#i want to draw moore though

[angelfoodscake]

goat child (ft some authorities)

[jazziejax]

𝐉𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧’ 𝐈𝐈

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Modern AU | Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC & Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore | Modern AU

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - What started as a simple night out turns into something a little more complicated when new faces and old ties mix under the summer heat.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Mild language, flirtation, tension, heavy Southern vibes

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I’m so glad you guys liked this story! I was so nervous to post, especially this one in particular. I’m was so shocked by the feedback, reactions and the LOVE. I’m so happy you guys are enjoying this, I’ve never written for Michael B. Jordan, though I’ve been reading about him since I’ve been on this site, but still. I’m so glad that you guys love this, stay with me as I get through these and the rest of my stories…

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 5,940+

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟑

The block party on Vernon Street was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of grilled meats and the rhythmic beats of early hip-hop. Laughter and chatter filled the neighborhood as families and friends gathered to celebrate the return of Smoke and Stack, most just wanting an excuse to party. Children darted between adults, their laughter mingling with the music, while the adults swayed to the nostalgic tunes.

Smoke and Stack moved through the crowd, exchanging handshakes and hugs with familiar faces. Their presence was magnetic, and others could tell the difference from when the boys first left. They were men now, and were drawing attention from all corners of the block. As they approached the cooler, a familiar voice called out.

“Well, if it ain’t the Moore twins.” Sinclair said, her smile as bright as ever. She wore an orange halter top that popped against her brown skin, low-rise jeans, with her hair styled in loose curls that framed her face.

“Sinclair!” Stack exclaimed, pulling her into a warm embrace. “How you doing, girl?”

“Oh, I’m as good a can be.” She smiled, pulling away from the embrace and looking up at him. “Y’all still causing trouble?” She teased, her eyes twinkling at the two as she crossed her arms.

“Only the good kind,” Smoke replied with a grin.

“Pleased there was never a good kind with y’all.” She quipped. “Good for you, maybe.”

“That’s what we meant.” Stack stated before laughing, causing the girl to laugh and smack his arm. Their laughter died down into fond smiles and soft gazes, Elias and Sinclair eyeing each other in particular. Smoke looked between the two, before he let his eyes drift as he felt the conversation about to shift.

“How you been, Claire?” Stack asked, leaning against the fence near the cooler, while Smoke sat on a milk crate, next to some men shooting dice. Sinclair let out a small a sigh, putting her hands in the back pockets of her right jeans, looking anywhere else but his eyes. “Nothing much.” She shrugged, but from the nervous laugh she let out at the ends and the way she divided eye contact let Stack know she was t telling the full truth. “I mean, if you can count having a baby as nothing.” She’s shrugged.

Stack eyes widened a bit at that, blinking as he looked at the girl before him. “A baby?” He asked, and his voice was a bit soft, low, as if the subject was something fragile and foreign to him. His heart then pinged in his chest, a sharp and quick thump, before it dropped to his stomach.

And he couldn’t help but wonder if this was her way of telling him he had a child after their one close encounter the night before him and Smoke is and left the Sip.

When Sinclair nodded, he licked his lips, reading his stance of the fence to stand straight, looking down at the girl. “Damn, that’s crazy Claire.” He said, keeping a calm demeanor in the face of his slight panic. “When did this happen?” He asked.

“About a year after you guys bounded, freshman year at college.” She explained, and Stack could almost drop to his knees and praise the sky at her words. He gulped as he blinked, trying to calm his heart that was still seating from the potential bond she could’ve dropped. But that was all covered up with a simple nod.

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy. His names Tyson.” She said, and now this time, Stack could be more happy for the girl, a small smile drifting onto his face. “That’s crazy, Claire. Congratulations.” He said, placing a hand on her shoulder and shaking her.

“Thank you.” Sinclair said softly, a small smile on her lips. “Now enough about me, tell me what you were up to in Chicago, big money.” She quipped, smiling up at him, looking up at him through her lashes, and that was a look Stack was not unfamiliar with. Which caused him to smirk as he leaned back into the fence.

They continued to chat amiably, reminiscing about old times and catching up on the years that had passed. Sinclair’s laughter rang out as she recounted a particularly embarrassing story from their youth, causing Stack to chuckle and shake his head.

As the conversation continued, Juicy and Mary emerged from the Hall home, their presence immediately drawing attention. Juicy’s black halter top with white lace detailing accentuated her curves, and her dark wash Baby Phat jeans hugged her hips perfectly. Her French tip toes stuck out from her black wedges that added to her height and her voluptuous shape, as well as the boot cut pants. Her stomach pudge peeked out confidently, adorned with a gleaming belly ring. Her dyed blonde highlighted curls cascaded down to her neck in a fluffy blowout, catching the light as they moved. Mary, equally stylish, wore a sequined butterfly top and low-rise jeans, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail.

They lingered by the porch, surveying the lively scene before them. Juicy’s eyes scanned the crowd, landing briefly on the twins before she turned to Mary.

“I’m gonna grab a drink and talk to Sinclair.” She said, her voice casual. “Kk.” Mary said, her eyes already on someone in the crowed that she seemed to want to sink her teeth in.

As Juicy approached the cooler, one of Martin’s friends couldn’t help but stare. The men were sat at a table, and his eyes caught the perfect view of a tattoo on the side of her hip. His gaze lingered for a moment too long, getting distracted from the game of spades. Martin noticed and frowned, turning to his sister.

“Man, go in the house and put some clothes on.” He said, his tone disapproving as she waved the girl over to the crib.

Juicy looked over at him after she picked up a peach Faygo from the cold ice waterz her face was frowned before she rolled her eyes at him, unbothered. “Boy, shut up.” She scoffed.

“I’m serious, Ju. You out here dressed like you grown or some.”

“I am grown, nigga.” She hissed, placing her free hand on her hip as she looked down at man with a deck of cards in his hands in a baggy black T-Shirt.

“Yeah, whatever. You just want attention.” He said, shaking his head before going back to the game, placing a card down on the table. Juicy turned her lip up at him, her eyes doing a quick survey of the men at the table and about. “I don’t want nothing from any of these bums out here you call a homeboy or whoever the fuck else. I came here to speak to Sinclair about Me and Mary going to Dwight’s later.” She snapped at him, her lip still turned up at him as she moved her hands as she talked, her manicured pointer finger grazing over the group of men. Some of the guys around that heard her let out their own sounds of discontent, but nothing crazy since her brother was sitting right next to her. And it seemed that Stack and Smoke were the only ones not bothered by the girls words, Smoke’s eyes dragging over her figure as he tipped his head back to drink his grape soda. Stack looked over at her from his place near the fence, a smirk in his lips at her bold words.

“Leave her alone, Mar.” Sinclair playfully interjected from next to Stack, trying to diffuse the tension.

“Yeah, can you leave me alone? I wasn’t even talking to you.” Juicy added, her tone sharp. Stack’s smirk grew wider as he looked at her, his tongue subconsciously tracing over his bottom lip as he eyed her.

Juicy then turned to Sinclair, her expression softening. “I need to borrow the car tonight. I’ll put gas in it.”

Sinclair hesitated for a moment, slightly squinting he eyes at the younger girl. “You better put glass in it.” She said, causing Juicy to smack her lips. “Didn’t i just say that? It’s my car too, Claire.” She said, crossing her arms. And besides the way her doing so pushed her breasts together and up, the twins noticed her plump lips had formed a small put as she spoke to her sister. They also began to notice that Juicy had grown into a bit of a boujee brat since they left. And that wasn’t a complete turn off to either of them. Sinclair then nodded her head over to the house. “Keys are in my purse on the couch.”

Juicy smiled, her grin radiant. “Thank you, Claire.” She said sweetly, puckering her lips in an air kiss before switching away from them, not sparing anyone a single glance. As she walked away, the twins couldn’t help but watch her, their eyes following her every move, especially the way her hips moved from side to side. Smoke and Stack shared a glance, holding eye contact for mere seconds and fully knowing wha the other was thinking. They shared a single and subtle nod before going back to the party.

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The sun in the key began to dim and the music had softened into something slow and familiar—Frankie Beverly and Maze playing low over a radio someone left by the porch. Most of the crowd had either filtered to their cars to chill or leaned into the vibe with drinks and smoke in-hand. The air was thick with that Mississippi humidity, but Juicy didn’t seem to mind.

She was perched on the edge of the porch railing, one heel kicked off, sipping on water from a bottle through a straw to not mess up her makeup. Drinking water in the first place to come down from the buzz she felt from her and Mary’s earlier pre-game. Her curls had grown puffier from the heat, and her lip gloss was faded where she sipped through the thin plastic, but it was still shining in the glow of the porch light. She flipped lazily through a magazine she pulled from Mary’s purse, something she always carried the newest edition of. The light bouncing off her glasses, which she pulled from her purse and slipped on.

Smoke spotted her first—leaned up against the hood of a car in front of the Hall family yard, his arms folded, eyes cool. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched her while the men around conversed. Juicy didn’t look up at first, too focused on the gossip section of the magazine, but when she did look up, she saw him already headed her way.

He didn’t say a word when he reached the porch, just leaned against the porch rail beside her, looking down at her from above, as she looked up at him.

“Thought you mighta dipped by now.” He said, voice deep and low. His gaze intense as his eyes trailed over every inch of her face.

Juicy smiled a little, eyes bouncing from the paper in her hands and up into his serene eyes. “Nah. Mary got caught up with some scrub over there.” She said, gesturing over to the girl that was giggling at something a dark skinned man with cornrows said to her, caught in the trance of her laugh. Smoke didn’t even look at where the girl was pointing, his eyes trained on he as her eyes drifted away from him.

He simply hummed. “You look different.” He said.

That got her attention. She looked back over at him, smirking. “Good different or bad different?” She asked with a tilt of her head, subconsciously nipping at her bottom lip. Smoke’s eyes didn’t waver from her face. “Good.” There was a pause as his eyes jumped down to her lips before looking her back in the eye. “Grown.” He nodded.

And that single word settled heavy between them. Juicy raised an eyebrow at him, taking a slow sip from her water as she tried to hide her smile. “Well… it has been about, almost, seven years.” She shrugged.

“I ain’t forget.’ He replied, gaze sharp, but not unkind. “I remember you used to sit on this same porch with that blue bubblegum Stack got for your from the machine down at Phonso’s, scraped knees after falling from his bike for the fourth time cause he drives like a bat out of hell.” He explained with a fond smile, causing Juicy to duck her head as she felt heat creep up her neck. “And you was always talkin’ loud and with your hands, you two arguing about something he told you.”

Juicy chuckled. “Yeah, we ain’t have to reason to argue, but me and you did.” She said, giving him a playful once over. “You used to steal my freeze cups and act like you ain’t do it.” She said, moving to push his arms playfully.

A flicker of a smile threatened the corner of his mouth, looking at the girl who gazed up at him. His gazed trailed her up and down, taking in her form as she sat on the porch. When his eyes made its way back up to her face, he caught her eyes, that twinkled in the dwindling sunlight at him. “You still loud?” He asked. And he could see the way the glint in her eye changed. And it did, because one thing Juicy no longer was, was that shy and self-conscious girl her mother turned her into. She knew she had things abut her that guys loved, and she grew to find the beauty within herself, on her own. And now it seemed that her “new look” was catching the attention of a gut she’s had a crush ion since she could remember. At least, that’s what she thought.

“Sometimes.” She teased, brushing her curls behind her ear, playing subtly into what she thought she saw within him. “Depends on who I’m around.” She said softly, giving him a slow blink as she looked up at him through her lashes.

Smoke didn’t answer. Just looked at her like he was trying to figure something out. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was charged. Both of them could feel it, as it was exchanged between their eye contact.

“I’ll see you around, Juicy.’ He finally said, pushing off the railing. And she watched him go, heart knocking slightly against her chest. He didn’t look back once—but she could feel that his energy lingered.

Almost an hour later, she was back on the porch, both heels kicked off now. Her legs were crossed as she sat on the porch swing, sort of lying down as she swayed back and forth, when Stack strolled up with a plastic cup in hand and that devil-may-care smirk he always wore like a cologne.

“Well, well, well.” He drawled, stopping in front of her with a slow once-over. “If it ain’t my little Juicy fruit. You’ve changed so much, ma.” He said, grinning as he leaned against the porch banister, looking down at her. Juicy gave him a look, moving her eyes away from her pedicure that she was focused on as she hummed to the music. “You still talk too much.” She deadpanned, living her foot up as she looked back at her toes, thinking if she needed another color or not. Stack watched her, how unbothered the girl seemed to be by him as she analyzed herself.

“And you still like it.” He fired back smoothly. “You always did, you know that.” He said before, eyeing her as he sipped from his cup, looking at her over the rim. Juicy’s eyes trailed back over to him as she crossed her legs, ignoring the pulse she felt at her center at his words. She rubbed her lips together, spreading her gloss while Stack continued. “That outfit—mm.” He hummed. “That outfit of yours is a but disrespectful.”

“Disrespectful?” She asked, raising a brow. And her irritation that was rising was clear to the both of them as she blinked at him.

He nodded as he leaned closer, eyes dragging down her legs and back up again. “Yeah.” He said. “To every man at this party that ain’t got a chance.” He smirked. Juicy laughed at that, loud and unbothered, shaking her head. “Boy, you ain’t changed not one bit.”

She grinned, cheesing at him. “Still slick at the mouth.”

“Why would I change when I know you love me no matter what?” Stack grinned, resting his arm on the porch rail beside her. “No change been doin me just fine.” He said. Juicy simply tilted her head at his words, taking his appearance in. She didn’t know what to say to him, because she knew he was right. She had been smitten for Stack for a very long time, even if it was never said. And Stack used to indulge the girl up until the day he left. Their bond went far beyond what most could understand, but when they were younger, she helped Stack more than she knew. Stack did the same. He studied her, all slow. Juicy just hummed. “But you?” Stack started. “What was that earlier, huh? Juicy in Juicy? Baby, when was you gon’ tell me that you were a brand now?” He asked her jokingly.

The girl rolled her eyes but smirked. “Don’t gas me.”

“I ain’t. I just tell it how it is, ma.” He tilted his head. “ So what you been up to since I been gone? I know you ain’t been in no trouble. You was never trouble, I was, but you grown now.”

Juicy let out a small sight, shaking her head. “Nah.” She said shaking her head. “Not me. Not yet.” She chuckled. “Just been doing anything a young girl like does.”

Stack quirked a brow at that. “Like what? Don’t tell me you got a lil boyfriend or something. You talkin’ to anybody?” He asked.

Juicy narrowed her eyes. “Why?” She asked, tilting her head at him.

“’Cause I wanna know what I’m up against.” He smirked. “Who ass i gotta beat about you, ma.” He said. But before she could answer, Mary hollered from inside for her to come help look for her purse. Juicy blinked away where ever the current conversation was just going as she stood up, slipping back into her heels with a sway.

“I’ll see you around, Elias.” She said softly, blinking at him before she moved away.

Stack watched her walk, eyes glued to the way her brown skinned back moved under her top. “Lawd have mercy…” He mumbled o himself, looking at her until those wide hips left his sight and entered the home.

The night went on and the party fizzed out to other parts of the city for the people who didn’t want to go home but had to get the hell out of the Hall yard. Smoke sat on the couch later that night, across the street inside of his old home. He remembered the little girl who used to knock on their door for extra to borrow sugar, or see if they had chips. Who used to cry quietly on Sinclair’s bed when her parents argued in the next room. And now? That girl had gone. She stood taller now, with a body that demanded attention—and a confidence that made it dangerous.

He didn’t like surprises. And Juicy had just become one.

In a room down the hall, Stack was laid out on a bed, arms behind his head, still thinking. He could hear the television that Stack watched in the living room, and as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help but to think of the girl he saw earlier, and the way she was dressed now. He had to admit, she was attractive, and the way they spoke to, he took that as an invitation of something she wanted. And he liked a challenge. Always had. And something about Juicy’s energy? That little attitude, the way she didn’t fall into his rhythm so easy—but played into nonetheless—it got under his skin in the best way.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

It was a day later and house was lazily buzzing with the glow of the afternoon sun. The TV inside of the Hall family home was humming some rerun in the background as Juicy and Mary sprawled across the worn couch. They were both flipping through their phones, exchanging idle comments about people’s outfits from last night, when Sinclair called out from the kitchen.

“Juicy!” She yelled.

Juciy rolled her eyes but nonetheless called back out to her. “Yeah!” She yelled back, getting a shove in her leg by Mary’s foot, who looked away from her phone to something that caught her eye on the television. Juicy turned her lip up at her but only settled to nudge her back. Sinclair walked out from the kitchen and looked at the girls on the couch. “Can you run to the corner store for me real quick? I gotta keep an eye on Tyson.” Sinclair’s voice was half-pleading, half-commanding—the way it always was whenever she needed a favor.

Juicy groaned softly, head falling back against the couch dramatically. “Okay.” She agreed immediately, even though her slight annoyance was clear as Sinclair move back to the kitchen. “Can I go in the car at least?” She asked.

Sinclair poked her head around the corner, her expression already set. “Only if you fill the tank up.” She stated.

Juicy sat up with a loud sigh, already knowing she was beat. “Man, I ain’t tryna spend my whole check from the shop on gas.” She muttered under her breath, tossing the ouch blanket onto the couch cushion ext to her. “Fine. We’ll walk.” She said, subjecting the other girl into a walk in the heat.

It wouldn’t too bad, she supposed. The sun was high and hot, but the store was just a few blocks away, and a little walk might do them some good. Plus, they could grab ice cream while they were at it.

Juicy and Mary made their way down the cracked sidewalk, the summer heat bouncing off the pavement in lazy waves. As they neared the corner store, they spotted a certain man and his homeboys posted up against the brick wall in front of their cars, laughing and talking amongst themselves, completely ignoring the store owner who was yelling at them to stop loitering.

Juicy rolled her eyes. Of course they were here, she thought.

The store owner finally threw his hands up and stormed back inside, giving the crew a full view of the two girls as they approached.

Donavan, the man dressed in a bulls jersey over a white t-shirt with baggy jeans, didn’t hide the way his eyes slid over Juicy, slow and deliberate, biting his bottom lip like he was seeing her for the first time instead of the thousandth. His boys chimed in too, whistling and throwing out comments, the usual noise that came with being two girls walking through the neighborhood.

“Aye, Ju, let me holla at you.”

“Wassup, Mary? With yo fine ass.”

“Damn, Juicy, when you gone let a nigga get some?”

Juicy sucked her teeth with a disgusted look on her face, swinging open the store’s door with a hard shove as she ignored them, letting the cool air from the store hit her skin. Mary grabbed a small cart and immediately went to the mental list Sinclair had given, while Juicy stayed by the freezer section, scanning for a good ice cream cone.

She was crouched low, comparing brands and prices, when she heard the bell over the door chime again.

She looked up—and of course—there was Donavan.

“Man, you just gon’ act like you don’t see me?” He said, flashing that same crooked grin he used back in high school, ignoring the looks from the man behind the counter.

Juicy stood up slowly, closing the freezer door with a tap of her hip. “I saw you.” She said flatly. “I just ain’t been impressed so far.” She shrugged. Donavan chuckled, swaggering closer. “Aw, c’mon now, Ju. You used to light up when you saw me. What happened to that lil’ smile you used to have for me?”

“First of all, don’t call me Ju. We ain’t cool like that, and tell them niggas you hand with the same thing.” She said, looking up at him with a smirk. “Second of all, I grew up, nigga.” Juicy said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Like you shoulda been did.”

“Damn, Juicy, why you gotta be like that?”

“Cause I can.” The girl said, sassily tilting her head at him.

Donavan laughed again, undeterred by the girls bratty attitude. “You still fine though.” He stated, looking her up and down. “Still got that lil’ mean mouth on you too. Bet you still sweet underneath all that tough talk though, huh?”

“Oh, and I bet you would love to know that.” Juicy said softly, not hiding how her sultry she her tone was as she spoke to him. Donavan couldn’t hide his grin, causing Juicy to shake her head, fighting the little smirk that threatened her lips. He was charming, she’d give him that, but she knew better. Knew what lurked behind that smile.

Donavan wasn’t an ugly guy, far from it. And he could be sweet at times, but there was multiple reasons Juicy couldn’t go for him. One of them being that he was a rival of her brothers and she didn’t like that gang and selling drugs shit at all. She stayed far away from it. Secondly, his persistent flirting was a bit much. He’d been pining after her since junior year of high school, and she had to admit, she was playing hard to get at first. But Donavan was far from a saint. He was a harlot, and damn near every girl in the neighborhood has had a piece of that, and that’s not how Juicy rolled.

Before she could come up with a retort, Mary called from the bread aisle, “I’m done, Ju!” She said before she began walking over to them.

Donavan’s attention shifted immediately, his eyebrows lifting as he took in Mary for the first time. His grin widened.

“Well damn.” He said under his breath, eyeing Mary from head to toe like he was picking out dessert. “Wassup, Mary. How you doin’?” He asked, smirking at the girl. Mary turned her face up at him, while Juicy rolled her eyes, before both girl simultaneously scoffed at is audacity. They ignored him and made their way to the counter with their items, Juicy grabbing their ice cream cones last minute. The clerk began ringing them up when Donavan swaggered over and slapped a wad of crumpled bills on the counter.

“I got it.” He said, flashing a quick wink at Juicy. But the girl snatched the money up without hesitation and shoved it right back into his chest. “We don’t need that.”

Donavan smirked, amused by her defiance. “It’s not about what you need, shorty. Take what you want.”

“We don’t want it either.” She said sharply, pulling out the cash Sinclair had given her, quickly sorting through the bills before handing it to the clerk before the man could even finish telling her the total, and she was right on point with the amount.

She and Mary grabbed the bags, and Juicy snatched up their cones as they made their way to the door, Donavan trailing behind them like a stray dog.

“Why you still actin’ stuck up, Ju?” He called after them, loud enough for half the store to hear.

“Didn’t I tell you not to call me that? Don’t play with me Donavan.” Juicy snapped.

“Man, back in high school you used to eat up the way I talked to you. Now you too good, huh? Cause you in college and shit? Or is it ‘cause of them little fake ass jobs you got now? That lil’ beauty shop money got you actin’ brand new?” He went off, and Juicy was not hiding the way she rolled her eyes at him, scoffing at the man’s pissy attitude. She was about to whirl around, ready to cuss him out, but before she could get a word out, two familiar figures were walking up the pavement toward them.

“Hey, Smoke, hey Stack.” Juicy called out brightly, more than happy for the distraction from the aggravating man behind her.

The twins immediately clocked the situation—the girls, Donavan standing too close, the tension thick enough to cut.

Smoke’s dark eyes narrowed slightly as he nodded at her. “Hey, Ju.” He said. While Stack lifted his chin in greeting too, his lips curling into an amused smirk when he caught Donavan’s posture stiffening.

The silent acknowledgement between the men was heavy. They weren’t strangers to each other—and they sure as hell weren’t friends. Though Smoke and Stack had only gotten back two days ago, they were apparent to the things that’s changed since they’ve been gone. Donavan now controlled his brothers, Demetrius, territory. Said main being locked up. And Smoke and Stack were not good friends with Demetrius at all, so much so that it meant Donavan had a problem with them. They were speculated to had something to do with him going to jail, conveniently leaving for Chicago a week after that big altercation at MO’s spot, which led to his arrest.

Smoke’s gaze slid past Juicy to Donavan, cutting and assessing. “What you doing here?” His voice was calm as he spoke to the girl, but there was something under it, something harder.

“Pickin’ up some things for Claire.” Juicy said, clueless to the silent war playing out behind her.

She gave a bright, casual smile, holding up the little plastic bags like proof. Neither Stack nor Smoke looked away from Donavan though, both of them standing a little more solidly now, like they were ready for whatever might happen next.

Donavan licked his lips, sizing them up, but said nothing—just chuckled low and turned back toward his crew loitering outside.

Smoke was the first to speak once the tension in the air settled, offering an easy way out. “Y’all need a ride?” He asked, nodding towards the bags weighing down Juicy and Mary’s arms. “We just stopped for gas and some woods. We can drop y’all off.”

Juicy glanced at Mary, who shrugged, her arms full. They really didn’t feel like walking back, especially not with Donavan hovering like a damn gnat. “Yeah, sure,” Juicy said, her voice casual but thankful.

Stack, ever the quieter one, fished the keys from his pocket and dangled them in front of Juicy. “Here.” He said, a slight teasing glint in his eye. When Juicy went to grab the keys from his hands, a smile on her face, he snatched them back, looking down at her. “But be careful with the silver Beemer, ma. Don’t scuff her up.” He said. Juicy sucked her teeth, snatching the keys from him without hesitation. “Boy, it’s not like I’m gon’ drive it.” She sassed, giving him a quick, annoyed look.

And Stack couldn’t help but smirk at the sight of her, admiring the way her brows pinched together and her mouth tightened into a small, perfect frown. Those glossed lips shining in the sun, looking extra plump and kissable whether a frown watched its way onto her face. The way she looked up at him, lashes fluttering despite her irritation, did something to him.He let out a small breath, shaking his head at her. “You lucky, girl.” He said under his breath with a grin, placing the keys firmly into her palm.

As Stack handed off the keys, Smoke was still watching Donavan, who hadn’t moved far from the sidewalk. His stare was heavy, daring, but when Stack walked past him and followed Smoke inside the store, Donavan finally peeled his eyes away with a quiet scoff.

Juicy and Mary didn’t waste time. They carried their bags across the lot and slipped into the BMW, bags in laps, ice cream cones still slowly melting in hand. The interior was spotless, smelling faintly of new leather and the sweet, lingering scent of someone’s cologne. It felt way too fancy for them to be sitting in it with grocery bags and dollar store cones. They hadn’t been waiting long before the twins came back out. Smoke slid behind the wheel, tossing the woods and lighter onto the dashboard, while Stack circled to the passenger side. As Stack pumped the last bit of gas into the tank, Smoke adjusted the mirror — and that’s when he caught it.

Juicy, in the backseat, lazily licking at her strawberry ice cream cone. Her tongue swept slow and deliberate over the pink scoop, a tiny bit dripping down the side. She leaned forward slightly to catch it with her tongue again, completely unaware of the way the simple, innocent action had locked Smoke’s gaze. He didn’t mean to stare — really, he didn’t — but damn if she wasn’t making it hard not to.

He shook himself free of the trance when Stack climbed back in, twisting the cap onto his water bottle. Smoke pulled out of the lot and headed back towards their part of the neighborhood, the smooth purr of the engine humming under them.

As soon as the tires hit pavement, the questions started.

“So,” Smoke began, his voice casual but carrying an edge. He looked at Juicy through the rearview. “That nigga botherin’ you?”

Juicy blinked at him, caught mid-bite of her cone. “Who?” She asked, genuinely confused.

Stack turned slightly in his seat to face her, resting his arm against the door. “Donavan.” He clarified, his voice low. “You know… Mr. Tryna-Mack.” He said before scoffing at the mere mention of the boy, who he himself addressed with a purposeful corny nickname.

Juicy rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “Please.” She scoffed. “He been tryna talk to me since junior year. Ain’t never gon’ happen.”

Mary snorted beside her, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “He was real bold today, though.” She added. “Damn near droolin’ when he saw her.”

“Yuck.” Juicy grumbled.

Smoke’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel, though he kept his tone light. “You tell us if he don’t get the message.” He said, voice a shade deeper. “We can handle that.”

Juicy smiled a little, amused at their protectiveness but not taking it too seriously. “I’m good.” She said, leaning back against the seat. “Ain’t nobody worried about Donavan ass.” Stack then glanced at her again, eyes sharp but amused. “Well, you should be worried about lettin’ that ice cream melt all over my damn seat.” He said, turning his head to glacé black at her. “And Claire’s groceries.” Mary teased. Juicy stuck her tongue out at him, making Mary laugh, and the tension in the car broke into something easier, more familiar. Smoke refocused on the road, but his mind wandered — mostly back to that image of Juicy, licking strawberry ice cream, entirely too sweet and dangerous for her own good.

And Stack? He couldn’t help the small grin that tugged at his mouth, stealing another glance at Juicy as she chattered with Mary in the back. She was fire and thorns all wrapped up in something too pretty to touch — but damn if he didn’t want to.

And maybe, soon, he’d find a reason to get a little closer.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 & 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 🗑️ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬★ ★ ★ ★ ★

[enticingmelanin]

The Reckoning: A Modern Stack x Black Reader Fanfic

The Reckoning || Elias "Stack" Moore x Black Reader (modern au)

Rating: E for Erotic.

Warnings: NSFW, smut, spit swap, and explicit language. No Mary love to be found here, babes. 🤣 18+ Only.

Word Count: 6k+

Summary: All you wanted was to celebrate your friend, but your past wouldn’t let you live in the moment. When old betrayals resurface, will you bury the pain and hold a grudge—or finally face it and allow the reckoning to commence?

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You're enjoying the club atmosphere, letting it sink into your skin. Deep red lights throb through the space like a heartbeat, casting sultry shadows across velvet booths and glass tabletops. Fog hovers over the dancefloor, diffusing the light into something dreamlike. The bass is relentless—low, hypnotic, pulsing in your chest like a second heartbeat. Laughter rings out nearby, glasses clink, bodies move in sync with the music under the seductive pull of strobe lights. For a moment, the energy feels good. Alive. Freeing, even. You haven’t been out like this in a while, and it shows. Your body aches to loosen up, your shoulders to drop, your mind to stop spinning.

Tonight, though, is different. Special because it's Pearline’s birthday. You, Annie, and Sammie had planned every detail to a T—dinner at Marcel’s, one of your favorite spots in Atlanta, complete with warm lighting, shared appetizers, and belly-deep laughter. The food was incredible, the company even better, and the love? Tangible. When gifts were unwrapped and desserts devoured, Pearline had looked around the table and said, “I’m not ready to go home yet.” So, of course, you ended up here—VIP section of a club none of you could name, champagne flowing, the night still young. It was only right that she got what she wanted.

Still, something twisted in your stomach every few minutes. A quiet, persistent knowing that someone else was on their way. Someone you weren’t ready to see.

“Aye, cousins! Over here!” Sammie’s voice cut through the music, loud and sharp as he waved frantically at the entrance to your section. He was grinning, drawing attention from a pair of tall figures stepping into the dim light.

You drained the last sip of your cocktail, the ice clinking as you sat the glass down a little too hard. “That’s my cue to go,” you muttered, already gathering your things.

The protest was immediate from the group. Pearline’s bottom lip jutted out into a pout, arms folded. “Y/N, please stay. You can still have fun.”

“Not with him around I can’t,” you replied quietly, not trusting your voice to do more. Your expression faltered, and the group saw it. You didn’t need to say his name. The ache in your tone said it all.

Just then, the DJ shifted into Glorilla and Meg Thee Stallion’s Wanna Be. The beat hit hard, the crowd exploding in cheers. You should’ve known that song would play tonight. Should’ve known your resolve wouldn’t survive it.

“Oh hell no, now you really can’t leave!” Pearline yelled, tugging your hand like a child in a candy store. “You know this our song, girl! Just one more dance. Pleeeeeaaaaassssse?”

You tilted your head, lips twitching with a sigh. She wasn’t wrong. This track had seen you through makeup applications, glow-ups, and late-night drives screaming the lyrics with your girls. But your heart? It was still tethered to the past, the part of the club where he was now standing, watching. Breathing the same air as you again after seven damn years.

“Go on, y’all,” Annie chimed in, her tone calm, reassuring. “We’ll keep him occupied. Go have fun.”

Sammie nodded, his eyes kind. “We got you.”

“Fine,” you said, dragging the word out like it was being pulled from your soul. “But just this song. Then I’m out.”

It was perfect timing—or maybe fate playing its usual cruel game—because as Pearline led you to the dancefloor, your past and his twin strolled into the section like they owned the place. Of course he wore black. Of course his eyes found yours instantly. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of a glance back.

You let Pearline pull you into the music, into the red haze and thrumming bass. You danced like your heart wasn’t shaking in your chest. Like your stomach wasn’t tying itself in knots. You moved with your girl, laughing, swaying, twerking, rapping along to every word like you were center stage.

"He don't wanna be saved, don't save him That is not my nigga, don't claim 'em 'Bout 20 missed calls, he faded White boy wasted, Channing Tatum"

You spit the lyrics with more heat than usual, like if you said them loud enough they might actually reign true. You wanted to embody the same cold confidence Meg was preaching. You wanted to be untouched, unbothered, immune. But the truth was, even after all this time, even after all the silence and distance, he still had the power to stir something inside you.

And that was the worst part.

Because deep down, you weren’t mad he was here.

You were mad you still felt something.

Why couldn’t he just let you forget?

The lighting, though dim and sultry, still kissed the golden brown of your skin and cast a low shimmer over your curves. Your dress—cowl-neck silk slip in rich copper—clung to you in all the right places and teased cleavage. Its delicate spaghetti straps showed off your shoulders, and the fabric danced with every movement, catching flashes of red light from the club’s lasers. A thigh-high slit teased with every step, giving just enough to draw attention without begging for it.

The room pulsed with bass and heat, the kind of beat that thumped through your body and into your bloodstream. Between the crimson haze, electric strobes, and the crowd of bodies swaying, grinding, laughing. Some women hyped y’all up, some gave side-eyes laced in envy. Hungry glances followed you, admiration and desire woven into each lingering look. But there was one gaze—hot, heavy, and razor-sharp—that pinned you to the ground.

You felt him before you saw him. That slow burn under your skin. Like being watched by a memory you never quite shook off. You didn’t need to look to know Stack was in a trance, getting an eye full of everything he let go.

The song faded into another anthem, but you were done. Staying any longer felt dangerous, like playing with fire and pretending you wouldn’t get scorched. You needed to get out before it all unraveled.

“Booo. Come on, party pooper,” Pearline teased, dragging you by the hand toward VIP so you could say your goodbyes.

“Bye, love. Get home safe. Don’t forget to text when you do,” Annie said, hugging you tight.

“I will,” you promised, then turned to Smoke as he stepped up.

“Good seein’ you, Y/N,” he said with a casual warm smile, embracing you in a quick side hug.

“It’s good seein’ you too,” you replied, meaning every word. No matter how complicated things got with his brother, you always had a soft spot for Smoke. He was good people. You were genuinely happy he and Annie found their way back to each other. She glowed differently these days.

Sammie pulled you into a tight hug next. “Sure you don’t want me to call you an Uber?”

You laughed and shook your head. “I’m good. That little cocktail barely did a thing. It was givin’ more juice than alcohol.”

Sammie chuckled, voice like the richest whiskey. “Say less.”

Then Pearline wrapped you up, squeezing you like she didn’t want to let go. “Thank you for everything, friend. We gotta do this again.”

“Of course, boo. We’ll definitely run it back. Happy birthday. Love you.”

“Love you too,” she beamed.

As you turned to grab your clutch from the couch, your breath caught—and time stilled. There he was.

Elias “Stack” Moore.

First time in a long time. And damn… he looked even better than memory allowed. Same outfit as his brother without a white top—black tank top stretched over a muscled chest, tailored slacks hugging narrow hips, black dress boots sharp enough to cut glass. But while Smoke kept it minimal, Stack stood out like always. Around his thick wrist were layered Cuban link bracelets in gold and platinum. Diamond studs glinted at each ear, and a heavy rope chain sat bold across his collarbone. A fashion statement. A walking temptation. A problem.

You blinked yourself out of it and grabbed your things with purpose, ready to ghost the moment before it swallowed you whole.

“No hug for me, huh?” His voice, slow and deep with that southern molasses drawl, rolled over you like smoke. It used to soothe you, make your knees weak, whisper your name in the dark while you shook under him. Now, it just pissed you off.

You sucked your teeth and strutted toward the exit, hips swinging with extra intent.

Kiss my ass.

Your heels clacked against the glossy floors as you crossed the final stretch. You pushed open the door and stepped out only to be met by a curtain of pouring rain. Of course. You’d completely forgotten about the storm the Weather Channel app had warned you about. No umbrella. No jacket. Just your dress, your heels, your clutch, and your skin about to be soaked.

Guess I’ll have to make a run for it...

But before you could take that first brave step into the parking lot, a black leather jacket appeared above your head like a shield.

The culprit?

None other than Stack himself... Of course.

“Let me walk you,” he said as your eyes met, the gold caps on his canines catching the glow of the streetlights.

Your brows furrowed in annoyance. “I don’t need your help,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone slicing clean through the air.

He huffed, jaw tight, frustration flickering in his eyes. “You really wanna drive home soak n’ wet?”

Soak n' wet...

You remembered the days he caused you to be exactly that... and not from rain.

“Oh, now you give a fuck about what I want?” you shot back, your voice thick with venom. The words landed hard, making him visibly flinch.

His expression softened. Some of that pride faded as he took a step closer. “Y/N, please. Just let me walk you to your car and we can talk.”

“Talk about what?” you asked, your voice cracking as heat pooled behind your eyes. “About how you promised me you were gonna stop runnin’ the streets and go to school? How you said you loved me, fucked me ‘til the sun came up, and then disappeared without a word? Or… about how you somehow got wrapped up in Mary again when you got back to Clarksdale?” Your voice broke, each word a dagger. Tears slid down your cheeks. “Mind you, this is after that bitch did everything she could to manipulate you into doin’ her biddin’. And let's not forget how her proudly racist ex almost had you killed.”

His eyes closed. He took a deep breath, chest rising. “Baby, I’m—”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice trembling. “I don’t want your sorries or excuses. And I ain’t your baby… not anymore.” Your last words came out in a whisper, nearly drowned by the sound of your own heartbreak. The sobs were coming fast behind the lump in your throat, but you pushed through, determined to end this with what dignity you had left.

“Do me a favor, Elias. Leave me… the fuck alone. It’s the one thing you’re good at.”

Before he could respond, you turned and bolted into the rain, letting it soak your skin as you ran toward your sleek white Benz coupe.

When you finally slid into the driver’s seat and locked the doors, it all came crashing down. The tears, the ache, the truth you didn’t want to face. Sobs racked your body as you crumbled in your hands. You didn’t want to admit it, but the pain only cut this deep because the love you thought you’d buried was still alive. Still burning. You were still in love with the boy who’d become your first and only love… and the one who shattered your belief in fairytales.

At this point, it felt like God and your ancestors would have to come from the heavens and manually untether the two of you.

After pulling yourself together and carefully maneuvering through the drenched streets, you finally pulled into the garage of your townhome safely. You sighed as the familiar clatter of your keys hitting the gold tray on your entryway console filled your ears.

Home sweet home...

Your nerves slowly began to unravel now that the warmth of your home wrapped around you. The earthy tones, warm lighting, natural textures, and sweet, spicy scents delivered a calming peace to your spirit. You liked going out and having fun, but it was too easy to be a homebody in a space perfectly curated for your soul.

You took off your heels and padded barefoot up the stairs toward the kitchen. You needed something else to soothe the ache, something warm—comforting. You settled on a mug of hot chocolate, extra marshmallows. The creamy scent rose with the misty steam, following you as you climbed the last flight of stairs toward your bedroom. Your feet were thankful for the plush, fluffy beige carpet that welcomed them with every step.

You returned your heels to their rightful spot in your walk-in closet, then made your way into the bathroom. The ceramic mug clacked against the stone countertop of your double sink vanity as you set it down. A soft sigh escaped you as your gaze landed on your reflection. No amount of powder or setting spray could’ve saved your makeup after the night you had. Thankfully, your kinky tresses were still neatly secured in the hip-length goddess braids you’d spent hours getting done.

You quickly bent over and swept the braids into a messy bun atop your head. After a sip of your chocolatey comfort, you washed the day off your face, leaving your skin soft and fresh. The sound of fabric hitting the floor followed as you peeled yourself out of the tight dress. You turned toward your glass shower, ready to summon hot water to your rescue—when the sharp chime of your doorbell rang out, startling you.

Your brows furrowed.

Who the hell...

You grabbed your phone and checked the Ring camera.

Annie?

Relief hit first, but confusion quickly followed. You had no idea why she was at your doorstep. It looked like the rain had eased into a gentle sprinkle, and the porch overhang kept her dry. Still, you didn’t want to keep her waiting. You grabbed your white fluffy robe, tied it around your body, and jetted down the stairs.

The moment you opened the door, you were met with Annie’s signature scowl and the soft, familiar scent of her vanilla-based perfume.

“Didn’t I tell you to text me when you got home?” she asked, one hand on her hip.

Classic Annie, the protective “mom” of the friend group.

A soft laugh slipped from your lips as you covered your mouth. “Sorry, Annie bear,” you replied, lips pulling into a playful pout. Your nickname for her softened her expression just a little. She was as cute and sweet as a teddy bear—but when it came to her people, she turned into a full blown mama grizzly.

“I was gonna call you after I got out the shower.”

“So I could worry ‘bout you bein’ toppled over in a ditch somewhere in the storm?”

“I’m sorryyyy. You know if you called I would’ve answered,” you whined, dragging the last word.

“And you know if you’d called me as soon as you got in, like I asked, I wouldn’t’ve had to pull up,” she said, eyeing you up and down like a disappointed mother.

You nodded, lips pressed together. “Touché… But did you really come all the way here just for a wellness check?”

“Well… yes and no,” she said slowly, her tone hesitant. “There’s someone else that was worried about you too.” She stepped to the side and your heart dropped like a weight in your chest.

There he stood. Stack. Behind him, you spotted Smoke behind the wheel of his black Tahoe.

“Oh, hell no...” you muttered, your stomach twisting into a knot all over again.

“Look,” Annie began gently, trying to read your face. “He told me how upset you left, and that’s what really got me worried. I know he hurt you somethin’ fierce. And you and I both know I understand your pain more than anyone,” she said softly, alluding to Smoke ghosting her the same way. “I’m not sayin’ y’all gotta kiss and make up. I’m not even sayin’ you gotta forgive him, but…” she paused, exhaling. “At least let him apologize and leave nothin’ left unsaid. He owes you that at the very least. And believe it or not… he’s hurtin’ too.”

Your eyes dropped to the hardwood floor as her words sank in. Your chest tightened. Part of you wanted to slam the door in his face. But another part—God help you—still wanted to hear what he had to say.

“He’s got five minutes. That’s it,” you said firmly.

Annie nodded, offering a small smile before she turned and signaled him over. With every step he took toward you, your anxiety curled tighter around your ribs. You folded your arms and tapped your fingers against them, trying to keep it together.

When he finally stood beside Annie, she turned to him, but his dark brown eyes never left your face.

“Now Elias, you’ve got five minutes to say what you need to say, so you betta make it good.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, flashing a subtle smirk before finally glancing at her.

“If he acts a fool, Smoke'll handle it,” she added, only half-joking.

You knew she wasn’t playin’. Smoke had always been the more grounded of the two, stepping into the role of a father figure where their own father had failed miserably.

You gave her a nod. She winked at you, then made her way back to the car. The slam of the car door echoed faintly in the distance.

Your attention shifted back to him.

His eyes flicked behind you, taking in the cozy aesthetic of your home before settling on you again. “Damn, girl,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I see Atlanta’s been good to you.”

His gaze dropped slightly, lingering just a second too long on the curve of your cleavage where your robe had shifted. Your eyes had slipped observing his muscular arms and the mist of rain glistening off his skin. Immediately, you crossed your legs and tightened your grip on the collar, pulling the fabric closed, snapping him out of his daze.

Stay on task.

“Five minutes, Elias,” you reminded him sharply.

He licked his lips and nodded, letting out a sigh. “I—I fucked up.”

“That’s an understatement,” you said, tilting your head as you looked up at him with a raised brow.

His jaw clenched. Hands disappeared into his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them. “What you want me to say, hm?” he asked, his deep Southern drawl gravelly with frustration. His eyes pierced through yours, searching, desperate. “That I’m in love with you? That I think 'bout ya eh'ry day?”

You turned your head away, blinking back the tears that had been threatening to fall since he showed up. But he reached out, fingers warm and steady as they gently cupped your chin, guiding you back to face him. You should’ve flinched. Should’ve pushed him away and slammed the door. But the weight of his hand, the way it steadied your trembling—felt too damn familiar, too comforting, to resist.

“Well, I am,” he said softly. “And I do.”

Your breath hitched.

“I just wanted to keep you safe. And that was never gon' be there… And it was neva gon' be with me, not with the man I was back then.” His voice cracked slightly as his thumb brushed along your jaw, slow and aching.

Your heart twisted at the confession.

“I meant what I promised you, I did,” he continued, eyes locked on yours. “But me and Smoke had one last job. One last scam, one last lie, one last robbery... and we’d be free.”

He shook his head, jaw tightening. “But I knew that shit came with consequences. I refused to let that touch you. If anyone ever laid a finger on you…” He paused, eyes darkening. “I’d kill ‘em dead myself.”

You shook your head, tears finally breaking free. “So, you’d kill for me,” you said bitterly, “but you couldn’t just stand by your word?”

He lowered his head, exhaling sharply before tilting his face to the ceiling like the answers might be written there. “Fuck,” he muttered.

When his eyes met yours again, they were glossy with tears. Haunted.

“The job… the money… Mary. All of it was to sabotage what we had. It was easy, and I was good at it. Mary knew that—hell, we grew up in the same house. She knew my mess, enabled it. But you…”

His voice softened.

“You saw me. Really saw me. The good, the bad… the ugly. You saw who I had the power to become. And that scared the shit outta' me, Y/N.”

Tears ran freely down both your faces now.

“I didn’t think I was worthy of your love,” he confessed. “My daddy wasn’t shit. And somewhere along the way, me and Smoke started believin’ we weren’t either. But you—” he paused, breath catching. “You made me want to be better. And I’ve been tryin’. Eh'ry day since.”

His voice cracked as he stepped just a little closer.

“Not just for you, but for me. Because I finally understand—I don’t have to keep payin’ for my father’s sins. I don’t have to repeat that cycle. I’m my own man. I know what I want. And I want you… and the life we always dreamed of havin’ here.”

A smile broke across your face even as your tears flowed, soft and tentative.

“There’s that smile I missed so much,” he whispered with a grin of his own, swiping a hand down his face to dry his tears.

“Boy, hush,” you said with a shaky laugh, nudging his chest. “You can’t just sweet talk me and think I’m gonna forgive you.”

But he had already cracked your armor. You both knew it.

He shook his head, his thumbs tenderly swiping your cheeks. “I ain’t just talkin’. If I gotta' prove it to you eh'ry day for the rest of my life, I will. If you’ll let me.”

You exhaled slowly, heart thudding loud in your chest as you looked into the eyes of the man who’d broken you—and who just might be ready to heal you too.

“If you hurt me again, Elias…” you said firmly, voice steel. “Consider yourself dead to me.”

He chuckled quietly, nodding. “I expect nothin’ less. I’d pick out my casket myself. But I swear to you… I’ll never do that shit again. I only wanna see you happy.”

You bit your lip, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corners. “Tell 'em you’ll see ‘em tomorrow.”

His eyes widened with a brow raised. “You sure?”

“You better go tell ‘em before I change my mind.”

Without another word, he took off down the walkway toward the car. You let out a much needed real, unguarded laugh, the kind you hadn’t felt this deep in awhile.

Smoke gave a quick honk as they pulled away. You waved, and Annie blew a kiss from the window. You caught it in the air, heart a little lighter than before.

As Stack made his way back up to the porch, you stepped aside, letting him in. He closed and locked the door behind him, turning to face you like the lost boy you used to know.

“I love you,” he blurted, shy again now that the moment had caught up to him.

“I love you, too,” you replied without pause.

He stepped closer, tucking a loose braid behind your ear with a gentleness that made your knees weak. “And I’m sorry.”

Your eyes welled up again, that single word hitting like a bomb. You wanted to be okay without hearing it—but hearing it now… brought you peace.

“I know,” you whispered.

His lips curled into a crooked smirk. “You gon' kick me out if I kiss you?”

You giggled, swatting at his chest. “I hope you plan on doin’ more than that. You got a whole lotta makin’ up to do.”

His gaze darkened with desire, voice dropping low. “Indeed I do.”

And just as thunder rolled across the sky and rain came pouring again, his lips captured yours in a kiss that was deep, soft, and long overdue. A moan slipped from your lips as he pulled you tight, your hands cradling his face, your body melting into his.

The storm raged outside.

But inside…

You were finally home... and so was he.

He sucked on your bottom lip in the midst of the kiss, slow and savoring. His fingers worked at the knot of your robe, but you stilled his hands, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. "I was 'bout to take a shower before you got here. Wanna join me?" you whispered against his lips, that mischievous glint dancing in your eyes.

He smirked, eyes already dark with anticipation. "Lead the way, gorgeous."

You grinned, grabbing his hand and leading him up to your room. You put an extra sway in your hips, knowing damn well he was watching. Then, smack! A firm palm landed on your ass, followed by a possessive squeeze.

You gasped, turning over your shoulder. "Elias!"

His rich chuckle echoed through the stairwell. "Don't act like you ain't want it. Walkin’ like that, waggin’ that tail knowin’ I missed it." And truthfully... you couldn’t argue.

In the bathroom, you moved with fluid grace. You lit the jarred candles across the sink, their flickering flames casting golden shadows over your skin. Stack watched you like a man starved, eyes trailing each soft gesture as you flicked the light off, shifting the room’s energy with the warm, amber glow. You grabbed a clean washcloth for him, set it down, and opened the shower door to get the water running—perfectly warm, steam already rising.

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes gleaming with temptation. Your fingers found the knot of your robe again, this time undoing it slowly before letting the fabric fall from your body like silk. Without a word, you stepped into the shower, hips swaying as if daring him to follow.

He didn’t hesitate. You watched as he stripped, his gaze never leaving yours. Every inch of brown skin, every curve of hard-earned muscle made your pulse flutter. And when his boxers dropped—your mouth watered, your center ached. The steam wasn’t the only thing making the air heavy now.

You reached for your African bath net and poured tea tree soap onto it, letting the crisp, herbal scent fill the space. Then, with the damp washcloth in hand, you slowly began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders. He leaned in, catching your lips in a deep, sensual kiss as the two of you bathed one another—washing away regret, pain, silence. Wordlessly sharing the softest, rawest parts of yourselves.

Your kisses drifted from his mouth to his jaw, then down to the faded scars across his chest and arms left by his father. He tilted his head back, biting his lip, breath shallow. His dick pressed hard against your pelvis, and you sighed at the delicious friction. You kissed your way back up, nipped at his ear, then gently sucked on the lobe. A deep groan rumbled in his chest as he dropped his head, planting a soft kiss on your temple.

His grip on your waist tightened as he pulled you under the waterfall stream. Milky suds slipped down your bodies, carrying the past down the drain. Your bun, heavy with water, finally gave way—your braids tumbling down your back. Stack took it as a sign. He turned you gently and pressed you against the cool glass, your back meeting it with a soft gasp. One hand fisted your braids, tugging just enough to tilt your head and expose your neck. A moan slipped from your lips as his mouth found your skin—kissing, then sucking hungrily at the sensitive spot just below your ear.

His hand slid down to grip your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist. The thick tip of his dick glided between your slick folds, teasing you, making your stomach flutter. "Fuck, I missed you," he breathed against your neck just before slowly easing inside—inch by thick, aching inch.

You gasped, head falling back against the glass as he stretched you open. It had been a while since you let a man touch you… too long, and the last time hadn’t been worth remembering. But this—this was different. Your walls gripped him, molded to him. He cursed low, his mouth falling open as he began to grind into you with slow, deliberate rolls. A small line of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth.

"Baby... mmm, you're droolin'," you muttered through soft moans, breath hitching.

He wiped it away with the back of his hand, blinking like he’d snapped out of a trance. Then his gaze locked on yours—hungry, unashamed.

"Want some?" he asked, voice low and dirty.

Your pussy clenched in response. You nodded, tilting your head back, mouth parted and waiting. Slowly, he let a thin stream of spit drip into your mouth, landing warm on your tongue. You moaned as you swallowed, and he groaned, crashing his lips into yours with a kiss soaked in years of longing.

His thrusts deepened, pace quickening as his hand gripped your ass, angling you just right. Your moans and his groans tangled between kisses until you tore your mouth from his.

"S—Stack," you moaned, voice breathless and trembling.

He lifted you off the slippery tile with ease, hoisting you up by your thighs. Your ass met the fogged-up glass as he began pounding into you, hips snapping with hunger. Your breasts pressed tight to his chest, arms locked around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Ooooh, shit," you gasped, eyes rolling back.

His lips trailed your chin, kissing sloppily through his grunts as your walls clenched around him. With every thrust, his groin nudged your clit just right, and the soft scrape of his low pubic hair only heightened the sensation. Your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth parting in silent cries as your body trembled with need.

"Mm-mm. Let me see those pretty eyes, baby," he said, voice thick with desire. You blinked them open, brows pinching in pleasure. "There you go," he cooed with a cocky smirk, then rolled his hips deep, hitting your spot with brutal precision. Your breath hitched, lips trembling. Every stroke had your body unraveling.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Let me hear you," he panted, tightening his grip on your thighs. "I know I'm hittin' that spot only I can reach," he growled between groans.

You cried out, high and helpless, your pleasure echoing in the steamy room. He wasn’t wrong—no one ever fucked you like he did. No one worshipped you like this.

"I love you so much. Mmm... And I'm gon' prove it to you eh'ry day," he mumbled against your skin, hips never slowing. You whimpered back an I love you too, your voice barely audible between moans and shallow gasps.

Your body went stiff, toes curling as your climax crept up, relentless and hot.

"Fuck, Elias. Right there," you gasped.

Stack’s brow furrowed as he looked into your soul, his rhythm steady and ruthless. "Mhm. Cum for me, Y/N," he commanded, voice low and deep, and you couldn't fight it. The head of his dick kissed that sweet spot again and again, his thick, veined shaft stroking your walls perfectly.

You trembled in his arms as your orgasm crashed over you. Your cries mixed with his groans as he slowed his strokes and emptied inside you, heat flooding your core. His lips moved over your face, then down to your breasts, planting kisses before teasingly grinding into you again—still hard, still wanting.

"You got another one for me?" he asked, voice husky, before capturing your nipple in his mouth, sucking greedily.

You held the back of his head, biting your bottom lip, eyes still glassy. "Try me and find out," you dared.

His brow arched at your challenge. With effortless strength, he set you down and spun you around. Your chest met the glass this time, nipples pebbling against the cool surface. You whimpered at the contrast. Using his foot, he nudged your legs apart, exposing your dripping pussy to the warm, humid air.

The side of your face rested on the steamy glass, your breath fogging it further as you glanced back at him. Just as your eyes met his, he slid back inside—slow, thick, full. Your eyes fluttered shut again, lips parting as you melted into the moment, savoring the feel of him all over again.

His hands gripped your hips, guiding you back to meet each deliciously slow thrust. From this position, you could feel him deeply—so deep it felt like he was stroking your soul, caressing your stomach from the inside. You whimpered, palms flattening against the fogged-up glass.

“Uunh, that feels so go—”

Stack’s sudden, ruthless plunges cut off your sentence, replacing words with sharp cries of pleasure. Your hand shot back to press against his abs, trying to ease his depth, but he quickly caught both your wrists and pinned them above your head, palms splayed flat on the glass.

“You were doin’ so good, baby,” he teased, his voice low and amused. “Want me to stop?” he asked, slowing his strokes just enough to make you ache for more.

You shook your head fast, panic rising in your chest at the threat of that bliss ending. “N—No. Please... don’t stop,” you breathed, desperation coating your voice.

A smug grin played on his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

He picked up the pace again, his thrusts unrelenting. He watched your face, studied the way it twisted in pleasure, the way your ass rippled against his hips with every impact. The sight had him biting his lip. He pulled your braids to one side and leaned forward, kissing the curve of your back, slow and reverent.

Chills rippled up your spine. Your pussy clenched hard around him, dragging a grunt from his throat. He kissed his way up to your neck, then your cheek, his breath hot against your damp skin while the soft hairs of his beard tickled it.

“I’ll never stop, Y/N,” he groaned, voice thick with promise. “Never stop lovin’ you, never stop showin’ you... and never stop makin’ you cum.”

His words broke you open. Your walls squeezed him tighter, and all you could do was whimper, body teetering on the edge of ecstasy.

“Fuck,” he groaned, snaking his hand around your waist. His fingers found your clit and rubbed tight, fast circles. That was it. Your knees buckled. You came hard, vision blurring, fireworks exploding behind your eyelids as you screamed his name into the steamy shower.

He swallowed your cries in a deep, consuming kiss, your moans mingling with his as his own rhythm faltered. A few more erratic strokes and he was right there with you—his hips pressed flush to yours as he emptied deep inside all over again.

You both slumped against the glass, panting, bodies heavy with the weight of release. He kissed along your shoulder and neck with soft devotion before slowly pulling out. Then he reached for the handheld showerhead, rinsing you both down with gentle care, washing away the evidence of your passion.

You whimpered when he turned to step out, your legs too shaky to move.

He chuckled low. “Come on, baby,” he murmured, turning to you. He scooped you up and carried you out, carefully setting you on the dry part of the counter, away from the flickering candlelight. He toweled himself off first, then turned to you, working the soft towel over your sensitive skin with soothingly.

Just when you started to relax with your eyes closed, your back arched with a gasp—his lips had found your sensitive clit, kissing it gently.

“Baby, pleassse... I can’t,” you whimpered, voice broken and breathless.

He chuckled, placing one last kiss to your puffy folds. “Fine, I’ll behave,” he said, trailing kisses up your stomach, chest, neck—until he found your lips again. His eyes locked with yours. “But I make no promises for the morning.”

You giggled and gave him a soft peck. “You’re a damn menace.”

“I am,” he smirked, grabbing a fresh towel to dry your braids as best he could, “but I’m your menace.”

Once the candles were blown out, he lifted you effortlessly and carried you to the bed. The moment your back met the cool sheets, sleep started pulling at you. You yawned, and a matching one left his lips.

He slid in beside you, arm wrapped tight around your waist, head resting on your chest like it belonged there. Your fingers caressed the waves of his hair while your other hand rubbed slow circles on his back. Your breaths fell into rhythm, soft and steady—a perfect lullaby that pulled you both into a deep slumber.

And when the sun rose…

Elias gave into his craving and devoured you for breakfast.

He was there, just like he promised.

And every morning thereafter.

The End.

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I couldn’t leave Stack Daddy hangin. This is my first fic for him, but definitely not the last. Hope I made the “x reader” babes proud! Drop a comment and let me know what you think. If you want to be tagged in future stuff, just let me know. xoxo

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Taglist:

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[macabre-crab]

i forgot to post the other day but here they are guys, my ocs violent harmony and taint lambdon

best friend just to convinced me to go the extra mile with my ahs: murder house rewrite and just straight up take the characters and core ideas and shake them up enough to make me completely mine

i mean, hey, if other horror writers can plagiarize every other day and no one bats an eye, surely i can too right? 😏

[crheativity]

GENERAL LILIA LEARNING HOW TO LOVE!

(love you romantically specifically)

IT IS ILLEGAL THAT HE DOESN'T HAVE ANY FICS IN YOUR MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: Might be OOC ? Unsure. All very cute though! 

COMMENTS: OOOOO I LOVE THIS IDEA!! And I’m sorry it took me so long to get to writing this specifically, but also just anything for Lilia. I love him but the stars were not aligned I suppose. I hope this makes up for it, sorry if it’s short!

You were like the sun to him.

Bright.

So bright that you were almost blinding. You radiated an unfamiliar warmth. You were able to set him on edge so easily - just one glance at you and he’d have to look away.

It was infuriating.

He was the famed General Lilia, the Dragon’s Hand, the Running Rampart of the Verdurous Moor. And yet, you seemed to be the first opponent he’d faced that had beaten him without even drawing a weapon.

You, a human, who was so weak and pathetic, he was willing to bet you couldn’t even lift his Magearm. 

And yet he felt himself drawn to you.

More and more he found it impossible to look away. More and more he found himself dependent on you, on that uncomfortable warmth. 

He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

He didn’t understand any of this. He didn’t understand you and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

But when you’d held his hand and compared the sizes, or when he’d watched you serve the most delicious food he’d ever tasted to his men, or even when you’d hide behind him after Baur had been particularly loud, he’d felt this odd feeling in his stomach. Like the frogs or bugs he’d eaten had come alive, although that surely would’ve been impossible. 

He first guessed you had lied about being magicless and that you’d put some kind of spell on him. He ruled that out quickly - he was a Fae, he knew what magic felt like. But then, what was he feeling? And how could he cure it? 

He looked over at you, sitting on the grass, preparing the camp’s food with a smile on your face. The light of the sunset seemed to strike you, basking you in pure light.

His throat felt tight. His heartbeat rang in his ears.

He tore his eyes away, forcing himself to stare at the grass, his hands, anything.

And yet he found himself looking at you again.

Maybe this is what those humans called love…?

He shoved that thought out of his head. He couldn’t love. He was incapable of feeling any love. All he had was positive regard for his allies and hatred for his foes. That’s what drove him. He couldn’t feel that way.

Could he…?

Maybe, he thought, gazing your way, with a whole lot of luck, you can teach me to understand.

But not now.

Not yet.

But one day.

♥Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it!!♥

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 33: A Breath Between Worlds

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 5.6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]

Crimson light filters through the smoky haze above, painting the bustling market in hues of blood and ash. Merchants shout over the cacophony, their voices rising above the hiss of steam vents and the distant, echoing roar of molten rivers.

Illyria moves through the crowd, small and unassuming against the chaotic backdrop of the market. Her shoulders hunch slightly, trying to make herself smaller.

She is cautious and watchful, as though the chaos around her might devour her. Yet, there is something steadfast in her movements, a quiet resolve that keeps her pressing forward even as the crowd swirls and shoves.

She doesn’t look at him. Her steps quicken whenever he draws too close, when his shadow falls too near, and her gaze flickers to him and then away like the sight of him is too much to bear.

His mind drifts, sliding between fragments of memories—some sharp and vivid, others pale and distant. He tries to latch onto something—a moment of clarity, a mooring in the chaos of his thoughts—but the harder he grasps, the more they crumble.

Who am I?

The question pulses in his mind. There are gaps in his life—vast, yawning chasms where there should be continuity. He can’t remember what it felt like to be whole. The darkness. The cruelty. The twisted power. It’s still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to take hold again.

He tracks Illyria as she moves through the stalls. The bond thrums faintly, and her emotions are there—slightly muted but unmistakable.

Avoidance. Unease. Fear.

She’s afraid of him.

The realization cuts through him like a haunting piano chord striking in an empty cathedral. He should have known. He should have seen it in her eyes before—but she won’t look at me.

He can’t stand it. The reticence between them, the distance, the not knowing. His steps fall unbidden, closing the space between them.

Illyria stiffens, her hand tightening around the strap of her pack. “Do you need something?”

He hesitates, the words snarled in his throat. Yes, he wants to say. I need to understand. I need to know what I have done. I need you to look at me like you used to. But he says none of that. Instead, he forces a smile, though it feels hollow. “I thought I would join you.”

The tension remains knotted in her shoulders, her regard devoid of warmth, holding only an unyielding distance. A subtle nod is all she offers before she pivots back toward the merchant.

Don’t do this, he thinks, feeling the panic creeping in, but his body is frozen, stuck in place.

She’s his only anchor in this fractured existence that feels solid, but even she is vanishing like a shadow at sunrise. Astarion’s legs move mechanically, though his heart is somewhere far behind, somewhere he can’t reach. He’s trying so hard to understand, to piece himself together.

What if I never know? What if it’s lost forever, buried in his fractured mind, unreachable? What if this is all there is now? Fragments.

He is scared of what she knows, of what he’s done, of what he might become again. And most of all, he’s worried that whatever exists between them is already broken beyond repair.

Does she still love me?

He pulls Illyria to the side, his fingers gripping her arm with a sense of urgency. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong,” he implores, his voice a quiet plea, but the frustration builds beneath the surface. “Why are you so distant? Why are you afraid of me?” His hands tighten around her, an involuntary reaction to the pain gnawing at his chest. “Why won’t you look at me?”

She blinks at him, her expression unreadable. “It’s nothing, Astarion. Everything is fine.”

Her voice wraps itself in a silken calm, designed to pacify, but it frays at the edges, unable to disguise the truth he already knows.

His jaw clenches, and the tension in his chest intensifies. He hates it. He hates that she’s lying to him, hates the way she’s trying to soothe him as though he’s as fragile as a brittle leaf.

“No,” he snaps, more insistently. “That is not good enough. I need to know. I will not be coddled; I won’t be treated like I’m some... broken thing. I do not care if you’re pretending everything’s fine.” His breath comes faster, and the heat of the market and the surrounding crowd seems to fade into the background. It’s just her, him, and the darkness within him that has been clawing its way to the surface. “What did I do? What did I do to make you look at me like that?”

The voices in his mind are louder now, their discordant murmurs rising to match his anger. The sweet, twisted melody that never quite leaves him, that lures him into madness. It shifts and warbles, rising in volume with each passing moment, urging him to lose control.

She’s lying to you. She doesn’t trust you. Force her. You have the power. Force the truth from her lungs.

The melody. It’s sharper than before, an off-key lullaby that plagues his every thought. He tries to drown it out and focus, but it only grows more persistent. His breath comes in shallow gasps, the voices whispering rapidly now.

She’s lying; you know it. She doesn’t care about you; she wants to be rid of you.

His hands tremble slightly as his control starts to slip. The heat in his chest—no longer the burning from the marketplace—warms him with the fire of his frustration. He wants to shout, to demand answers, but the sound of the song surrounds him.

“Tell me the truth!” His voice cracks, raw and furious, the melody in his head twisting the words into something darker.

His eyes narrow, and he steps closer, looming over her, desperation coiling in his chest. He’s not sure what’s real anymore—what’s him, and what’s that other him. What’s his, and what’s been ripped away, lost to some distant version of himself.

The words don’t make sense anymore,  yet they spill from him as if they are the only thing he has left. “Why can't you trust me?”

The song builds, and with it, the fury rises, twisting his mind. The voices are no longer just whispers—they are shouting now, egging him on, twisting his thoughts towards cruelty.

For the briefest spell, the version of him that is forged in violence and steeped in control brushes against his thoughts like a wraith, and his breath catches on the edge of the unseen.

“Stop.” Illyria’s voice is as fragile as a snowflake dissolving on warm skin, a plea that stills the howling snowstorm in his mind, leaving a cold, crystalline clarity.

It’s like the sudden bite of winter air against a smouldering flame, the words sinking into him like the slow, jagged ache of a wound. The tremble in her voice, the quiver of her lips, the raw fear in her eyes—it all hits him like the first frost stealing the breath of a dying flower. 

The melody in his mind—the song that has been twisting and warping everything he feels, everything he is—diminishes, the notes falling away like fading whispers until it’s almost silent. The anger, the fury that had been building, is smothered, leaving only the raw ache of confusion and guilt behind.

“I... I’m sorry.” His voice is strained, almost choking on the words as they leave him. He reaches out to her, his hand trembling as he tries to bridge the distance between them, to touch her, to make it right, to make her feel safe.

But she flinches away from him.

The movement is so small, so subtle, but it hits him like a blow to the chest, leaving him winded and gasping for air. His hand lingers in the air for a moment before it slowly drops to his side. She retreats a step, her shoulders drawn tight, her vacant stare fixed somewhere over his shoulder as if looking at him would unravel her.

“Illyria,” he manages to whisper, the sound of her name so faint it barely exists. His voice cracks on the syllables, betraying the emotions he cannot contain. 

She shakes her head just once, the motion almost imperceptible. “I... I need a moment,” she murmurs.

Without waiting for a response, she turns and steps into the crowd. He stays rooted in place, his hands trembling at his sides. The noise of the market washes over him, distant and muted, as though he’s underwater. The infernal light, the acrid air, the press of bodies around him—it all feels intangible. Astarion presses a hand to his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as though he can physically brace his collapsing pieces. The presence still lingers at the edges of his mind, a dark shadow whispering promises of power and control. He shudders, forcing the thoughts away.

For all his power, he feels utterly and completely powerless.

Your focus lingers on Astarion’s every movement as he glides through the room with a haunting elegance, like a ship caught in the throes of a cyclone. His steps are slow and uncertain, as though he’s searching for a shore that no longer exists. Sweat beads on his forehead, trailing down the angle of his jaw.

He pauses near the window framing an endless, searing void of red and black. There’s a hollowness to him as if he’s been untethered from himself, drifting aimlessly through a realm that gorges itself on hope and regurgitates despair.

You busy yourself with trivial tasks, adjusting the straps of your pack and sorting through the supplies you bartered for at the market. It keeps your hands moving, your mind focused on anything other than the way his voice lingers in your thoughts: Why are you so afraid of me?

How do you answer that? How do you look him in the eye and speak the truth—the truth of what he's done, the coldness in his voice when he demanded your obedience, the cruelty that stained every moment until it became a part of you, too?

You steal a sidelong look at him. He looks… different. Softer, though you know that isn’t quite right. He's still Astarion—still dangerous, but this version of him is so far removed from the one you've been running from that it feels like the universe’s idea of a repulsive punchline.

He clears his throat. “You seem lost in thought.”

Your hands freeze with a potion clutched tightly in your fingers. “I’m just taking inventory.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” he asks cautiously in a honeyed timbre you’re not used to from him any longer. “What is it about me that frightens you?”

You inhale sharply, arms tightening around yourself, fighting the sudden tremor that laces your body. “I’m not frightened of you.”

“That is another lie,” he states gently but unwaveringly.

You open your mouth to argue, to deny it, but the denial disintegrates in the space between your lips. He's right. You are frightened of him, of what he was, of what he could become again. You turn away, hands trembling as you grip the edge of the table.

“I never meant to make you feel this way,” he says, his voice quieter than before. “If I have hurt you—whatever I’ve done—please, just tell me how I can make it right.”

You whirl around, the sudden movement startling both of you. “It’s not that simple,” you snap, tinged with desperation.

He remains silent, waiting for you to continue. Still, you find yourself unwilling to speak again—petrified of what the truth might reveal, of the cracks in the carefully constructed walls you’ve built to keep him from seeing the terror he still evokes in you.

Astarion watches you, his crimson eyes searching, yearning for reassurance—a thread to grasp, a sign that you haven’t slipped away into the silence that stretches between you. Yet, he does not press.

It’s that quiet understanding, that unspoken gift of space—his willingness to let you breathe, to gather yourself without pressure—that unravels you. Tears rise unbidden, and you try to swallow them down, force them back, but they well just beneath the surface, waiting to spill.

“I know it’s not simple,” he murmurs, a sad smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

He reaches out slowly, his fingers brushing your cheek before gently tilting your head upward. His touch is tentative like he’s waiting for you to reject him.

For a brief, intoxicating second, you think he might kiss you.

Gods, you want him to. It’s a desperate, reckless yearning that swells in your chest, one that you don’t know how to hold. You yearn for him to crack open the fragile shell you've encased yourself in, defy the cold vice of terror that twists in the pit of your stomach, and take what you’re too terrified to offer freely.

The thought terrifies you as much as it excites you.

There’s a part of you—a darker, needier part—that wants him to abandon this gentle hesitation, pull you against him, and claim you. You can almost feel it: his hands on your waist, his lips brushing yours with the kind of urgency that leaves no room for doubt.

You crave the absolution of it, the obliteration of thought and fear. You want him to silence the chaos in your mind, to replace it with the singular sensation of him—his touch, his taste, his presence consuming you whole.

But you’re afraid of what it would mean, what it would take, and what it could give. You’re a mess of contradictions, caught between the need to protect yourself and the raw, aching desire to give in.

Can he see it? Can he sense the way your resolve falters under the weight of his gaze, the way your body leans just slightly closer to his despite the trembling protest in your mind?

You don’t pull away, don’t close the distance, don’t speak. You just stand there, caught in the liminal space between fear and want, between restraint and surrender.

Astarion’s fingers linger on your cheek for a moment longer before trailing down to your jaw, and the sensation sends a shiver down your spine.

You think he might close the distance, lean in, and give you what you’re too spineless to ask for. The thought alone sends a pulse of heat through you, pooling low in your stomach.

But before you can make sense of it, before you can act on the impulse, he’s pulling his hand away.

His voice is almost hesitant as he speaks. “You should get some rest.” He gestures toward the bed. “You can have it. I will… sit somewhere else.”

He’s trying to give you space, trying to respect whatever distance you've placed between the two of you, but it feels more like he’s retreating into himself than offering you a reprieve.

It’s almost like he’s stepping away, unsure of how to approach you, unsure of whether he’s wanted. You open your mouth to say something, but the words retreat before you can utter them. 

Astarion walks away with a sigh, his footsteps inaudible against the worn floor. The sound lingers in the air long after he's reached the far end of the room, where a simple chair sits, solitary and stark.

He unclasps his jacket, stripping it away. The gesture is almost automatic, the same casual action he once carried with effortless confidence. But you can see the subtle sag of his shoulders, the way his eyes lose their usual sharp gleam as he quickly averts them. He sits, his body stiff, hands resting on his knees, fingers curling restlessly.

A long, shuddering breath rattles through him, and you feel his pain unfold within you. He doesn’t know how to be here, how to reach you, or how to repair whatever it is between you or himself. He fidgets like he’s trying to escape the cage of his own skin, and part of you wishes you could take that discomfort away, unburden him from his confusion and fear, but how?

You move toward the bed, your feet dragging, and a glance at the floor beside it brings a rush of unwelcome memories. You hear his voice again, the sneering words his other self used to remind you of your place. “Your place is the floor.”

The thought leaves a bitter taste lingering in your mouth while you slip onto the bed. It is far too big, far too vast. The space between you and Astarion feels endless, and yet there’s something suffocating about it.

You close your eyes, willing the familiar pull of your trance to offer you some kind of escape, but the exhaustion that settles over you feels different.

It’s deeper—emotional, spiritual, a barren tiredness that no amount of rest can fix. You clench your fists beneath the covers, your body trembling as you fight to hold it together.

The panic swells, a relentless current of doubt and fear that refuses to subside. You draw inwards, small and trembling, and are left with your thoughts, with him sitting across the room, too far away, both of you suspended in this limbo.

You sit up, and your arms wrap around your legs tightly as you press your forehead against your knees. The room feels too small and too vast all at once, every inch pressing down on you like a cage, yet it feels like you might disappear into the emptiness if you move too suddenly.

“Astarion,” you whisper, the name barely more than a breath. The rustle of fabric and the creak of the chair are immediate. You steal a look at him, finding his attention already on you. His posture is alert but hesitant, as though caught between the pull of closeness and the weight of hesitation, unable to choose which way to go.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember if you compelled me?” His brows draw together in confusion, but you continue, unable to stop now that the floodgates have opened. “Did you compel my loyalty? Compel me to love you? To… marry you?”

The hush that follows is unbearable. His lips part slightly, but no answer comes immediately. Instead, his crimson eyes dart back and forth, unfocused, as though he’s trying to piece something together, to find the filament of a memory that’s just out of reach.

“Gale…” The name falls from his lips, hoarse and broken, like a gasp. “He accused me of doing so. Didn’t he? At our wedding.” His hand lifts to his temple, rubbing it as if the motion might jog loose the memories. His voice grows quieter, tinged with disbelief. “Gods… How could I forget that?”

You remain still, letting the seconds bleed together. Astarion rises from the chair, the wood groaning as he pushes himself up, and your chest tightens with dread. He crosses the room slowly, his movements careful and measured, like he’s walking toward the last ember of a dying fire, frightened to extinguish what little warmth remains.

When he sits beside you on the bed, the mattress dips under his weight, and you brace yourself for the worst. For confirmation that all of this—the bond, the love, the life you’ve built together—has been a lie.

He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. The backs of them graze your cheek, the faintest touch, like he’s nervous you’ll shatter under his hand. Despite the ambient heat, the warmth of his skin against yours sending a shiver down your spine, you fight the yearning to lean into it.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, delicate but imploring—his thumb ghosts along your jaw.

It takes everything in you to lift your head, but you glance up at him and see the naked fear etched into his features.

“I do not know why Gale thinks that,” he begins, the words careful, deliberate. “Or what proof he believes he has. But this…” He hesitates, the pause weighted, his brow furrowing as if searching for the right words. “This is not something I have done. I did not compel you to marry me. I would never force you to love me.”

Astarion shifts closer, his hand hovering over yours, as though he wants to take it but doesn’t know if he should. “Do you believe me?”

You let your mind slip into his, and the cold emptiness of his thoughts presses against you like ice. There are breaches—colossal, boundless holes where memories should be, where clarity should reside. You feel the ghost of his pain, a sharp, searing blade that runs through every fragment of his fractured consciousness.

He’s broken, pieces of himself scattered across time, torn between the versions of him that exist like separate entities within his skin, but amidst the chaos, you find no deception.

A strange sense of guilt washes over you as you realize that you’ve pushed past a boundary, taking advantage of him while he doesn’t know how to resist you.

Before you can retreat completely, feeling the cold sting of your actions, Astarion’s voice pulls you back. A giggle, light and playful, brushes against the air, and then his fingers delicately tap your temple. “You are in there, aren’t you? In my head. I can feel it, love.”’

You recoil, a sharp, instinctive movement. The fear claws at you before you can even think, the familiar dread of the other version of him surfacing. You brace yourself for the anger, the inevitable punishment for daring to intrude.

Your mouth turns to dust, the words coming out in a disjointed and desperate rush. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted—”

His hand hovers near you, his fingers brushing the edge of your hair with a tenderness that seems alien. There’s no bite in his touch, no sharpness, no mocking flick of irritation that you’ve grown accustomed to.

“It’s alright. I’m not angry,” he intones softer than before, gentler, patient. “You do not need to apologize.”

It doesn’t quite remedy the coldness that’s settled in your chest. With things so fragile between you, the last thing you should be doing is taking advantage of him. You’ve taken something so fragile—his unguarded vulnerability—and twisted it to your doubt, your needs, your questions.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” you confess. “I… I know you don’t know how to shut me out right now, and I used that. I overstepped. You didn’t deserve that.”

Astarion leans forward, brushing a gentle kiss against the back of your hand. The gesture is tender, but it only deepens the ache in your chest. His lips linger there, a small touch that feels like an unspoken reassurance.

“You didn’t take advantage of me, Illyria,” he says quietly.

You watch him carefully as he shifts his posture, and then, just as quickly, he smiles—faintly, but enough to break the tension. “Besides,” he adds, lips curling into that familiar, teasing smirk. “I might not have the same control I did before but do not fool yourself, darling. I can still resist you when I want to.”

The slight bump against the bond sends a charge of surprise through your senses, and you feel a subtle closing of the door inside his mind. It’s just a gesture, a reminder that he still has autonomy. 

All this time, all those moments when you thought you were forcing your way in—when you believed that it was all one-sided, that you were taking advantage of his perceived inability to guard himself.

Without resistance, he’d laid bare his innermost self, granting you entry into the depths of his mind, his heart, and his every secret.

He had chosen to let you in.

A choking sob catches in your throat, but you fight it back, blinking rapidly to clear the sting in your eyes. You feel foolish, overwhelmed by a rush of conflicting emotions and a strange, aching warmth for the depth of his choice, for what it meant that he had trusted you so completely, so willingly, even when he barely knows himself.

Astarion notices the shift in you immediately, his hand coming up to brush against your cheek. His expression eases with no hint of teasing or humour left in it. “What’s wrong, my love?”

You shake your head, the words caught somewhere in your throat. How could you possibly explain? How could you put into words the enormity of what you’ve just realized? Your lip trembles, and you bite down on it hard, willing yourself to hold it together.

His thumb brushes just beneath your eye as though to chase away the tears you’re too stubborn to shed. “Illyria. Tell me. Please.”

The sob you’ve been holding back escapes, ragged and broken, and you clutch at his wrist as though it’s the only thing anchoring you to the world.

“You chose to let me in,” you manage to choke out, the words fractured and uneven.

A furrow creases his brow, his lips parting just enough to betray his confusion. The union stirs in response—a gentle, coaxing touch that brushes against the edges of your mind, not pushing but offering something like comfort. A silent question, a promise that he's still here, still tethered to you.

“Of course I did. How could I not?”

You can’t stop yourself. You lurch forward, and your arms wrap around him, pulling him closer as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek is a balm, a quiet assurance that he is here, that he’s no longer the ghost you feared he had become.

His scent—dark, familiar, comforting—fills your senses, and you inhale it desperately as if trying to absorb every last piece of him into your very being. You’ve kept yourself at arm’s length, fearful of being hurt, that he will slip through your fingers again. You’ve built walls and kept your distance in case the fragile string that holds him here snaps, and you’re left alone with a stranger again.

You can’t speak for a moment, your words choked by the rawness of your tears. When they finally come, they are nothing more than stuttered breaths between your sobs, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you’ve feared.

"You're back," you whisper, barely able to get the words out. "You're really back.”

His arms come around you, hesitant at first, as though he’s uncertain if he’s allowed to hold you like this or if he even knows how.

The relief floods over you like a river breaking through a dam, sweeping away the debris of doubt and leaving only the stark truth in its wake. Tremors rack your body, and as they do, his hold tightens—not too much, just enough to steady you, enough to say he’s not going anywhere.

As you tremble in his arms the world feels still. You let go, allowing the weight of your tears to come. All the walls you've put up around your heart begin to crumble as you allow yourself to believe again, to hope again, to feel again.

You stay in his arms for a moment longer, letting the quiet settle between you. His fingers trace small, tentative circles on your back, grounding you as your trembling begins to subside.

When you finally pull back, Astarion’s hands are gentle as he brushes your hair back, his knuckles grazing your temple.

You hesitate before speaking, your voice timid, almost shy. “Will you... lay with me?”

His brows lift, surprise flashing across his features. Panic flutters in your chest, and you quickly stumble over your words to clarify. “If you’re comfortable, I mean. I—I don’t want to push or—”

Astarion interrupts you by grabbing your hand, his focus dropping to the ring on your finger. He tilts it slightly, the faint light in the room catching the metal, making it gleam.

A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips as he speaks, his voice laced with dry humour. “Lying in bed with my own wife? My, what a scandalous request,” he drawls, his tone mockingly aghast. “Should I be clutching at my pearls?”

The laugh that escapes you is soft but real. You shake your head at him, your lips curving into a small, grateful smile.

“Well?” He gestures to the bed with a casual wave of his hand. “Are you going to slide over and give me room, or am I to assume you expect me to crawl over you?”

The lightness in his tone makes you laugh again, this time a little more easily. You shift on the mattress, sliding over to make space for him, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the tension in your muscles seeps away.

As Astarion climbs onto the bed, settling beside you, and lifts his arm, the gesture is inviting but unassuming, giving you the choice. The offer makes you hesitate. The last time you allowed yourself to get this close, it was different—his hands clutched like he wanted to brand you, own you.

He notices, and his arm sways slightly in the air. “You do not have to. I will not take it personally.”

You shake your head quickly, dismissing the thought. Gathering your resolve, you sidle up to his side, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his shirt as you settle against him. He adjusts his position only slightly, shifting just enough to ensure your comfort without making you feel trapped.

When his arm folds around you, his embrace is loose. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply with an exhalation of relief. “You’re cold,” he remarks, his cheek pressing lightly against the top of your head. “It’s... soothing. Like you’re giving me a reprieve from this blasted heat.”

With a small smile, you snake your arm under his shirt, sliding your cold hand across the expanse of his warm stomach. His skin is taut beneath your fingers, his body heat a crisp contrast to your touch.

He hisses sharply, his muscles contracting under your palm as he flinches. Embarrassment creeps in, and you immediately start to pull your hand back, muttering an apology. But before you can withdraw fully, his hand covers yours, pressing it back into place against his skin.

“No,” he urges. “Leave it. This is nice.”

His words lack the teasing edge you would expect. You relax against him, your head tucked beneath his chin as your hand stays where he’s guided it. The heat of him radiates against your palm, and you can feel the faint rise and fall of his chest.

For the first time in what feels like forever, the stillness between you isn’t strained. It’s comfortable, a small oasis in the middle of the turmoil that has defined so much of your time together lately. Astarion lets out another contented sigh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you feel the faintest hint of peace.

“I must admit,” he begins, his breath stirring your hair, “this is not how I imagined this would go.”

You tilt your head just enough to glance up at him. “Oh? And what exactly did you imagine?”

He smirks, though the expression is less sharp around the edges than usual. “I thought perhaps we would argue. Then, of course, I would dramatically storm out in a fit of indignation.”

You let out a quiet laugh; the sound muffled against his chest. “So you’re saying I’ve ruined your plans for a dramatic exit?”

“Utterly,” he replies, his timbre mock serious. “You have completely denied me the opportunity to sulk and glare at walls.”

“Poor you,” you murmur with a hint of teasing, closing your eyes briefly as you relax further into him.

He chuckles airily, the vibration of it rumbling through his chest. “I suppose I will survive the disappointment. This is… far better than glaring at walls, anyway.” His hand resumes gently tracing down your arm, and his voice drops to a more serious tone. “Far better than I deserve.”

A ripple of confusion crosses your face as his words strike you, completely unanticipated. “Astarion—”

“Shh,” he interrupts, shaking his head slightly. “I do not say it to invite an argument. Only because it is true. I am grateful for moments like this. For you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. You settle for pressing your face against his chest again, letting the sound of his heartbeat fill the silence. It’s steady and soothing, the kind of rhythm you think you could lose yourself in.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“And I’m glad you’re here,” he replies. There’s a pause, and mischievously, he adds, “Though if you keep pressing that cold hand of yours into me, I may reconsider.”

You huff out a small laugh, pulling your hand back, only for him to catch it and place it right back where it was. His grip is gentle but deliberate, his long fingers curling around yours. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand in slow, thoughtful strokes.

“Do not mistake me,” he says with a smirk you can feel more than see. “I will endure.”

“Such a martyr,” you tease sleepily.

“As always,” he quips, but his voice softens as he leans down to press a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Rest, my love. I will keep watch over you.”

With his warmth surrounding you and his heart echoing in your ears, you finally feel yourself drift.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past My A03 where you can find more of my works, including this one.

Small Notes:

I don't know whether to be happy for Illyria or scared for her.

Is she doing the right thing by keeping the truth from Astarion, or is she only making things worse for him? Would you want to be told what you did?

[synergysilhouette]

11 more hot takes/unpopular opinions with DC and Marvel Comics

Originally this was 10, but I had one more to mention. And remember how my first post was Marvel-centric? This one is DC-centric.

Starfire and Arsenal were better Outlaws than Bizarro and Artemis and deserve another shot--I know I phrased this like a fact, but all this is subjective. I find Arsenal and Starfire more interesting characters and enjoy their chemistry with Jason and their romance with each other. I just wasn't crazy about the art we got for their run, nor the blatant oversexualization of Starfire.

2. Harley Quinn and Red Hood are the next-gen Joker and Batman (and I ship it)--I've thought about this forever, but Jason's broody, solitary-except-when-he-needs-to-collaborate nature reminds me of how Batman is commonly depicted, though Jason is a more violent version. Harley, being a whimsical and goofy antihero, thus feels like the next-gen version of her ex (though I understand if you find Punchline or Joker's Daughter as more deserving of that). I'd also love her on an Outlaws team with Jason and Ghostmaker. I also always felt like they'd have better chemistry than the popular Nightwing/Harley ship (which I never really shipped, especially with how they've had Harley sexually harass him in the past). That said, this works best if Harley joined Joker post-Jason's torture.

3. Jamal Campbell is the best cover artist for DC--His Nightwing art has me in a chokehold, and I love it! I also appreciate him making Nightwing curvy without it being from an ogling angle (see #5). That said, his actual work on Nightwing's issues isn't as good, but I think that's a time issue.

4. Travis Moore is the best issue artist for DC right now--I fell in love the moment I saw his work on "Wonder Woman." He's who I'd want as the artist for a "Red Hood and the Outlaws" series with Starfire and Arsenal. Really want him to do Nightwing, Titans, and a Tim Drake solo. Serg Acuna is a close second, but I'm not crazy about how he draws jawlines; they're more angular while I prefer them rounded.

5. DC needs to stop objectifying Nightwing--It's one thing to be sexy; that's cool, and it's something that the subject can (kind of) control. But Dick is constantly objectified and harassed, as well as being the victim of sexual assault on more than one occasion. Personally, I headcanon him "being okay" with the harassment and objectification in-universe due to the trauma of being assaulted and not wanting to make the situation worse, but in any case, he should be a superhero first, sex object second. You can have him be attractive without predominantly being eye-candy; I hate how Harley Quinn's tv show, "Gotham Knights," and "Nothing Butt Nightwing" wanna not only bring attention to him solely for his curves, but make him vain about it just so no one can criticize the harassment.

6. Marvel needs to stop going the demon route with Nightcrawler (especially now)--Given Kurt's kindness and Catholic faith (that fluctuates based on the writer, I guess), his appearance as a blue creature with a tail is mainly for ironic purposes. I hate how every now and then, they like to lean into the demonic angle for him, since it undermines his character SO MUCH. Plus since his birth has been retconned (hopefully for the last time), it makes no sense to connect him with demons.

7. Iceman has fallen out of favor with me--I don't think his solos have been very interesting, and it feels like they've made his sexuality a personality trait. I'd prefer he just stays a team member on an X-team (and eventually date Somnus if Daken is still unavailable).

8. Major X needed a rehaul, but he had potential--I already did a post on this, but the gist is that he needed a new everything: different dad (because not everything has to circle back to the Summers-Grey clan), different powers (because OP telepaths are a dime-a-dozen), a more unique costume in design and color, having a different storyline than "I came to prevent a terrible future," and MAYBE make him from Earth-13729 because I like some of the characters. Basically just keep Storm as his mom, lol. And this isn't a must, but as an advocate for more original LGBT+ characters, making him part of the community would be neat in my book.

9. Russell Dauterman and Lucas Werneck are the best artists at Marvel right now--This is my "argue with the wall" opinion, lol. They've made amazing art, and I wish they'd do the art for every X-Men comic, imo.

10. Where are the Gargareans?--It disturbs me that in the course of 15 months, DC had two storylines about a young man abandoned by his Amazonian mother and being (understandably) bitter about it when he finds out. Not to say everything would've been fixed, but aren't the Gargareans the male counterparts to the Amazons? The circumstance of sons of Amazons being abandoned by their mothers as per the rules of Paradise Island is never resolved despite the son's frustration and hostility. It's just like "oh yeah, that happened. Moving on!"

11. HiC was necessary (just not as it was)--We didn't need a murder plot for this to be good. Booster Gold and Harley Quinn being a duo with cute shenanigans around a serious premise was enough. Let these heroes get therapy once a year (or more; the issue itself could just be annual), and let us see these characters GROW, creating a stricter writing style for writing them rather than the flimsy style superheroes often face with different writers or when publishers go through a change in priority.

Hope you enjoyed this post! Any hot takes you agree with?

[dye-it-rouge-et-noir]

Sticking to my word and skimmed through the last episode I watched to refresh myself on what happened! Prepare for a lot of talk on it when I finally finish it haha

People who vaguely know me probably know that both James Bond and Three Body Problem are my main interests presently. Let me tell you that this show is literally the perfect combination of those two! There's a VR game plot that's a bit reminiscent to the first entry of the trilogy and of course, it's a spy show. (With 007 references included!)

I really need to get back to watching Spy Game

[sleepyfan-blog]

Adult Conversation

Author’s note: This is the fifth Bully(ing) Cato Sicarius fic series. First. Prev. Next. 

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @i-am-a-dragon34

Warnings: ask me to tag anything that bothers you

Summary: Cato and Titus rush you off to be checked over by the apothecary post assassination attempt. Afterwards, communication happens.

You knew that Astartes were enhanced. That they could move far faster than baseline humans. But you could swear that it took no more than a couple of seconds for the two squads of fully armed and armored Astartes led by Captain Sicarius and Lieutenant Titus to run all the way back to where Macragge's Honor was moored. A pathway had already been cleared for the two squads to thunder up the main gangplank and through the primary cargo bay of the massive ship.

What felt like another handful of moments later, Lieutenant Titus was carefully setting you down on one of the astartes-sized medical cots while one of the on-duty apothecaries walked over. "Are you injured anywhere, miss?" The apothecary asked, looking you over assessingly "Captain Sicarius informed me that you were the subject of an unsuccessful assassination attempt."

"I'm fine. The assassins were unable to get anywhere near me. Captain Sicarius saw to the immediate execution or disarmament before any of them could get within striking distance." You answer honestly as the Ultramarine apothecary moves closer, resisting the temptation to sigh. "I am a little off-put by the suddenness of the attempt, but I am in perfect health." You look up and over to where Sicarius was standing - not that he had gone far from your side. He was standing at the head of the medical cot you'd been set down on, one hand still holding tight to the pommel of the blade, his other hand close to your elbow, his gaze constantly scanning his surroundings - as if there was a chance that an assassin could get onto the flagship of the Ultramarines Chapter without being spotted and watched carefully. Titus was on your other side, one hand on his bolter, the other close to your other elbow. Both Astartes were visibly tense and unhappy. Considering how close you and Lieutenant Titus had become his reaction was understanding… But you were baffled by just how much protective wrath and worry that radiated from Captain Sicarius. You'd been under the impression that he hated you - or barely tolerated your presence as a necessary irritation.

His emotional reaction spoke to that being untrue, despite his outward statements and enjoyment of teasing you at every possible time. You reach out to both of them, squeezing Titus' hand with one of your own, and tentatively touching Sicarius' elbow, unsure as to how the… Mercurial second captain would react to your touch in such a mood. You look back at the Apothecary as you speak, not wanting to deliberately call out both of their emotional states, not wanting to provoke either one of them "As I said before, I am fine, Apothecary."

"There could have been something in those many tiny dishes that our hosts fed to us. Considering the fact that their security was either corrupted to the point of allowing twenty-four would be assassins into the event or incompetent to do the same, I would strongly recommend that you be checked for any poisons or drugs in your system that could compromise you if not caught in time." Sicarius argued, scowling a little, though he leaned into your touch.

You look to Titus, not wanting to take up any more of the Apothecary's time than you already had - you really were fine, after all! Why were the both of them overreacting so much? But the lieutenant only nodded in agreement with Sicarius' words "I agree with the captain. Please, for your own health, for our peace of mind, allow Brother Apothecary Messinius to check you over and draw your blood for testing?"

Part of you wanted to argue that all of this was wholly unnecessary, but the expressions of genuine worry on both of their faces gave you pause… And it was worrying that so many would-be assassins had managed to get into an event that should have had much better security than it did. "I… Fine. If it will put your worries to rest, I'll allow it."

Titus gave you a small smile and Sicarius relaxed a little.

"Thank you." Titus murmured, his voice going warm and gentle, reaching out and tucking a stray lock of your hair that had come undone from the updo you'd put it in while you'd been astartes-sprinted back to Macragge's Honor.

~

Your post assassination attempt check-up did not take long, and Apothecary Captain (why had you been brought directly to the captain of the fourth company for treatment? Surely he had better things to do than to check up on you? But Titus and Sicarius had both insisted that Messinius himself be the one to check you over, and he didn't seem to mind…) Messinius promised to alert you and whichever of the Ultramarines who were going to be guarding you in your room aboard Macragge's honor if there was anything concerning in your bloodwork. You'd wanted to protest that you didn't need guarding while on the ship, but the worried and irritated expressions on Titus and Sicarius' faces brooked no argument.

Somehow, the news that it would be both Sicarius and Titus who were going to be guarding you personally did not surprise you one bit. Nor was the fact that Titus held you carefully in his arms while Sicarius did a thorough sweep of your personal rooms just in case someone had managed to sneak aboard the ship and plant something in your rooms to try and hurt, maim or kill you. Sicarius found nothing objectionable in your room, and Titus carried you over to your bed, kneeling down as he set you down.

Titus pressed his forehead against yours, breathing in deeply before murmuring softly "I'm glad that you are whole and unharmed, my dear." He is still taller than you, despite kneeling before you on your bed, and leans down slightly, to kiss you on the lips.

SIcarius growls "Lieutenant Titus! Control yourself- step away from her!"

Titus looked over at his brother, arching a brow and pressing closer to you "I will not step away from her. Not unless you ask me to, my dear. Why you are being so willfully blind, I do not know, but now is as good a time as any for this conversation."

You blink in abject confusion. What conversation was he talking about? You were about to ask when Sicarius tackled Titus to the floor, dragging him away from you. "You kissed her!" He hisses.

"Yes, I did. I've kissed her before." The lieutenant rumbled unapologetically, resisting the other as he tried to drag him away from you "I love you, my dear. And I'm not the only one in this room who does. Why Cato is being such an ass about it, I do not know."

"He what?" You splutter, your eyes widening in shock. You wanted to dismiss Titus' words as being utterly incorrect. Considering how much Sicarius had bullied you… And in the ways that he…

But Sicarius never did allow anyone else to bully you around. Physically or verbally. He would immediately reprimand anyone else picking on you and drag any other Ultramarine off for a brutal sparring session.

… There was also the fact that Sicarius was not disagreeing with the lieutenant's assessment.

Sicarius had, in fact, gone an interesting shade of red and was scowling at the floor, even as he continued to try and drag Titus away from you "I… That's… That's completely - how dare you… I… Might have… Inappropriate… Feelings… for you, yes. But I have the self-control not to act on them."

Titus snorted, before breaking out into wry laughter "That's not true! You try to occupy as much of her attention as you can! You sulk when she pays attention to our brothers more than you, and you get really grumpy when she and I spend time together without you."

"Considering the last time I found the two of you alone together, you had your tongue down her throat, my concerns about you two spending extended periods of time together is entirely founded. And…" Sicarius hesitated, looking at you with a hard, complicated look on his face "I… May have… More intense feelings for you than… I know what to deal with. You are beautiful and lovely and soft and intelligent and maddening! I want to see you smile, I want to hear you laugh. I want to be the reason why you are happy. I want you to smile at me the way you smile at Titus. I want… I want to hold you close, hear you murmur. Get lost in your sweet scent. Feel your heartbeat against mine. When those fools rushed at you I was… For a moment I worried that they would take you away. Hurt you and send you to a place where I could not follow for long centuries and that terrified me." Sicarius admitted, breaking down as he slumped forward in Titus' hold, tears starting to form in his dark eyes. "So I was vicious and merciless to the fools who thought you take you from me. You have stolen my hearts from me, and I… I find myself… Not… Minding this. I am… Well aware of your…" He swallows hard, looking between yourself and Titus "I know about you and Titus being close and I am jealous that he has… That he can… That you allow him to…" He growls wordlessly, burying his face in his hands, taking in deep, ragged breaths, clearly trying to calm down.

Titus' hold on his captain gentles a little, less restraining and more reassuring. "Captain… You are… Really bad at processing your own feelings."

"Shut it, Titus. I'm… I'm trying!" Sicarius hissed, giving the other marine a half-hearted glower.

You slide off the bed and onto your feet, walking up to both Astartes. Even up on your tiptoes and stretching your arms up as high as they can go, you can barely touch their faces with your fingertips. You care and love Titus very much… But you also can't deny the part of you that is very much attracted to Captain Sicari… No. To Cato, as well. You'd thought that he hated you, which made dealing with your assumed one-sided crush a little bit easier. "I care for you both, very much. I am also very much aware of the fact that directly after an attempt on my life, that doing something potentially… Rash is a bad idea. I also have negotiations to attend to in the morning. We'll need to talk more about what… What each of us might want, now that everyone's feelings are out in the open. For now, all I ask of you both is if you'd like to rest with me. Tonight has been tumultuous at best, and I know I wouldn't be able to sleep at all if I'm by myself."

"One of us needs to stand guard, at least. It's standard protocol, after an assassination attempt." Cato rumbled, shaking his head a little.

"Space marines also require far less sleep than baseline humans do." Titus added, letting go of Cato and kneeling down to be closer to your level. "Would you be content if one of us holds you while you sleep, and the other guards your door? And when it is time for the other to take his rest, we'll switch off? If you're willing to hold her close, Cato."

"That would be acceptable to me." You agree with a warm and gentle smile, glancing over at the second captain, waiting for his response.

"That… That would be acceptable to me." Cato agreed, nodding jerkily.

"Cato should hold you first. He's the one who saw actual combat tonight." Titus hummed "Besides, it's going to take me time to get out of my armor, and Cato's in civies already."

You nod, and watch Cato turn an interesting shade of red. "Sounds good to me! I have a couple of things that should more or less fit both of you, if you don't wanna sleep in what you're wearing now." You'd gotten a couple of pairs of astartes sized sleeping shirts for Titus, after you and he had steadily been close with one another. Sicarius was blushing again as he nodded, not looking at you. It was endearing how flustered he is. You pull out the two large shirts, offering them out for Cato to choose between.

Cato looks at both of the silk shirts, taking the dark blue sleeping shirt with a gruff "Thank you." before heading off to your en-suite bathroom to change. You hum softly as you pull out a set of sleep wear of your own to wear, waiting for him to be done. You wanted to wash your face of the make up you were wearing, and cleaning wipes only did so much. Cato doesn't take long in the bathroom, and steps out, his well-muscled legs on display as he walked over to your bed, settling down on it as you head over to the bathroom.

You quickly finish your nightly ablutions and find that Titus is standing watch at the door. while Cato is still laying down on your bed. You walk over to bed and slide under the covers, curling into Cato's warm, firm chest, a tired yawn leaving you as you cuddle into him, as you mumble out a tired "Thank you."

"… Thank you, my lady." He murmurs back, pressing a kiss to your hair, his large hands pulling you in close, one hand lightly coming to rest on your hip, the other lightly touching the middle of your back as you quickly fall asleep in his arms.

[cannedpickledpeaches]

Insert Your Name (3)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to series masterlist!

Notes and TW: Jade and Reader are finally properly interacting! For the whole chapter, too. This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

The night breeze sweeps over your skin when you step outside Azul’s mansion. The moon illuminates the world tonight, and you can easily see Jade’s car pull up to the driveway. He parks it perfectly, just like everything else he does, and comes to the front door with a smile.

“Looks like everything went well.”

He walks up the steps leading to the door, stopping just one step below you. Even then, his tall figure ensures he’s slightly above eye level. He zeroes in on something on your cheek.

“Indeed,” he says, raising a hand. His bare thumb swipes gently over your cheekbone. “Excuse me. You had something on your face.”

His thumb leaves your face with a hint of something red. Barry Moore’s blood. You must’ve stood too close while Floyd was having his fun.

“Thanks,” you say dismissively.

“No need to thank me. Were you the one who personally took care of the interrogation?”

He’s talking about the physical coercion. The violence. You shake your head.

“Floyd’s doing it right now.”

He lowers his eyes, rubbing the smidge of blood between his thumb and forefinger. The thoughtful pace of the action makes you wonder if he is satisfied with something.

“That’s good to hear.”

“Floyd said the opposite. He said he wanted me to draw blood.”

“Rest assured that he is more than happy to do it instead.” He reaches out for your hand. His bare fingers handle yours like they are made of porcelain. He studies them for the few seconds you allow before pulling your hand back. “You should never have to lift a finger. Just keep making others do your dirty work. There is no need for you to dirty your hands with the blood of filth.”

That implies there are things which are worthy for you to personally dirty your hands with. You choose not to think about it. Jade’s ambiguous wording is purposeful, a habit partially caused by his enjoyment of your tendency to overthink.

You look for a way to change the topic. “I see you’ve made sure to leave your gloves at her place.”

An important plot point that ensures they meet again. A trivial accessory that can easily be replaced, which (Y/N) washes and returns to him when she runs into him again. She will take great care in handwashing the white fabric, and she will keep it with her until she finds their owner. It’s an item created for the story. Because she is sweet, because she is kind, because she is the perfect person.

“Are you upset?” Jade’s eyes curve slightly in amusement. His fingers linger by your jaw. Not quite touching you, yet refusing to pull away. “You are stating an observation which does not need to be said. It feels as though you are searching for something to say.”

“No.” You push his hand away, your bare skin touching briefly. The body temperature of merfolk is naturally lower than humans, and on this warm summer night, he stays as cool as ever against your warm palm. “Maybe you’re just not that good at talking.”

He chuckles, a low timbre that slides through the air like silk. “I will work to meet your expectations, then.”

“The conversation better not be this stilted when you’re talking to (Y/N).”

“I assure you it is not.”

“Of course.” You turn to the door, its frosted windows casting a warm glow over your face from the lights inside. “She’s basically destined to be your partner, so there’s no way you wouldn’t get along.”

“We get along.”

“I know, that’s what I just said.”

“That is not what I meant.” His hand settles on the doorknob before yours. With his chest to your back and one arm reaching around your left side, you are suddenly reminded of how large he is. Towering over you, his body surrounds you on all sides except the front, an enveloping embrace where no parts of you touch. “I was referring to you and I. Ah, unless—” his voice suddenly drips with self-pity and his arm falls away “—I was the only one who felt that way about my dear friend?”

You stare at him. A few seconds pass, and you dissolve into quiet laughter. “Right, right. Feel more sorry for yourself, maybe you’ll start crying.”

“Would you like to see it?” Jade leans into your peripheral vision, a veiled grin tugging at his lips. “I can certainly try. It would come at a price.”

“I’m not that interested, then.” You push open the door. “Let’s go. Azul’s waiting for you to use your Signature Spell on the captive.”

“Ah, the captive.” He follows you into the house. In the sudden flood of light, he seems less intense, more interested in fading into obscurity to any onlookers. Azul’s home has a few trusted employees to keep it spotless. But no matter how trusted they are, Jade dislikes being perceived unless it amuses him. He manages to do it even while being six feet tall. “Where is he being held?”

“In a dingy room in the basement, tied to a chair with a single light overhead.”

Jade chuckles into his hand. “Azul has always had a flair for dramatics.”

“I think even the kidnapping was a bit clichéd. We should’ve just had you use your Signature Spell on him after you beat him up in the alley.”

“It wasn’t mentioned in the story. And I know how much you love to follow the story to the letter.” You don’t need to turn around to know that he has a smarmy smile on his face. “After all, you asked me to lead on your good friend just to stay true to it.”

He is prodding you to observe your reaction. To see if you will get angry, or pensive, or hesitant. You look straight ahead and start descending into the basement.

“My friendship with her or your parents’ life. It’s a pretty clear choice.”

“I am sure they will be happy to hear that once they awaken.”

A pause. The words hang on the tip of your tongue. They are hard to swallow, but also hard to spit out. The latter becomes easier when you don’t think about it.

“Who’s to say? You might end up falling for her eventually.” Every step you take down the stairs feels heavy. “So far, everything in the story has come true. So maybe you really will become madly in love with her.”

Jade’s silence seems to weigh down your steps more than whatever feelings are on your mind. You wonder what expression he has on his face, but you don’t want to turn around—whether it’s for your pride or for dread of seeing something you don’t want to see, you aren’t sure.

“Do you really believe that manuscript is a reflection of things that will certainly come to pass?”

He’s dodging the topic. You hate when he’s like this. He doesn’t want to give a straight answer, so he gives a tangentially related statement or question that can be interpreted to be one. Something that gives a vague answer, but can shield him with deniability when confronted. Even so, his question is not one that can easily be ignored, so it’s hard to stick to your original train of thought.

“I don’t know. It could be a prophecy of sorts. It could be someone from the future writing down what they know happened in the past. It could even be something like a magic pen that will turn anything written with it into reality. But powers like those are, well, powerful, and not easy to find. I don’t understand why it would be used on a silly, badly written love story like that.”

“Could it be that you’re jealous?”

You furrow your brows and spin around to give him a withering glare. His smile is the same as always, but you think it reminds you of when a cat toys with a mouse.

“Don’t smile like that. It’s unpleasant.”

“I’ll do my best to meet your expectations.” He won’t. You’ve already resigned yourself to that.

“Whatever. Besides, what part of anything I just said makes you think I’m jealous?”

“It isn’t what you just said.” Your shoes clack against the floor of the basement, followed by the quiet taps of his footsteps. “You have seemed rather . . . Restless since the story started.”

“There’s a lot to think about.”

“Am I one of those things?”

“You’re the male lead. You’re one of the major things I think about.”

“I see.”

You take a glance behind you again. His smile seems less predatory now, more pleased. Is he looking for attention? Right after you internally commented on his tendency of fading into the background, too.

The truth is not something like jealousy. Or maybe it is, but in a different way than what Jade is insinuating. Something feels missing now that you know you will not talk to (Y/N) again, at least until the story ends. The story takes place from her perspective, and since it never mentions Friend A after the inciting incident, you cannot appear before her for the duration of the plot. You cannot talk to her about the sweets you ate or the cafés you’ve found. You cannot sit in her apartment and talk about nothing in particular. It’s true that you will be very busy for the next while, but you still need to get used to the sudden absence of a good friend even while she is within reach.

You can deal with it, though. Over the years of working with the mafia, you have lost your fair share of friends. At least you know you can still talk to (Y/N) when she gets her happily ever after.

[dr-wormman]

Unnecessarily complex bordering on incomprehensible design for Mooring I cooked up for funsies. I've always wanted (and imagined) his look to be waaay more intricate than I usually draw it but I just don't because. Well. I dont want to draw all that. And also I fear the shadow curse effect takes up alot of space and adding more (like the tattoos) turns it into a mess. Anyways. I'm keeping the long tusks and the coin slot and rest assured even though I am never drawing them again he has tattoos. Just imagine them the next time he’s shirtless. Also keeping that nipple piercing I think it's cool

Ultimately I'm not concerned with making a Technically Good design because I'm just having fun and playing with my dolls but I want to make one that I both like and can recreate easily

[reyrdemils]

In Plain Sight | Part 2 of 3

Words: 1,200(ish) | Rating: General Audiences | Warnings: None Relationships: Matt Murdock (TV)/Original Female Character (Unnamed) Misc: roughly fits major MCU/DDS1-2 2015-16 timeline but tbh no DD canon plot points included Summary: The distinction between being visible, being under surveillance, and feeling seen is slight, but vastly important.

This was written as part of Amanda's 2.5k Writer Challenge hosted by @mattmurdocksscars! This part features the prompt "How do I look?", the first of two I assigned myself. (If varying verb tense is a pet peeve of yours, you may want to skip this.) Click here to read Part 1. | Click here to read Part 3.

In terms of agents, she was not an agent. Nor had she ever wanted to be one. It had been enough in recent years that she benefited from Stark’s armor tech development in exchange for the study of her unique biochemistry, an arrangement that kept her housed and fed and away from the golden handcuffs of SHIELD, until its spectacular collapse. Thinking on it now though, perhaps her obstinacy on that front had been a mistake; as she sat transfixed in front of a multi-screen news feed in Capitol Hill, watching a city crack open, float, and nearly crater into the Earth, the only thing she was, was useless.

And after 24 hours, each one sleepless, she was probably technically a fugitive, depending on how quickly the legal definition of ‘enhanced' was codified.

With no mooring, no contact from anyone she trusted, and a splintered optimism creeping close to shattering, she found herself drifting, half-awake, among a small crowd of commuters, boarding on a train that would deliver her back to New York. She attempts to sleep, curled uncomfortably across two seats in a blessedly empty section, but the tension of uncertainty, and the possibility of missing an emergency contact sits like a paperweight in her ribs, fixing her to consciousness. Her unfocused eyes sting, nearly unblinking as she waits, listening for footsteps of any passengers that might draw near and marking the rhythm of wheels rolling over rails.

Slipping out a train door at the back of a line is second-nature and navigating Penn Station is a matter of staying alert to avoid anyone with wheeled luggage and a Wall Street attitude. Save for one person who jogs around a corner and clips her shoulder hard enough to stumble, it’s successfully done. When they turn back to shout at whoever hit them, she kicks the suitcase out of their hand to send it rolling a good twenty feet away. When they scramble to chase after it, she smiles for the first time in at least a week.

The grid of Manhattan’s streets is intimately familiar after spending the last few years being housed here, though she doubts it will ever feel like home. Standing now at the corner of the station’s expansive staircase, she considers the route to the tower, to the guest suite she’s been afforded there. It’s barely a few blocks away, a short walk by New York standards, but tired as she is she knows a short walk here does not correlate to a safe walk. There’s no telling how many cameras she might pass, or which unmarked vans might hide operatives armed with specialized optics and enhanced restraints—and while she’s been told of an underground entrance to a maintenance corridor, getting there feels no safer.

If they had been able to finish work on her suit she could have just dropped onto the penthouse roof but—Oh.

Finding a climbable fire escape ends up taking less time than expected for this area. Crossing the streets is tougher; any equipment that could have helped had been purposely left in the safe house. By the time she cleared the first block, found a way down (scaring a cat), used a crowd of pedestrians as cover through a crosswalk, skirted into an alley and up another fire escape (scaring a—was that a ferret?), she couldn’t help wondering if she’d have been better off in Washington as well.

But these are the streets she knows best, exhausting though they are, and there’s no better place for her to hide in plain sight… so to speak.

“Cannot believe he does this every night,” she huffs, trying to hustle up a worryingly creaky set of steps. “Fucking... Stairdevil.”

The sun was sinking behind the skyline, and gifting cover in the form of long shadows along the rooftops. If she was lucky, she might reach his building before he went out, but she recalled a number of occasions when he had clearly started patrolling from somewhere else. Worst case, she’d find a hiding spot and wait him out. Medium case, if it turned out no one had followed her, she’d hop down and find a bodega.

She was not lucky. After deciding it was more wise to post up a few buildings away, she waited for two hours to catch any movement on his roof and saw nothing but the lights of departing planes as they faded into the clouds. After another half-hour passed with no developments she risks a quick trip to find bottled water and a few protein bars. Upwards of thirty hours without food meant her head was throbbing—and holding visibility long enough to not frighten the cashier only worsened the exhaustion in her bones, but at least in New York her tailor-made jumpsuit didn't draw any attention.

Back in position, she wolfs down two protein bars in five minutes and barely restrains herself from downing the water in one long drink. Though she’s not thrilled to be waiting here, and there’s still been no word from Sokovia... and Mr. Pajamas might not be pleased to find her on his block, all things considered, she’s glad for the opportunity to rest and breathe. And she wasn’t kidnapped off the street! Things could be worse.

And then the first drops of rain ting off a nearby metal hatch seconds before a streak of lightning tears through the sky.

“You’re joking.” She looks to the cloud directly above, which answers by dropping water directly into her eye.

There’s no point in running for cover once the sky opens; this suit is impressive but is not waterproof, and by the time she stands up and tucks the remaining food into an interior pocket, it’s reached maximum saturation. The noise of rain sheeting onto tarred flats and off sloped water towers was loud even to her, if she remembered correctly—and if the downpour lasted long enough—he’d be returning to his building sooner than later. Of course with her luck today, he would probably be laid up in bed with a broken leg and she’d accidentally fall asleep up here waiting.

It’s a warm rain at least. Now sitting against his roof access door she closes her eyes, tips her head back, and tries to relax.

What is she doing? She’s not an agent, certainly not an Avenger. A few years of clandestine training under her belt, and for what? Isolated again, likely homeless again, at risk of capture again, only now she's passably proficient at Muay Thai and small arms. Not exactly an Ivy League education. Maybe she’ll try Broadway, shop around for any directors who might want an actual phantom. Maybe that would be her superhero name: Phantom. Opera might be funny. Ghost would be cooler though—it’s probably taken by now.

Something whacks the side of her foot. She jolts upright and sees a figure standing inches from her feet, looks further up to find Hell's Kitchen's hottest Under Armour model, and heaves a sigh of relief.

His head tilts. Her eyes nearly fall shut again, and she almost laughs in wondering what a sight she must be to him in this moment, however he manages to do that.

“How do I look?”

“You caught me on a good night, so I won’t say you look like shit.”

“Yeah," she sighs. She'll have to believe him, she hadn’t spared a thought for her physical appearance in days.

He crouches down to her eye level, evoking the memory of their first meeting; has it only been a few months since then? “You look like you need help.”

“Yeah.” She manages a weak smile and attempt at a nod. “Would you like a protein bar?”

[snakeflower-cottage]

Now that I’ve spoken about the master, I wanted to talk about my mistress…

Nicnevin, the Gyre Carlin and Queen of the Unseelie Court

Nicnevin (or Nicneven, Nyneve, Nignivie) is a name that lingers in the damp winds of Scotland, woven into the old roads of witchcraft, faery lore, and the calls of geese at night. She is the Gyre Carlin, the great witch-mother, feared and revered in equal measure. She is no mere mortal sorceress but something older, one of the Queens of Elphame, ruler of the Unseelie Court of Autumn and Winter, mistress of wild magic.

The Whirling Hag and Her Spinning Magic

The title Gyre Carlin is more than just a name. Gyre means to whirl, to spiral, to turn, and Carlin is the Scots word for a witch or crone. She is the Spinner, the one who twists fate upon her spindle, weaving spells as fine as gossamer and binding spirits as surely as a knotted thread. Like the Cailleach, she is tied to the great cycles of time, turning the wheel of the seasons, unraveling the threads of life and death.

Witches who followed her were said to use enchanted thread in their charms—knotted cords to bind or unbind, spun flax to draw down the wind, red wool to turn away the ill ee. In some tales, Nicnevin herself would spin fate into being, crafting charms that could grant second sight or summon a lover’s spirit from across the moors.

Her role as a spinner also ties her to transformation. Just as thread changes shape beneath the fingers of the weaver, Nicnevin herself is ever-changing. In some stories, she shifts her form from a hag to a maiden, from a woman to a hare, an owl, a great black mare. She teaches her witches the same arts, how to slip from one shape to another, how to run unseen in the night, how to vanish with the turn of a cloak.

Herbal Magic and the Poisoner’s Art

Nicnevin’s witches were also known for their knowledge of herbs—both for healing and for harm. She was a patron of those who gathered in the moonlight, searching for roots and flowers with potent virtues. It was said that certain plants, when picked on her feast night, carried an extra charge of magic.

Henbane and nightshade, foxglove and yew—plants of dream and death, spirits bound in green flesh. Her followers knew which could grant visions, which could numb pain, which could send the soul flying from the body to join her spectral hunt. They brewed ointments from these herbs, rubbing them into their skin to slip between worlds, riding the wind to Elphame.

Yet she was not only a bringer of poison—Nicnevin was also a great healer, though her ways were wild and strange. In folk belief, certain illnesses were caused by fae mischief or the interference of spirits. A wise woman who called on Nicnevin might craft a charm to lift such afflictions, whispering her name over water poured through a holed stone or mixing herbs into an offering left at the crossroads.

The Unseelie Queen and Her Spirit Host

As Queen of the Unseelie Court, Nicnevin rides at the head of a fearsome procession. Unlike the gentler Seelie fae, who may grant fortune to those they favor, the Unseelie are the dark and wayward spirits—restless dead, twisted fae, and witches who did not find their peace. On stormy nights, her host sweeps over the land, their passage marked by sudden gusts of wind, the barking of unseen hounds, or the flicker of lights in the bog.

To cross her path unprotected is to risk being swept away—unless one knows the proper rites. Some folk left out offerings of milk, ale, or bread to keep her favor. Others carried rowan or iron, whispering charms if they heard hoofbeats on the wind. Those who dared to ride with her might return forever changed—if they returned at all.

Nicnevin’s Legacy

Though her name has faded from common telling, traces of Nicnevin still linger in Scotland’s folklore, in the rites of witches who spin and weave, in the gathering of herbs beneath the moon, in the whisper of wind that carries the scent of heather and something older still.

She is the Spinner, the Poisoner, the Queen who flies.

Would you know her, if she called you to join her revel?

[mallorylambart]

my dol pc and sydney!

plus a relationship chart because why not

(none of these are concretely how i think they look, it's just a first draw....i can't even decide how i want to draw sydney's bangs orz)

i am constantly surprised at how much this game has my brain by the reins, but boy howdy, is it definitely my current hyperfixation

pc facts under the cut if you're interested in that

pc and robin have constantly been mistaken for siblings as long as they've known each other (she had the same hair color as him before starting to dye it)

pc has never met black wolf or eden

pc only knows great hawk as "this giant bird that chased me in the moor this one time"

when it comes to whitney, pc dislikes him but also agrees with sydney on the whole "you never know what people are going through" thing. she absolutely believes he hates her, though, due to the extent of his bullying; she doesn't figure out that he actually likes her until speaking to him after saving him at his dismissal event.

pc took the necklace. she did not have any clue what she was getting into, and now blood moons are the most stressful times for her. (generally, she tries to spend them in the meadow near alex's farm.) she feels a lot of remorse for taking it after encountering ivory wraith, so she assists them whenever there's pink mist at the compound.

pc and sydney did the rite of promise

pc is an initiate at the temple; initially she joined because she thought it would provide some relief from her current life situation, but over time she's grown leery of the temple and their hangups on purity while doing...whatever they're doing behind the scenes. she continues to work at the temple for the monthly allowance and for sydney, and doesn't trust jordan.

pc works with landry often, and considers them one of the only people she trusts outside of robin and sydney

pc only hates one person and their name is bailey

pc in winter school clothes with backpack bonus

[dr-futbol-blog]

Grace Under Pressure, Pt. 6

McKay had just realized that his symptoms of euphoria, elation and over-confidence were caused by an excess of CO2 in his system. What is curious is that as we join Sheppard in the space in which they are working on modifying a jumper now, it almost seems as though he is suffering from similar symptoms. Based on what we see at the end of the episode, he is deeply affected by the situation and is hiding in well. But it is possible that there is something more going on here because, as we find Sheppard directing an assorted group of scientists and engineers, it is not his expertise as a Lieutenant Colonel that he seems to be drawing from here. He is not directing them as a military commander but as a foreman, and he is doing it expertly. He is, in a word, performing McKay's role. He seems to have slipped into it as easy as if it were his second skin.

Sheppard: Yeah, alright. This corner: take it over here; move it over here. Weir: What's all this? Sheppard: Ah, this is my plan! Weir: Yeah, I figured that much! You care to elaborate? Sheppard: Well, Doctors Moore and McNab are here to study the ocean on M8R-1229, which happens to be under a thick sheet of ice, so they brought a thousand-foot cable...

Being that Sheppard was somewhat vague about this plan of his that by the looks of it he had started devising even before their recent meeting with Zelenka -- very likely the moment he had heard about the jumper going down -- Weir had clearly now decided to check up on his progress. She seems surprised to find such a well-oiled machine working on Sheppard's plan, Sheppard seeming to have roped everyone from the science corps that was not currently employed by Zelenka in making calculations as to where they might be able to find McKay into figuring out how to get him out of there once they do find him. Sheppard has no formal authority to commandeer the employ of the civilian scientists into doing his bidding, and yet they all seem not just willing but eager to work with him on this.

The first thing we may note, as Sheppard steps out of the jumper to speak with Weir ostensibly because they might hear each other better on the outside, is that he makes sure to step around her on the side of her back. The more natural way would have been to go around her from the other side where she was already turned and to step out of the jumper together, then to commence with a discussion. Sheppard goes out of his way to show both the audience and her that he does not want to have his body facing her and that he is only going to allow it for the minimum time it takes for them to have this discussion out there in the open where everyone can see them. There is nothing either intimate or private about the way he wants to have this conversation with her. He was more intimate with the scientist he had just been talking with inside the jumper than her, he had let the man more inside his personal space.

The second thing is, Sheppard seems to know McKay's staff. And make no mistake, he does not know these people because he just happens to know everyone on Atlantis and because as the military commander of Atlantis, he simply makes it his business to know everyone who comes there. No, the knows Doctors Moore and McNab by their names and knows what they do because he hangs out in McKay's lab all the time. We get confirmation of this only later in First Strike (S03E20) and Quarantine (S04E13), both episodes showing us that hanging out in the lab is very much a thing that Sheppard does. And because McKay is the one doing work and has a tendency to see the people working for him as instrumental and Sheppard, not actually doing any work while hanging out there and hence having much more time to observe things happening around him, an argument could be made that he actually knows McKay's staff better than McKay does, on a personal level. Sheppard might be able to name more members of his staff than McKay who, as he tells Weir, is able only to point at people he thinks are slightly less useless than others. Ergo this, Sheppard knowing members of the science corps by name and being actually able to tell her what their science projects are, tells us that Sheppard was already hanging out at McKay's lab at this time.

Sheppard: ...and a pretty powerful winch to lower their instruments. Weir: OK. Sheppard: And Edgar over here is responsible for the magnetic grapple designed to lower the F-302s into our jumper bay. Weir: And you intend to put the two together. Sheppard: Like chocolate and peanut butter. Weir: Is the mechanism gonna be strong enough to lift a half-flooded jumper out of the water?

Weir is quick on the uptake and figures out that Sheppard intends to combine the two things, and we may note that she says "put them together" instead of "marry the two together" that she might also have said and which is what Sheppard actually intends to do, given his use of the simile of the things going together like chocolate and peanut butter. It is a cute turn of phrase to be sure, but since we are here to reach, there might be something in peanut butter and jelly being the more common and expected pairing, the domestic All-American Family combination that might represent a heterosexual relationship between a man and a woman where chocolate and peanut butter, being that both are sticky pastes produced from beans, could be seen as representing a relationship between two men who are similar in essence but not the same, Sheppard being the dark chocolate to McKay's peanut butter. Sheppard might like both but he certainly seems to prefer the combo of chocolate with peanut butter.

Sheppard: Not a chance. Weir: Well, then why are you...? Sheppard: Because we don't have to. We just have to get near enough to the surface so we can get McKay and Griffin out with a cutting team and rescue divers. Weir: Good. How long? Sheppard: Couple of hours.

Here, we see the euphoria, elation and over-confidence at play. Weir expresses her concern for whether the plan is going to work and Sheppard tells her that of course it won't work, there is not even a chance that it could. It is as though he is treating this as a science project. At the same time, he seems to have come up with a very elaborate rescue plan seemingly all by himself, all ex tempore, and has managed to put together the best possible team to work on it. His tone betrays no urgency, no anxiety, no debilitating fear; it is as though the only thing he feels is excitement over getting to try this out in the real world. He projects such enthusiasm that he is even able to transfer this enthusiasm onto her. Weir seems honestly baffled by his response here, the tone of it, likely expecting Sheppard to be distraught. She knows the two men are close. She does not know and does not even want to know the full scope of their interaction but when ever she thinks that she has started figuring this man out, Sheppard seems to give her whiplash.

Weir: You and Rodney have been bugging me for a chance at trying a jumper as a submersible, but you sure went a hell of a long way to make me say yes! Sheppard: Well, you still haven't said it yet. Weir: I just did. Sheppard: OK! Oh, uh, how close is Zelenka to finding them? Weir: I'm gonna go ask him.

It seems as though Sheppard's excitement and confidence that they will be able to rescue both McKay and Griffin using this plan is contagious, and so Weir does what she has witnessed Sheppard do so many times in the past, which is to make light of the situation to make it seem lighter. She basically cracks a joke about the fact that the two of them are giving her gray hair on purpose and that they really need not go quite this far to get her to give them permission to play with their Ancient toys.

But at the same time, what she says reveals to us that this is something that McKay and Sheppard have been at the very least talking about doing together, they have been planning it together. Earlier, McKay mentioned that he had theorized that the jumpers could be used as submersibles and apparently this was not only something that they had been doing together but was actually something they had already requested permission from Weir to try out, and they had been trying to get that permission more than once. We may recall the way both men were excited to see the alien flight craft on Olesia in Condemned (S02E05). Even though the motivation for their interest and excitement of the technology remains slightly different (McKay is interested in the engineering and how it works, Sheppard is interested in the thing that goes fast), they still love and care about the same thing. Even if they come at it from different angles, they share a common interest, and they definitely seem to want to play together.

This project of seeing whether a jumper can be used as a submersible seems like a variation of the same thing. McKay wants to know if his theory can be worked out in practice and Sheppard is the one of wants to make the dive, and although McKay is currently fast approaching the ocean floor, he would have been more than glad to let Sheppard take the reigns. He is happy to let Sheppard drive. There is no one he trusts to be able to pilot better than Sheppard. Furthermore, Weir says that they have been bugging her about this and that they have been bugging her about it together. While just in the previous episode we found Sheppard and McKay spending time together off the clock, on their way to do something together that did not warrant an explanation, this too confirms to us that they spend a lot more of their time in each other's company than we are strictly shown on screen.

Regarding the over-confidence, even though this is very much an act on Sheppard's part here and he is trying to convince himself more than anyone else, he acknowledges Weir's attempt at cheering him up by returning the quip, making it seem like yes, this was just an elaborate ruse to get her to say yes even though both of them know that is not the case at all. He appreciates that she is not attempting to make him feel his feelings or worse yet, to have to perform his feelings to her because it is difficult enough for him to keep himself together in order to be able to do what he needs to be able to do as it is. If there is one thing he appreciates about Weir, it is that she is as emotionally stunted as he is and hence undemanding in that regard.

What is amusing here is that his response to her, although he seems to bounce on his step in his excitement to get back to what he was doing, actually looks almost like he curtsies to her. Another thing to note, as he leaves her, is that he again goes on the side of her back. It takes more effort from him, a whole extra step, to make sure that he has his back turned toward her as he passes her where for McKay he does the opposite, he usually draws his shoulder back to not have his own damn body parts make any kind of a barrier between them. He takes effort to have his body turned toward McKay at all times, and he makes effort to do the opposite to Weir, and that is a thing that keeps recurring.

Continued in Pt. 7

[bigbraidenergy]

sentence starters: across the universe

a part i gift to @tragedynoir for the 2024 gift exchange <3

i chose this movie for sentence starters, because i liked the vibes of it based off of your sun anke character, as well as her friend played by ashley moore! i obviously don't know the muses well, and the description was somewhat vague, buuuut... between her struggling with her sense of self, her dog-eat-dog mentality, her being an artist, seeking validation/etc, and the best friend being a bubbly actress, there's just a lot of themes there that reminded me of the movie. i suppose the movie has also been on my mind lately with some themes being on-point for irl issues as well. i hope you enjoy!

I can't have no one screwing up my beauty sleep before 2:00 PM.

What you do defines who you are.

Music's the only thing that makes sense anymore. Play it loud enough, it keeps the demons at bay.

I understand you need to get away.

I can't pretend like it didn't happen.

This was just a crappy wall, and now it's a work of art.

Time is not on our hands. Time is slipping through them.

If nobody's everybody, then someone can be anybody, right?

(about a sketch) Hey, you didn't get my left nipple right.

Well, I was drawing from a distance. I couldn't see it properly.

We're in the middle of a revolution!

What are you doing — doodles, and cartoons?!

You don't think it's worth trying?!

We all wanna change the world.

Don't you know it's gonna be all right?

I've never seen [her/him/them] like that…

Why did you stop writing?

It all seems a bit unreal.

They should be radical. You should be radical. We should all be radical.

Everything's really okay, I promise...

Well... everything below my neck works fine, anyway.

All you need is love.

the rest are under the cut!

I told myself, "When I'm 64, I'll be long gone from this place." But I'm still here.

You're gonna miss this place.

I sometimes feel you're not telling me everything.

I'll be back before you know it.

You need a break from me? Is that what this is?

While I'm away, I'll write home every day and send all my loving to you.

No such professor here. Listen, I've pissed off every professor in Princeton, and they're not one of them.

I believe I'm your [son/daughter/child].

Did [she/he/they] find someone else?

There were a few hopefuls over the years. I think I scared them off.

Look, I didn't come here to derail your life.

Fifteen bucks says you miss this shot. Fifty says your [sibling] still marries me.

You're wanted by the cops, eh? FBI?

You know, it looks to me as though you're the one on the run.

What would they have done if they caught you?

I'm never having children. Think about it, it's pure narcissism. I mean, people putting out little carbon copies of themselves, going: "Oh, doesn't he have his father's eyes? Doesn't he have his mother's lips?" It's… It's disgusting.

Is that fashionable? Your haircut? Or... lack of one.

Goddamn it! Be serious, for once!

What do you actually intend to do with your life? Why is it always about, "What will you do? What will you do? What will he do? Oh, my God, what will he do?" Why isn't the issue here who I am?

What you do defines who you are.

Sorry you had to sit through that.

My education is rarely a topic of conversation.

Turns out [he/she/they're] just a working stiff like myself.

I've spent half my life trying to hate [her/him/them].

I never realized I had it so easy. I mean... we're so... normal.

Goddamn it! It's like this every time I come home!

What the hell do they talk about when I'm not here?

He's a sailor on leave. He needs a bar, a brawl, and a brothel.

If I don't go back to college I'll do what any irresponsible, unmotivated dropout would do: go to New York. Like, tonight.

I can't have no one screwing up my beauty sleep before 2:00 PM.

You have a good memory for faces? There's no mirror in your bathroom.

What the hell are you doing, man?

I write my own songs. I got 20 in a notebook... another 10 in my head.

Music's the only thing that makes sense anymore. Play it loud enough, it keeps the demons at bay.

I understand you need to get away.

You don't have to talk about this.

I can't pretend like it didn't happen.

They were the first person I knew to die. I'd never even been to a funeral before.

This was just a crappy wall, and now it's a work of art.

I saw you at the peace march. I was moved by your speech.

You're up before 2 and looking wicked cool. Who's it for?

Time is not on our hands. Time is slipping through them.

No point butting your heads bucking the system.

Never knock the way another cat swings.

"I am me as you are he as you are me and we are all together."

If nobody's everybody, then someone can be anybody, right

(about a sketch) Hey, you didn't get my left nipple right.

Well, I was drawing from a distance. I couldn't see it properly.

Why were you so rude before? It wouldn't kill you to talk to [her/him/them].

We're in the middle of a revolution!

What are you doing — doodles, and cartoons?!

I would lie down in front of a tank if it would stop this war and bring [name] home!

You don't think it's worth trying?!

Maybe when bombs start going off here, people will listen.

We all wanna change the world.

I can't do this right now.

Don't you know it's gonna be all right?

I've never seen [her/him/them] like that...

Get this clown out of here! Now!

What is the matter with you? Why would you do that?

I'm sick and tired of violence.

Why did you stop writing?

It all seems a bit unreal.

Is this real enough for you?

They should be radical. You should be radical. We should all be radical.

This war just keeps going on and on and nobody's listening!

Everything's really okay, I promise...

Well… everything below my neck works fine, anyway.

I don't understand what the problem is.

Get your hands off me!

There's nothing you can do that can't be done.

There's no one to save who can't be saved.

All you need is love.