if that's the only thing you see in him and anarchism as a whole please xx #imagine IMAGINE #the struggle of him trying to align between what he really wishes for and what he sees that it needs to be done #idk how to explain it #but #you get me(?#maybe a turn from anarcho individualism to anarcho collectivism/or sindicalism or sum like that idkkkkk #like when he starts growing and changing himself yk #I should write something better about this. maybe when I end exams weeks #also guys #if someone has cool recs of comics that explore his character can y'all recommend them please :D #I think I've pretty much read the usuals that are in beginners rec lists but uh I don't feel like I know enough enough yk #sooo recs or cool analysis are very welcomed (also guys the analysis that are literature comparisions are so fucking goooood) <3

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murasaki-cha · 4 months ago

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After the Ithaca Saga, I believe that Odysseus thought he and Athena were officially done forever and would only occasionally see each other because she was mentoring Telemachus now. He really thinks there's no way they can reconnect anymore and attempt at a friendship this time, but he's fine with it, he can accept it.

That is until Telemachus goes up to him one day like:

"Hey father, can I ask you something?"

"Yes son, of course."

"You mentored under Athena before right? Do you happen to know a friend of hers?"

"Oh I... I wasn't aware Athena had friends before. She was very adamant about that "No Friends" rule back then... kind of stings."

"Oh really? She talks about him a lot."

"Does she now? *mumbling* must be so special about this fRieNd of Athena..."

"Yeah she told me about this one time he wanted to impress someone, so he climbed on all the way to the tree branch next to the balcony of their room and leaned against the trunk to look cool, but he kept talking to Athena in her owl appearance so he didn't notice the other person going to the balcony and he got so spooked when they called out to him, he turned too fast and lost balance, slipped, smacked his ass on the tree branch and broke his arm when he fell, so he had to wear a sling for 3 months and couldn't sit down for 2 weeks."

"....call Athena right now."

"Why-"

"ATHENA!!!"

The second Athena appeared, Odysseus threw himself at her, on one hand going "YOU CONSIDER ME YOUR FRIEND WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SO!?!?!?!" and on the other going "WHY ARE YOU TELLING MY SON ALL MY EMBARRASSING STORIES!?!?! THAT WAS BETWEEN ME, PENELOPE AND YOU!!"

He was actually crying. Athena has absolutely no idea what is happening or what she should do. Telemachus just discovered a whole new side of his dad and might know where he gets it from now....

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the-maid-of-witchwood · 2 months ago

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Gimme your favourite au ideas and who you'd throw into them (or like one au idea you like because you have like the neatest ideas)

Again, I’m gonna pull out a list of AUs I have previously written because I’m way too prepared for this.

Carrie AU 2.0

Has no relation to the first beyond being another play on Carrie. The whole thing takes place at the Starlight Theatre where Ruth ends up playing the lead in Cinderella’s Castle. Zoey, pissed and bitter about playing second fiddle to some dorky soprano, just decides to trash her opening night. Or the one where Zoey takes method acting as the Stepmother too far. (If you’ve seen CC, you’ll know what I’m hinting at). Ruth snaps and wipes out half of Hatchetfield before curtain call.

Also Lautity are here just flirting in the background the entire time. Like, they are the only survivors because they thought the other looked good in this hot all done up and left to make out.

Cinderella’s Castle

The one where Stephanie doesn’t have a good time. I’ve already spoken about it on here but it’s essentially the plot of CC but set in Hatchetfield, with some of the lore weaved in. Just for fun and angst. So you know she’s being dragged through that ringer.

Corpse Bride

Pete is Victor, Grace is Victoria, Steph is Emily. Need I say more?

Crossed Timelines

Having been killed by Max, Ruth and Richie wake up in some random location with Pete, Steph and Grace. But it’s not their Pete, Steph and Grace. It’s the ones from another universe where Max killed them three instead of Ruth and Richie. Basically everyone argues who had it worst and trauma bonds. Essentially reincarnation.

Dæmons (His Dark Materials)

Just shenanigans involving everyone having dæmons. That’s it. Mainly fluff and chaos.

Dirty Dudes Must Die

Written as a mock Nightmare Time episode. Essentially follows Steph discovering the guys at school being shitty to Grace, the school refusing to do anything, Grace getting kicked out of home for ‘sleeping around’ and subsequently her deciding to take revenge. Only things go horribly wrong and she ends up with four bodies on her hands. Fortunately the nerds who keep getting in the way are more than happy to help.

Hatchet Swung the Other Way

Gabe is the bully and everything changes. Not really. Essentially just a role swap: the cool kids are now the losers and vice versa, Gabe - Max, Grace - Steph, Steph - Pete, and so on and so forth. Potentially might take place at Abstinence Camp.

Heathers

When Richie said he hated Stephanie Lauter and wanted her dead, he didn’t mean it literally. Would be nice if Max knew that. Also it’s totally unfair that he has to put up with her annoying ghost instead of Max when it wasn’t even his fault she was stupid enough to drink drain cleaner in the first place—

Ride the Cyclone Tearjerker

Six teenagers die at Watcher World. However, Miss Holloway refuses to let Blinky torture all of them - so they reach a deal, she can bring one back to life. However, rather than pick herself, she leaves the decision to the teenagers. Aka, Ruth lets out her inner theatre kid for an hour and a bit; Steph and Richie attempt to kill each other a second time; Grace has a mental breakdown/crisis of faith in the corner; Pete is literally the only ‘normal’ one; and Max honestly doesn’t know why he’s here.

Sail Away to Canada

An alternative NPMD ending where they do actually sail away to Canada and get new identities. A lot more slice of life and silly scenarios of them trying to remain undercover… until Solomon drags them back to deal with the mess (Max’s ghost) they left behind. Only there’s one issue: Grace may or may not have lost the winning card of her chastity to Lautski and they might have to aggressively play Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who’s taking the bullet.

Something Fun, Something Tasty

Another alternative NPMD ending where Steph’s sacrifice isn’t the death of what she cherishes most, but they’re humanity. Pete and Grace struggle to adapt to their new life as… whatever the heck they are now. Monsters? Pets? Vessels? Steph just feels incredibly guilty; she’s also kinda the new Miss Holloway.

Take a Walk in My Shoes

Steph and Grace wake up in each other’s bodies in what they think is just a random nightmare. With the help of Pete, they slowly uncover that there’s something a lot more sinister going on at Abstinence Camp. And maybe a certain deal that was stuck between Mayor Lauter and the Jerries over a black book…

The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals

Essentially TGWDLM but Pete is Paul. And he has the unfortunate fate of losing one girlfriend to the apocalypse, while trying to escape with the other. This definitely isn’t something that’ll be used against him in the final act…

#mari’s asks

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chuluoyi · 5 months ago

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𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍

- sylus x reader

when your husband went away without so much as a proper notice, you thought you wouldn't forgive him so easily. but he tries everything to capture your heart back: spoiling and indulging you… little do you know that he expects a reward in return

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—rotten fluff, domestic bliss, explicit smut, cunnilingus, fingering, mating press, taking elements from sylus' card night of secrecy, secret times approaching dusk and spoilers! from myth beyond cloudfall

note: my first sylus x mc fic! with this i'm spreading the soft!sylus agenda and that spicy 4-star approaching dusk has destroyed me :') loosely based on this post

Sometimes, you do wonder... does Sylus really think you're that easy to placate?

On one chilly morning, you woke up only to discover your hunk of a husband gone... and in his side of the bed, a sticky note.

Your eyebrow twitched as you read the audacious message scrawled on it:

Hey, kitten. I need to leave for a few days. There are things I have to handle on my own. Take care of yourself while I’m away. I’ll come back soon.

That was it. No clear explanation, no further details. Just those vague words in such short notice. The day before, he’d seemed like his usual self, not a hint of this sudden departure in sight.

It irked you. It made your heart clench at the same time. Because even after marrying you, Sylus remained elusive, playing his cryptic games. It was beyond you how he didn't even stop to consider how you were left worrying about him while he drifted in and out of his dangerous world without a second thought.

You understood the reality of your lives—that you were a hunter and he was the Onychinus leader, and that to be with him meant you had to walk that fine gray line between light and dark.

And you'd already made your choice. You had accepted it—accepted him—wholly. Even when your marriage had been a rushed affair and registered under false names to protect both your identities.

Things couldn't go on like this. You had to teach him a lesson too.

As your irritation simmered into determination, a devious plan began to take shape in your mind—a way to spite him just enough to make your point crystal clear.

Two days later

Sylus was done with his dirty business faster than he thought, and to appease you, he had come bearing gifts.

The precious little thing that is now his wife, of course he missed you too. But your safety was a price he wasn’t willing to gamble. If going away to take care of those pests meant your peace would be unperturbed, then he would leave without hesitation.

However, as he stepped inside the base, his relief quickly turned to unease. The space was eerily empty, the usual hum of activity conspicuously absent.

Normally, you’d be at the center of some commotion, locked in a spat with either Mephisto, or Luke and Kieran. But now—

“What do we do?! She’s gone!”

Sylus immediately rushed to the source of the ruckus, thinking something bad had happened to you. He found his henchmen standing in a tight, anxious circle around the coffee table.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Without a word, they stepped aside, revealing the object of their concern: a single note lying on the table.

He snatched it up, scanning the words. Then, he let out a sharp exhale of relief, a smirk began tugging at the corners of his lips.

Catch me if you can.

Typical. Absolutely typical. And maddeningly you.

. . .

That night, you had a very strange dream, it felt almost felt like stepping into the pages of an ancient tale.

You were a fallen princess wrongfully accused as a sorceress, who began consorting with the fearsome fiend from the Abyss.

The sorceress and her dragon. Together, you were an infamous pair, a dark legend whispered across generations. Your union had ignited Doomsday itself... and yet, amidst the turmoil and destruction, the sorceress fell in love with the dragon... deeply and irrevocably.

The dragon, in turn, was utterly bewitched by his little witch. He indulged your every whim, no matter how mischievous or perilous, and though he rarely spoke of his true feelings, he always found ways to show his affection.

The lucid dream felt as though it might go on forever, but you were pulled from it by the soft brush of lips against your forehead. The warmth lingered, blurring the lines between dream and reality, until your eyes fluttered open.

“Sylus...?” His features, fresh from your dream, now materialized in your reality. It took you a few seconds to realize that he had come here—

“Morning, sweetie.” His voice was rich and smooth, with that familiar, mischievous edge. A smirk curled on his devilishly handsome face as he leaned in, garnet eyes gleaming with playful intent. “Caught you now, hmm?”

The haze of sleep vanished in an instant, and you were suddenly wide awake. In a flurry, you shoved him away and turned your back on him, trying to regain some semblance of control.

You’d left the N109 Zone for one of his safehouses in suburban Chansia City, thinking it would take him some effort to track you down. Clearly, you’d underestimated him.

“Oh. The kitten is in a bad mood, it seems.” Sylus’ gaze lingered on you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well, what do I owe the ire for?”

“...”

“Silent treatment, huh? The lady of the house is getting better at our little games while I was away.”

“...”

“Remember, sweetie, there’s no divorce in our relationship, hmm? If you’re tired of me, keep taking naps.”

You felt the weight shift as he rose from the bed and stalked away. The door clicked shut, leaving you in the silence of the room.

You wanted to resent him for coming and going on his terms, for never offering even an apology. Yet, no matter how much you tried, a part of you remained hopelessly tethered to him. The part that couldn’t ignore the reminder of the dragon from your dream—captivating, powerful, and infuriatingly hard to resist.

You love him, really you do.

. . .

When you didn’t come down for breakfast some time later, Sylus barged into the room once again, and this time he came up with a different approach.

“My lady,” he began, his voice sickeningly low and sweet, but his eyes gleamed with a touch of mischief. “You haven’t had breakfast yet. Please come down.”

You shot him a look, unamused, and decided to play his game as you crossed your arms together. “What if I don't want to?”

His smirk only grew, his tone dripping with mock formality. “And what must I do to change your mind?”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but notice his persistence. He had chased you here, given you more time to sleep in, and now stood before you to get you to eat. You felt your resolve beginning to soften—maybe just a little.

“Carry me there,” you said with a hint of defiance, lifting your chin high, daring him to follow through.

Sylus tilted his head, failing to restrain his snort. “As you wish, my lady.”

He placed his arms around you effortlessly, one hand beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, lifting you into a flawless princess carry. You instinctively put your arms around his neck, and he turned to you.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire off a sharp retort, but before you could, he dived in—

Smooch!

—and planted a bold, wet kiss on your lips. You, wide-eyed, punched his chest in retaliation. “Sylus!”

He chuckled, entirely unfazed. “Careful now, sweetie. Wiggle too much, and you’ll fall.”

He carried you downstairs, effortlessly navigating each step with you still in his arms. Once there, he gently set you down onto the dining chair, and that was when you noticed the table.

Salad, slightly burnt toast, scrambled eggs, milk—simple dishes by all means, but the thought the big, bad Sylus making them?

Wait. When you arrived last night, this place was a dusty shell, and the refrigerator had practically nothing—

“You cleaned the place?” you asked, your tone laced with surprise as your turned from the spotless room to him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Why is that so surprising? I can cook and clean just like everyone else.”

It sent a wave of warmth through your chest. He’d prepared food and cleaned the place knowing you’d be hungry and uncomfortable with dust all around.

You huffed, trying to hide how your heart fluttered. “No, your cooking skills are questionable at best.”

As if to prove you wrong, Sylus disappeared into the pantry and reemerged with a tray of warm, freshly baked dough that filled the room with a heavenly aroma.

“You are... baking?” You approached him, mystified at the sight of your husband, who usually at the scene of crime, behind the counter and started frosting the cupcakes.

He set the frosting bag down and picked up a cupcake, holding it to your lips with a teasing smile. “Here. Open up.”

Dutifully, you nibbled on the cupcake, and the sweetness immediately spread into your mouth. “It's tasty,” you mumbled, blinking at him. His eyes crinkled with satisfaction as he gestured toward the tray.

“Go have some more.”

Grinning, you grabbed another cupcake and eagerly took a bite. Munching away, you missed how Sylus’ gaze softened, his bright red eyes focused solely on you.

He couldn't resist pinching your full cheeks at that moment.

“Sy-wus!” you protested, glaring at him. His laughter broke free that instant, warm and unrestrained.

Utterly funny, utterly precious—that’s what you were to him.

Indignant, you scooped up some icing from the cupcake and smeared it right across his face. The stunned look he gave you was priceless, and before he could react, you burst into a fit of giggles and bolted out of the kitchen.

But as you reached the base of the stairs, a strong arm caught your waist from behind, halting your escape. You squealed in surprise, “Noooo!”

Sylus leaned closer and pressed you to his chest, his voice rumbling in your ear. “Ha. Did you really think you could get away that easily?”

He lifted you up with one arm and brought you back to the kitchen, setting you down on the counter and trapping you in place with his arms braced on either side. His eyes sparkled with mirth as he leaned in, and with a grin, he bumped his frosting-smeared nose against yours, leaving a sticky smudge.

“This is unfair!” you protested, still caught in a fit of giggles as you looped your arms around his neck for balance. Sylus chuckled along with you, his gaze steady and warm, never leaving yours.

Being with Sylus in the kitchen like this, savoring simple meals and smearing each other with frosting, it made you realize that you craved this domestic bliss more than you thought.

As the laughter subsided and you both settled into the quiet, your expression softened, all your previous grievances forgotten. The tenderness in your eyes said everything you didn’t need words for, and Sylus could see it clearly—you adored him, just as much as he adored you.

The one who gazed into his jewel-like eyes, embraced his burning soul and sang to him in the night wind... is once again in his arms. A part of him was almost sentimental at the thought.

Instinctively, he closed the distance between you, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. But as they were about to meet, he paused, as if hesitating, leaving you puzzled.

Then, without a second thought—

To hell with it.

You chose to abandon all senses. You seized the moment—yanking him to you and capturing his lips, claiming him for yourself.

“…!” Suck, suck, bite, suck— You were relentless, and you didn't really know why. At first, even he was taken aback, but then his hand slipped behind your head, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in an intoxicating rhythm.

“Mmm...” You sneakily began to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one, your fingertips grazing his warm skin with each deliberate motion. Feeling it, Sylus broke the kiss just enough to smirk, his voice husky. “Getting bold, aren’t we?”

But before you could respond, his hands trailed down your sides, firmly pulling you closer, leaving no space between the two of you. His gaze burned with desire, as if daring you to keep going.

Then, without warning, his lips began their descent, grazing your jaw softly before trailing down to your neck and chest, leaving a trail of warmth and shivers across your skin. The feeling was intoxicating, even as his hair tickled you, making it hard to focus on anything but him.

“Ahh,” you couldn’t help but sigh, pressing him closer.

His lips left wet marks on your neck, and he whispered, “Now tell me... what made you so upset that you left home?”

When you didn't answer right away, one of his hand slid beneath your blouse, unhooking your bra and grazed your skin—

“You... keep coming and going as you please...” you stammered, feeling him begin to cup and squeeze your breasts, your breath growing erratic.

Sylus bit down on the skin at the nape of your neck, and you almost gasped.

“It's almost as if— Mmm—” The way he fondled your chest made the space between your legs grow warmer. “—you wouldn’t... miss m-me at all...”

How untrue. He stopped his ministrations, and the steel behind those eyes you loved so much met your gaze once again.

His wife was a mess of sweat already. He swiftly hooked your thighs around his waist and claimed your lips once more. With effortless movement, Sylus guided you to the long recliner in the room, laying you down there, still lost in the heat of the kiss. His hand intertwined with yours, pinning you to the soft surface.

“So...” he rasped, breathless against your lips, “You’re upset that I didn't miss you when I was away...”

His other hand worked to unzip your skirt. “But don’t you know? I... was worried about my wife getting into trouble when I wasn’t with her too... That’s why I was in a hurry to go home...”

Sylus pulled away, both of you panting for air, and he took a moment to savor the sight of your glazed eyes.

“But then I couldn't find her anywhere.” His voice was low and taunting, trailing his fingers on your belly. “I made it back as soon as I could, just like I told you and you are the one who misbehaved... Don’t you think I deserve something as a compensation?”

It took you three solid seconds to realize that the lower half of your body was now exposed. Your husband parted your legs and settled his face between them, pressing a kiss on your knee.

“So I believe at the very least... I deserve this.”

He dived straight for your clit then and you let out a loud gasp.

“Ngh! Aaah...!” You let out incoherent moans as he devoured your folds, lost in the cloudy haze of pleasure. It didn’t take long to unravel you at all.

“Mmnh—!” Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head. Ticklish, hot, wet— all in all, it felt like a sin, but you just had to get this heavenly taste. “…a-ah!”

Sylus felt how you were this close to get your orgasm, so he moved faster, licking and sucking your clit, while adding a couple of fingers to bring you to the peak faster. You unconsciously moved your hips against his face— too far gone to be thinking anything else, grasping the leather of the sofa and pulling his hair—

“Ahh— S-Sylus!” And then you came hard, screaming his name, feeling how much it was— were you squirting?

You didn't know, didn't care either, as it was the sight of his ruby eyes that grounded you. You were spent, spread on the sofa (most probably ruined it, even), your chest heaving to catch your breath.

Sylus let out a low rumble as he wiped your juices off his lips with a thumb and tasted it, looking so sinfully sexy like a forbidden fruit while at it.

“You said... I wouldn't miss you.” He traced one finger on your face with such tenderness. “Now, I'm going to show you, and you'll be judge of it. Are you sure you don't want me to stop?”

If you said no, he would comply. That was the kind of person he was and you knew it. Sylus had always looked out for you since the very beginning, no matter how nonchalant he made himself to be.

“No.” You met his eyes, your voice steady. “Show me.”

It was the only affirmation he needed. He began unbuckling his belt and pants, keeping his unclouded gaze on yours, and soon he too was bare before you.

He was thick and long, and while you had taken him many times, it was never fully easy to ease the intrusion. His tip was already slick with precum, and he spread it along his length.

“You know the rule,” he murmured with a meaningful smile. “If it becomes too much, you scream, and I'll stop.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, sliding in slowly. The sharpness of the stretch seeped into you bit by bit, and you couldn't help but groan.

“—!” A sharp hiss escaped you as he fully sheathed himself inside, hitting that sensitive spot. Had your eyes deceived you, or was there a slightly noticeable bulge in your belly from where he was?

Sylus seemed to notice it too, but he folded your knees, spreading you further. His gaze intense and filled with something deep, something possessive. The room seemed to narrow, your entire focus consumed by him as he settled in close.

“Eyes on me, kitten.” He gave you a smile, and with that, he started pounding you—

“Ah, hah, ahhh!” You couldn't stop moaning beneath him as he thrusted into you. The feeling of him so deep inside, coupled with the way you tightened around him, sent waves of blind pleasure through you.

Sylus’ eyes darkened, his jaw clenched as he watched you squirm under him. Your skin glistened with the heat of the moment, and the sound of your breaths, frantic and needy, filled the room. His control slipped, just a little, as he pushed deeper, his movements faster, chasing the release that quickly building within both of you.

A pretty mess, his wife is. Your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and pain as he bred you, and he swore, of everything he had gone through, this look in your face was always worth it.

“Sylus—!” you almost wailed, nails digging into his back, and he growled, knowing full-well that he was finally losing it.

Just like that he shot his cum straight to your womb, his own body shuddering, thoroughly rutting into you. You cried, tears falling from your lashes as you too reached your climax.

Full, too full... Yet you knew that you wouldn't have it another way.

. . .

It felt warm and comforting.

Your eyes fluttered open hours later, and the first thing you noticed was Sylus' sleeping face, and that you were now in the bedroom.

He looked so vulnerable like this. You couldn’t help but be drawn to how serene and unguarded he was, a side of him that only you got to see. Even in his sleep, his arms were wrapped around your waist, as if to protect you from anything that might disturb your rest.

Your lover... and then husband. He was rough around the edges, sometimes didn't make any sense at all, and often reckless enough to burn himself playing with fire.

“You sly crow…” You gazed at his profile, still in awe that this elusive man was your husband.

Sylus was easy to read sometimes, and you couldn’t help but smile at your earlier doubts about him. How could you not see just how deeply he was attached to you?

Just like the inseparable pair of dragon and sorceress in your dream, you knew you’d stay by his side until the very end.

Out of a playful surge of affection, you tapped his nose, and he grunted softly but didn’t wake, instead nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, seeking more of your warmth. It was cute, how he was so worn out that he sought comfort in your embrace.

You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead then, vowing with everything you had that you’d never let him go, and that with him by your side, you would definitely made this life you shared a happy one.

Several weeks later...

“Thank you, miss!”

The boy bowed his head with a wide grin as soon as you handed him the red pocket money for Linkon New Year. You waved at him, smiling warmly as he skipped away, clutching the envelope in his hands.

The festive occasion inspired you to pay a visit to a nearby orphanage, driven by a desire to share more of the joy and blessings. You brought small gifts and red envelopes, hoping to bring a little light to the children’s lives and make the celebration even more meaningful for them.

Of course, Sylus tagged along too. He was the benefactor, after all.

“Sir, thank you for your generosity.” The headmistress approached Sylus, who looked effortlessly sharp in his red suit, and gave his hand a shake. “The children are really happy with the cupcakes and pocket money.”

He merely chuckled and pointed at you with his chin. “Thank her, my wife is the one with the idea.”

You joined the conversation shortly after, and it didn’t take long for the topic to shift from the orphanage to your personal lives.

“So, do the two of you have plans to start a family soon?” the headmistress asked, her tone warm and curious. “Both of you are still young, and you're so good with kids. Having children of your own might bring even more joy into your lives.”

You mustered a polite laugh, the words to gracefully deflect her comment forming on your lips, when—

“Soon,” Sylus interjected smoothly, his arm slipping around your waist, pulling you closer. “Very soon, in fact.”

You blinked at him, startled by his bold declaration, while the headmistress’s face lit up with approval. You nudged him discreetly.

As soon as the headmistress went on her way, you turned to him with a frown. “Why would you tell her that?”

Your gaze met his, clear and utterly clueless. Sylus snorted, so tempted to pinch your cheeks, but settling instead for a tender pat on your head.

“You'll see soon enough, sweetie,” he replied, his tone laced with playful mystery.

Epilogue

It was the dead of night when a sudden wave of nausea overtook you. Stumbling out of bed, you rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before retching up the contents of your stomach.

Your body trembled as you stood, dizziness threatening to topple you. Leaning heavily on the sink for support, you rinsed your mouth, trying to steady yourself. The effort left you shivering, your legs almost buckling beneath you.

Before you could even comprehend the blur in your vision, a pair of strong arms got a hold over you. “S-Sylus...?” you murmured faintly.

Without hesitation, he lifted you into his arms securely as he carried you back to the bedroom, his expression shadowed with concern.

As he settled you onto the bed, he held you close, pressing your face against his bare chest that peeked from his unbuttoned shirt. “Take deep breaths,” he urged softly, his voice grounding you.

You inhaled shakily, letting the familiar warmth of his scent calm your frayed nerves. Slowly, your breathing steadied, though the nausea still lingered in the back of your throat.

“Is it the first time?” he questioned, smoothing your hair. “Have you thrown up before?”

You shook your head. “No... I get dizzy spells but that's it... This is the first time.”

Nausea, dizziness, vomiting. It wasn't hard to piece together what it was. Amidst your dazed thoughts, the realization hit you, and you turned to your husband almost in wonder. “Sylus... a-am I...?”

Sylus broke into a smirk, ruffling your hair. “Told you. I know your period is late.”

Your heart skipped a beat—and it was the only thing you could hear in that moment. The thought that a baby would enter your lives left you briefly speechless.

“Yeah, at the rate we're going, it’s like we’re bunnies,” you quipped sullenly, trying to regain a sense of control as you leaned into his broad chest.

You really thought he would poke fun at you for your highly possible pregnancy, but instead you were taken aback when he pressed a fond, lingering kiss to the side of your head. His arms tightened around you, his soft chuckle reverberating through his chest.

And when you found his gaze again, his jewel-like eyes softened into such an extent that made your heart soar.

“Well, aren’t I the luckiest man— having this fair lady be the mother of my child?”

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