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marcyvamp1re-blog · 8 months ago

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⺌☆. . . MASTERLIST ─── . DC & Marvel

☆...Original art; discount-supervillain

「 The list is updated daily. If you'd like to see a character on this list, please request it or ask in the comments if they can be added.

Below is a list of links. If at any point none of them work, please send me a message or comment below the list mentioning the issue, and I will fix it immediately. Not all links have visible warnings from the outside. Most do not have explicit warnings. However, if you're interested in any particular link, I recommend opening it and checking the warnings within each post to understand its content.

Also, if you see some titles without a link, it may be because they are not yet made or haven't been published yet.」

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Welcome to the DC Section—Tread Carefully, or Darkseid Will Get You!

─── SUPERMAN Clark Kent

☆...Reporter by day, hero by night… and also by day! The real star-man. Can lift buildings, see through walls, and give Lex Luthor a heart attack just by existing.

Its Evolution, Baby! Yandere Clark Kent x Inmortal! Reader [old post]

Quimera Yandere! Clark Kent x Android reader.

─── BATMAN Bruce Wayne

☆...Billionaire by day, vigilante by night… and apparenty, never sleeps. His superpowers? Money and being Gotham’s most wanted bachelor.

Revenant Platonic! Yandere! Bruce Wayne x neglected! Reader. (Silly Little Bat AU)

─── WONDER WOMAN Diana Prince

☆...Amazonian princess, warrior goddess, and the reason many reconsider which side they’re fighting for.

To the future Diana Prince x Wife! Preg! Reader

─── SUPERBOY Conner Kent

☆...Half Superman, half Lex Luthor—because cloning is never a good idea. Too cool for school, too powerful for his own good, and forever stuck between "punch first" and "think later."

The Jubilee Conner Kent x Jubilee! Reader

─── ROBIN Damian Wayne

☆...Batman’s son, raised by assassins, and practically immortal. His favorite hobby? Reminding everyone he’s better than them.

Ponyo! Pt.1 Pt.2 Platonic! Damian Wayne x Ponyo! Reader.

The Wildcart series pt1 pt2 pt3 Platonic!Harley Quinn x Reader | Damian Wayne x Harley Daughter! Reader

─── RED ROBIN Tim Drake

☆...The Bat-Family’s teenage detective, the smart one. He probably solved this joke before you even finished reading it.

Nothing yet...

─── RED HOOD Jason Todd

☆...Once: Robin. Now: a guy with guns, authority issues, and serious family drama… well, just with his dad.

Nothing yet...

─── NIGHTWING Dick Grayson

☆...The original Boy Wonder with the best backside in comics. Leads teams, breaks hearts, and jumps rooftops like a pro.

Pierrot, the Sad Clown Yandere! Dick Grayson x Villainess! Reader

The Playboy Yandere! Student! Dick Grayson x depressed! Reader

─── ORPHAN / BATGIRL Cassandra Cain

☆...Doesn’t talk much, but doesn’t need to when she can take you down with a single look. Relax, she already knows everything about you.

Atelophobia Cassandra Cain x Asian! Fem reader!

─── HARLEY QUINN Harleen Quinzel

☆...From psychiatrist to villain, to hero, to whatever she wants to be today. Chaotic yet charming—everyone’s favorite girl

The Wildcart series pt1 pt2 pt3 Platonic!Harley Quinn x Reader | Damian Wayne x Harley Daughter! Reader

Sororal Platonic! Harley Quinn x Reader

─── POISON IVY Pamela Isley

☆...An eco-terrorist with style. Loves plants, eats meat, and hates humans… except for Harley. But let’s be real, Harley doesn’t really count as human.

But I, love Ivy Pamela Isley x Reader (Silly Little Bat)

Death in Bloom Pamela Isley x Male! Reader

─── LIVEWIRE Leslie L. Willem

☆...The rebel radio host with more voltage than a lightning storm. Don’t touch her unless you like frizzy hair… or want to risk your life!

Voicenote Leslie L. Willem x Male! Reader

Marvel’s Mightiest! Starting with Squirrel Girl—Because Even Galactus Fears Her!

─── WINTER SOLDIER Bucky Barnes

☆...Ex-sidekick, ex-brainwashed assassin, current broody guy with a metal arm. Still figuring things out.

Little Soldier Yandere! Platonic! Winter Soldier! Bucky Barnes x Supersoldier! Teen! Reader

Welcome to the 80's Yandere! Platonic! Steven Rogers x reader x Yandere! Platonic! Bucky Barnes

─── CAPTAIN AMERICA Steve Rogers

☆...Super-soldier, shield thrower, and America’s best boy scout. Can do this all day. He loves cookies...a lot.

Welcome to the 80's Platonic! Steven Rogers x reader x Platonic! Bucky Barnes

─── SPIDER-MAN Peter Parker & variants

☆...Wall-crawling, web-slinging, wise-cracking menace (according to J. Jonah Jameson). The amazing Spiderman!Just trying to balance life, rent, and saving New York...or Japan...or England, they are so many Spiders today! Damn multiverse!

Lacrymose Yandere! Cheater! Miguel O'Hara x Wife! Reader

─── VENOM Eddie Brock

☆...A journalist, a monster, and kind of a lethal protector. Likes brains, hates Spider-Man a lot.

The Monster Platonic Venom x Reader

─── SQUIRREL GIRL Doreen Green

☆...The unbeatable, unbreakable, unmatchable Squirrel Girl! She’s taken down Thanos, Galactus, and probably you in your sleep.

Balter Platonic! Doree Green x Mutant! Reader

─── PROFESSOR X Charles Xavier

☆...Mind-reader, mentor, and leader of the X-Men. Has a dream of mutant-human peace—if only Magneto would stop ruining it.

The Song of the Raven series Pt1 Pt2 Yandere! Platonic!Charles Xavier x Raven! reader x Yandere! Platonic! Erik Lehnsherr

─── MAGNETO Erik Lehnsherr

☆...Master of magnetism, enemy-turned-ally-turned-enemy-again. Probably right about mutants, but also probably too dramatic about it.

The Song of the Raven series Pt1 Pt2 Yandere! Platonic!Charles Xavier x Raven! reader x Yandere! Platonic! Erik Lehnsherr

Fata Morgana Yandere Erik Lehnsherr x Chubby! Witch! Reader

─── CYCLOPS Scott Summers

☆...The guy who can’t take off his sunglasses—unless he wants to level a city block. Team leader, rule follower, Jean Grey’s eternal headache!..or not.

Devil in Paradise Yandere! Scott Summers x Mutant!Reader

Little Pebble Yandere! Platonic! Scott Summers x Mutant!Reader

Bag of bones Yandere! Scott Summers x Amnesiac! Reader.

─── GAMBIT Remy LeBeau

☆...The smooth-talking, card-throwing Cajun thief. Can make anything explode—especially hearts.

Black Sheep Yandere! Platonic! Remy LeBeau x reader.

─── NIGHTCRAWLER Kurt Wagner

☆...A teleporting, acrobatic, demon-looking sweetheart. More Catholic guilt than your grandma. He's a baby boy.

Lurks Within Walls Yandere Kurt Wagner x Mutant! Reader

Nocturnal Animal Yandere Kurt Wagner x Wife! Reader

─── BEAST Hank McCoy

☆...A genius, a gentleman, and a giant blue fuzzball. Talks like Shakespeare, fights like a beast.

Savior Complex Yandere Hank McCoy x reader

─── STORM Ororo Munroe

☆...Controls the weather, commands respect, and makes every entrance legendary. A literal goddess.

My Pearl Yandere! Platonic! Ororo Munroe x Clon! Reader

─── PHOENIX Jean Grey

☆...Omega-level psychic, cosmic firebird, occasional planet-destroyer. She dies and comes back more often than a soap opera character.

Mourning Sun Yandere! Platonic! Jean Grey x Telepath! Reader

─── ROGUE Anna Marie

☆...One touch and she steals your powers, memories, and maybe your soul. Southern charm with a serious "hands-off" policy.

All I Wanted Anna Marie x Inmune! Reader

─── STAR-LORD Peter Quill

☆...Space outlaw, mixtape enthusiast, and self-proclaimed legendary hero. Usually messing things up in the best way possible.

Ramé Peter Quill x Astronaut! Reader

Nova Peter Quill x Alien! Reader

This part is under maintenance!

And finally, DOCTOR DOOM . Because all stories should end with Doom… at least according to him.

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morverenmaybewrites · 8 months ago

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Revenant (Creature! Jason Todd x Reader)

Y'all ever think about Creature!Jason?

Y'all ever think about what would have happened as he came back as something *Other*?

Ever think about what would happen if after years of visiting his grave, you suddenly stumble across him in the cemetery, still wearing the rags of the suit they buried him in?

The seam is split where he has grown too tall, too fast, worn away by years of dirt and rot, and for a moment, he looks like a ghoul.

(And for a moment you almost don't recognize him: the years have made your memories of him blurry, like water poured over a painting, you remember him but you don't remember the details. You remember the little boy you grew up with, but it takes you several minutes longer to remember the scar on his ear, the result of the two of you trying to give him an ear piercing with a heated needle and a cube of ice).

It takes you several minutes to realize that he still bears the scar from the autopsy. That where the buttons of his shirt had popped and his tie had gone missing, you can see where he had been clumsily stitched back together.

(They had taken out his organs, you remembered, wrapped up in a black plastic bag and weighed like they were meat to be sold on the market, like they had never once sustained a life).

It takes you longer to realize this: he's not breathing.

There is no rise and fall of his chest and his breath does not mist the air the way yours does.

His fingers are still caked with grave dirt, the fingernails torn and bloodied from where he had scratched open his coffin.

(Oak, you remembered. The coffin had been made out of oak. You remember the expression on Bruce’s face as he requested the coffin be made in a smaller size than the industry standard; his eyes had been empty, his voice toneless, as if grief was a thing that carved him hollow.

You remember, too, that you knew exactly how that felt. How you could see your own blank eyes staring back at you in the mirror.)

But then the Jason of today speaks–

(too tall, too big, with green eyes that look like broken bits of glass and you wonder to yourself if he’d always had green eyes.)

–and your thoughts split apart.

He says your name.

He says your name and it’s like he never left.

And he says, “Run.”

And he takes a single step toward you.

And you realize that he has grown much, much bigger since the day he died. The Jason you knew had been lithe and acrobatic, but this Jason is solid, made out of corded muscle.

(And you remember this: his eyes had not been green before he died).

The two of you fall at the same time: him falling on his hands and knees from the alien sensation of a body made new–

(You can see where the seam in his clothes have split where he had grown too tall, too fast.)

And you–

You cannot remember when you fell, only that you are scrabbling backwards and that you can feel the soft soil sinking underneath your palms and feet, as if the ground is sucking you in. You cannot keep your eyes off of him: there is a terrible solidity to him, one that told you that he is not a dream, not that a ghost, he is something real.

He is Jason Todd, back from the dead.

He lifts his head and his eyes meet yours–

(Greengreengreengreengreengreengreen)

And his lips are forming the words again, “Run.”

But then you hear a crack, as loud as thunder, and the pain hits you like lightning.

The both of you freeze at the sound of it.

(And there is a small animal part of you that recognizes the way his pupils dilate, so huge they’re almost black, it recognizes the way his nostrils flare at the scent of it.)

You look down at your palm with something like surprise. Blood flows freely from a cut that had not been a few seconds before: a cut perhaps an inch wide, running from the web of your fingers down to your wrist.

Perhaps it had been from a broken vase, left at the gravestone of another loved one, a left behind beer bottle, you find that you can’t recall–

(And you are so focused on trying to figure out what happened that you do not see the way Jason almost curls around his stomach like a wounded animal, fighting a hunger that threatens to swallow him whole.)

When he speaks your name again, his voice is hoarse, cracked and splitting at the seams.

And then he asks if you’re all right.

And he crawls to you, on his hands and knees, the motions of his muscles spastic as if his nerves were firing improperly, to cup your injured hand in between his.

(His fingers are still caked in grave dirt and you wonder if he dug himself out.)

He could have spent minutes looking at the blood that runs freely from the cut on your palm. He could have spent lifetimes.

“Are you all right?” he asks again.

(He had died and he had crawled out of his own grave to cup your injured palm in between his hands and he is asking if you are all right–)

Tenderness wells up in your throat like tears. You find that you cannot speak, you can only nod.

Jason’s breathing is heavy as he reaches up to rip up his remaining sleeve–

(it gives easily, worn away by years of dirt and rot)

–to make a makeshift bandage for you.

(He had died and he had crawled out of his own grave and his first thought is of you.)

But he only gets as far as wrapping the first layer around your palm before he pauses.

And this time, you do recognize the way his pupils as he stares at the cut on your palm, the way his nostrils flare at the scent of blood.

And you realize that the first thing he did was ask you to run.

(And you think about how gaunt he looks, how the skin is stretched so tight over his face that you could trace the curve of his skull.

You think about how, in the autopsy, they had taken out ihs organs, wrapped them in a black plastic bag and weighed them like they had never once sustained a life

You think about how he must be starving.)

And you don’t move, don’t dare breathe, as he carefully unwraps your palm again. As he closes his eyes as if making a decision.

As he lifts your palm to his lips.

And he drinks.

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd #red hood #my contribution to spookytober???#idk this idea just suddenly gripped me #i must do this to other characters #jjk watch out

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spitefulsatanfics · 25 days ago

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❝ 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐞𝐥𝐥 ❞

headcanons + novella-styled drabbles of how they first met you by little devil 🥀

pairing: Dean, Sam, and Castiel x She/Her Hunter!Reader setting: canonverse Supernatural; pre-established team-free Y/N tone: meet-cutes, tension, banter, sparks — then comfort, warmth, and instant click rating: PG-13 for knifeplay (the monster kind… probably) structure: headcanon per boy + a full detailed drabble to go with it

🥃 Dean Winchester x Hunter!Y/N

First Time Meeting

You met Dean mid-case. Literally ran into him while chasing the same shapeshifter through a sewer tunnel in Nashville. One minute you’re tracking blood, the next there’s a flashlight beam and a gun in your face.

Dean immediately clocked the blade in your hand, your wild eyes, and the way you didn’t back down even a little. That was it. Game over. He was toast.

What sealed the deal? You insulted his car before knowing it was his. He didn’t even get mad—just grinned like he’d been struck by lightning.

“Is That a Butter Knife or Are You Just Happy to See Me?”

You burst through the rusted sewer grate like a bat out of hell, knife in hand, adrenaline kicking your heart into overdrive. The shapeshifter had gone left. You were sure of it. You could smell blood, hear the echoes of wet footsteps—

“Freeze!”

You skidded, boots nearly slipping on wet concrete, to find yourself eye-to-eye with a stranger holding a pearl-handled Colt, arms steady, green eyes sharp.

You didn’t flinch.

“Either shoot or move, cowboy,” you panted. “It’s heading west.”

Dean blinked. Once. Twice. Then he dropped his gun slightly, eyes scanning your gear, your sweat-slick face, your lack of fear.

“Well damn,” he muttered. “You always crash through storm drains like you’re on fire, or is today special?”

You didn’t have time for cute, but still—something about him tugged at you. That lopsided grin. The confidence. The way he didn’t underestimate you.

“Depends. You always point guns at women in alleys, or am I just lucky?”

He gave a short laugh, following you when you took off again.

“You know,” he called behind you, “I usually like dinner first.”

“Kill the shifter,” you called back, “and I’ll consider coffee.”

You didn’t even see him smile, but you could feel it in the way he fell into step beside you like he’d been there your whole life.

📚 Sam Winchester x Hunter!Y/N

First Time Meeting

You met Sam at a dusty old hunter’s library hidden under a Baptist church in Indiana. Both of you reached for the same cursed object case file, and your fingers brushed. Classic.

Sam was immediately intrigued by your sharp intellect and the way you mumbled lore to yourself like a language only you understood. You had annotations in your notebook that matched his word for word.

He started asking you questions. You started finishing his sentences.

He left that library with two things: a solid plan to kill a revenant, and the terrifying realization that he might actually believe in love at first footnote.

“So You Read Latin for Fun?”

Sam looked up from the crumbling leather-bound grimoire in his hands, startled when your voice cut through the silence.

“You’re in the wrong section,” you said, one brow raised, pointing to the shelf he was currently scouring. “That sigil’s Enochian, not Latin.”

His lips quirked. “You speak Enochian?”

You shrugged, setting your own pile of books on the table. “I dabble. Helps when dealing with angels, or exorcisms. Or whatever the hell happened in Denver last week.”

That caught his attention.

“You were in Denver?” Sam asked, stepping forward.

“I was the one who burned the bones,” you said, reaching for a journal. “You left behind your EMF reader.”

He blinked. “You’re that Y/N?”

You looked up slowly, something teasing in your eyes.

“And you’re that Sam? The guy who reverse-engineered a banshee’s call using sound waves?”

You said it like it was either the nerdiest or hottest thing you’d ever heard. Maybe both.

Sam flushed, ears pink. “Guilty.”

You tapped your fingers on the wood and grinned.

“Well, Sammy, looks like we’ve got more in common than curses and Latin.”

👼 Castiel x Hunter!Y/N

First Time Meeting

You met Castiel after getting tossed through a diner window during a case gone sideways. The angel appeared mid-air, caught you with those trench-coated arms like some kind of divine superhero, and said—

“You were falling.”

It was so literal and weird that you laughed through the blood on your lips.

He tilted his head, confused but captivated. You didn’t scream or run. You smiled. That was new for him.

You asked his name. He offered healing.

You offered pie. He accepted.

“You Were Falling”

Glass shattered. Screams echoed. Your body flailed mid-air, the taste of copper hot in your mouth as the world flipped sideways.

Then—

Arms. Warm, solid, inhumanly strong arms catching you as though the laws of gravity had been rewritten just for you.

You blinked up into an impossibly blue gaze. Confused. Calm. Steady.

“You were falling,” the man—no, angel—said. Not like a joke. Not like a pick-up line. Just… a fact.

You coughed. “And you caught me.”

“I did.”

There was something odd about him. Something still. But you could tell one thing: this guy didn’t show up for just anyone.

“You always crash angel-style through diners?” you asked, trying not to wince as you sat up.

He tilted his head. “Only when necessary.”

You chuckled. “Name?”

“Castiel.”

You stared for a moment, memorizing the way he said it like it was carved from ancient stone.

“I’m Y/N,” you offered, shaking his hand like you hadn’t just flown through glass. “Thanks for catching me.”

“Thank you for smiling,” he replied softly. “Most people scream.”

You weren’t sure what he meant. But you knew one thing:

The fall had stopped. But something else had just begun.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯...

Love at first hunt. 💘🔫👼📚

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betweenstorms · 27 days ago

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Chapter 7/2 of Skin Of Thunder Nostos And The Knife (previous chapter) (next chapter) (all SOT chapters) (masterlist) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

“He followed the thread back to you, Ariadne in periwinkle. But the labyrinth was inside him now, and your gaze was the knife that refused to cut him free.”

Downtown London crouched beneath a bruised sky, stained with ink, the darkness slick and suffocating, pressing down like a hand around the throat of God.

The hum of distant traffic sounded like whispers from another life, broken voices weaving through the smog, stitched with the sharp bark of a dog that wouldn’t shut up and the laughter of drunk men who hadn’t yet realised the evening was swallowing them whole.

From his cramped flat, Ghost watched distorted shadows dance across the peeling wallpaper, casted by the streetlamps below. Neon seeped through the blinds like a surgical blade, slicing him open in thin, clinical ribbons of light. Somehow his bed felt smaller tonight. He lay rigid, staring upward at the ceiling, which felt impossibly close, like a coffin lid ready to close.

It was a dull canvas for his mind’s twisted cinema.

He rolled onto his back, the cold mattress creaking beneath him, gaze fixed blankly upwards. Sleep was a luxury long abandoned, replaced by endless nights spent wrestling with demons that wore faces he recognised all too well. Bloodied hands, empty eyes, whispers in the dark. And now, among them, was you. Your voice was a ghost of its own, more persistent than the dead he carried on his back. It lingered like the scent of gunpowder on his fingertips. Because you wanted him to confront himself, but Christ, you had no clue what lay beneath the mask. No bloody clue the Pandora’s box you were desperate to pry open.

It had been four days since he left the base.

Four days hollowed out by silence so thick it pressed against his eardrums like the deep sea, a pressure that didn’t burst him, only crushed. During his voluntary exile, he cleaned his entire flat, not to tidy, but to repent, scrubbing the tiles like they were sins, vacuuming dust from the corners where memory congealed.

He moved through it all like a revenant.

Washing laundry that wasn’t dirty, scrubbing dishes that weren’t stained, cutting his hair with the precision of a soldier dressing a corpse, shopping for groceries in the fog of strangers. He cooked food he didn’t eat. Lit cigarettes he didn’t smoke. Slept with the telly on just to drown out the sound of his own mind clawing at the inside of his skull. Oh, and he drank. A lot. Not to forget, but to remember things differently, until the bottle’s mouth became a confessional, and his silence tasted like rot.

He drank to feel you.

Ghost was clawing at the walls of a cage he built himself. All he could think about was you and he wanted to burn it out. Carve the image of you from his brain with fingernails and whiskey. But it stayed. You stayed. And he hated how badly he wanted to be fourteen again, not because it was easier, but because pain was simpler then.

So he drank until the room spun like a carousel and he could almost see her, his lovely mum, standing in the corner again, hands wringing the hem of her apron. Ghost wanted the pain. He wanted the sting of his father’s hand across his face, sharp and red and real. Wanted the sound of his mother screaming his name through bruised lips and trembling teeth, her voice splitting the tiny kitchen like lightning tearing a house in two. Because for a single, sickening moment, he’d be close enough to reach her again. Just to crawl back to her warmth, to that tragedy of a woman who once kissed his bruises and pressed damp hands to his fevered brow like prayer.

Ghost wanted his mum to tell him what to do with you.

But the dead didn’t answer.

There was no one left to ask. His mother was bone now. Ash and absence. There was no absolution waiting for him in the dark. Only the walls replied, groaning like they were fucking sick of him, too. His flat smelled like disinfectant and smoke, and the only voice left was the one in his head, whispering things he couldn’t outrun.

You are your father’s son.

You are your—

Ghost shifted, fists clenching around rumpled sheets as he forced his eyes shut. He wanted to forget everything, at least for tonight. Yet sleep remained a distant shore, forever receding no matter how fiercely he swam towards it. His ocean of thoughts churned like stormy waves, tossing him mercilessly until he could barely breathe. But he wasn’t afraid of dying. No, he was afraid of wanting to live.

Because it meant he might need you.

As the hours dragged their carcasses across the floor, Ghost found himself teetering on the lip of sleep, that trembling and fevered edge where reality softens just enough to let the rot seep through. He lay there like a body not yet buried, the ceiling above him a void, a mouth with no teeth as the city bled in through the cracks. His eyelids sagged, breath slowing, and for a heartbeat he welcomed it. Finally, that last inch before falling. Sleep wasn’t rest, not for men like him. It was oblivion. And oblivion was holy.

In his dreams, you were in Manchester with him.

It was summer, but the sun was wrong. Somehow it was too sharp, too white and too hungry. It seared everything it touched. Bloody hell, and you were there, laughing on Tommy’s rusted bike, the wind threading your hair into ribbons, your smile the only real thing in that melting place. Your mustard colored dress tangled around your thighs, sweet as blood on milk teeth.

“Come on, Si,” you shrieked joyfully.

Not Ghost. Not Lieutenant. Not sir.

Just Simon.

He was just a boy in this dream. Small, dirt on his kneed, breath hitching in his chest like he hadn’t earned the right to air. And you were you, exactly as you were now, radiant and unreachable, sunlight caught in your lashes, your laughter slicing him open.

You told him to chase you.

And he did.

Because how could he not?

You were his. Even in the wrong time, the wrong skin, the wrong world—

—you were his.

“Wait,” Simon begged, stumbling forward. “You have to stop!”

He ran, barefoot and panting, legs sticky with sweat and panic, the gravel biting into his soles like a thousand tiny needles. You were always just out of reach. And you never looked back. You never slowed down. And the sun—God, it burned. It melted into his dark eyes until all he could see was your outline, blurred and brilliant and cruel.

“I have to go home,” Simon cried out, voice cracking like snapped bone. “He’s gonna be so angry—please, give the bike back—I need to go—he’ll hurt me, please—”

Then his feet tangled—

—and the world tilted.

You never listened.

You never fucking listened.

His mobile buzzed.

Ghost jolted upright, heart kicking like a boot against his ribs, breath stuck in his throat as if he’d just been yanked from the dream by the collar. His phone lit up the room like a morgue drawer opening, cold, white and sterile.

Fuck. He didn’t even remember closing his eyes.

The screen glowed with a number he didn’t recognize. His hand closed around it, knuckles pale with the force of his grip, dread sinking teeth deep into his gut. Only a handful of souls walked this Earth with his personal number and they knew damn well it weren’t for fucking social calls. Emergency only. Life-or-death. So who the fuck was this?

He brought the phone to his ear with a growl.

“Who’s this?”

“Ghost? Is that you?”

His blood turned to ice—no, to shards, jagged slivers scraping through veins suddenly too narrow to carry the weight of his pulse. His gut coiled tight, a sick knot of anger braided with fear.

For a heartbeat, he was certain this wasn’t real, just some cruel, looping dream dragging him back to Manchester, back to the scorching pavement and the echo of your laughter fading down some endless road. A feverish hallucination stitched together by whisky and weariness, taunting him with the only voice he both craved and feared.

Yours. Always yours.

“The fuck is this?”

There was a pause, and then you giggled.

A real one. Not like in his dream, where it was haunting and hollow. No, it was a real laugh, messy, clumsy and unfiltered, followed by a faint snort, like you were half embarrassed by it, and he swore something cracked open in his chest.

“It’s just me,” you said, giggling still. “Jesus, calm down.” The laughter turned sheepish, and Ghost stood up fast, the room spinning a little.

He pressed a palm to the wall to steady himself.

Fucking hell.

This was exactly what he deserved, wasn’t it?

Some divine bloody punishment.

“How’d you get this number?” He snapped, already pacing, muscles coiled tight.

This had to be a dream.

His flat was cold, dark and dead, yet somehow he could still feel the Manchester sun burning his skin, hear your voice like it was stitched into the walls. It didn’t belong here. None of it did. This wasn’t right. No, you weren’t supposed to call him, weren’t supposed to reach him here. This place, this flat, it was his personal grave, buried far beneath the reach of anyone he cared for. Including you.

Especially you.

You hummed, the warmth in your voice frayed at the edges now, softer than before. More vulnerable. It pulled him back to reality. Back to you. “Ah, well—I saved everyone’s number. Emergency contacts, remember? But listen, that’s not important right now, I—”

Ghost stood by the window, parting the blinds with two fingers, peering down into the street below. London stared back, neon glaring, puddles shimmering like pools of mercury beneath the white street lamps. The world felt strangely alien, distant somehow. Unreal. Like he was still trapped in his own head. He dragged a hand down his face, calloused fingertips catching on the stubble at his jaw, urging him to wake up fully.

“I—” you started again, hesitating, your voice dropping to something more fragile, uncertain. “You’re in London, right? Still on leave?”

Ghost’s jaw clenched so tight it made his ears ring.

He didn’t reply, just waited for you to get to the bloody point.

“See, I’m out with my friends and they… well, they’re all a bit tipsy, and—” You murmured, like you were confessing a sin, accompanied by distant laughter, girlish and drunken whispers echoing faintly behind you. “And they said I should call you.”

Ghost blinked hard, frustration pulsing behind his eyes.

He couldn’t believe his ears.

“The fuck are you on about?”

A muffled snort sounded through the line, followed by a feminine voice, still urging you on. You sighed, your sweet voice trembling slightly now, edged with that familiar vulnerability he’d spent days trying to erase from his memory. “I, uhm… told my friends about you. More than I meant to, honestly, and—shit, they convinced me to call.”

Ghost blinked again.

His back hit the wall beside the window, shoulder blades landing with a dull thud. The city below blurred into meaningless shapes. Now, it was your voice that painted everything with meaning, whispering his ruin into the goddamn phone.

There was a long silence on his end.

Not tactical. Not measured. Not the sort of quiet you keep on a stakeout, waiting for the target to show their face. It was the kind of silence that only existed when something cracked open inside you, and everything started pouring out. Except nothing did. Because he didn’t have words for this. Ghost didn’t have tools for it. No briefing, no procedure. Just you, your voice skipping over the line like a stone on dark water, pulling ripples out of places in him that had been still for too fucking long.

“I’m sorry,” you added, quieter now. “I shouldn’t’ve called. It’s just—I thought maybe you wouldn’t pick up, and then you did and—oh, now I feel stupid.”

Ghost exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp.

“Hang up, then,” he muttered, low. “Spare us both the fuckin’ trouble.”

It was cruel.

He knew it in the marrow of his bones, in the echo of his mother’s voice warning him about kindness turned into knife, but still, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Because every second your voice bled through the phone, every syllable trembled like a bloody memory soaked in salt, it scraped something raw inside him. Peeled him back to sinew and sin, to the tender flesh he’d buried beneath drink, beneath distance, beneath the grit of pretending he didn’t care.

You were a wound speaking in ruin. A siren dragging its nails down the inside of his ribcage. And with each breath you gave him, he bled a little more—

—because you didn’t hang up.

Instead, you continued. “I guess I just wanted to ask—I mean, I just wanted to know if you’re alright. That you’re—you know. That you’re okay. I mean, I—”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You pissed?”

“…Uhm, maybe a little.” You giggled again, softer this time, like you knew you were on thin ice, like you knew the weight of his name on your tongue might break you both. “But not that drunk. Not—I mean, not wasted or anything. Just—uhm, comfortably tipsy.”

“Don’t call me pissed out your skull and tell me you’re not.”

“I’m not pissed,” you objected childishly.

“You’re slurrin’, love.”

You went quiet. Ghost rubbed his eyes.

Your voice dropped then, barely audible now. “I just—I dunno. You disappeared. Again. And I guess I thought maybe—maybe I said too much. Or didn’t say enough. And I couldn’t—”

Ghost turned away from the window, dragging a hand through his short, damp hair. He paced. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet like dry bone. The air in the apartment had grown thick, warmer somehow, like your voice had soaked into the wallpaper, into the floor, into the hollow of his fucking throat.

“Listen—”

“I’m not good at this,” you interrupted suddenly. “At—at knowing what’s too far. Or what’s okay. I just—I just wanted to know that you’re alright.” Your words stumbled out, heavy with nerves and the weight of whatever drink had made you bold enough to call him. “I’ve always been like this. Since I was a kid. Oversharing, I mean. Saying too much. Being too much. My dad used to say I’d get myself hurt if I—but I—I can’t live like that, Simon. I never could. And maybe I’m a fool for it, but I—”

Ghost stopped pacing.

He should’ve told you to sod off. Should’ve hung up. Cut the cord before it tangled further. But he couldn’t. Bloody hell, not when you sounded like that. Not when your voice hit him like shrapnel to the ribs. Ghost exhaled, slow and deep, the sound dragging from the pit of his stomach like something dying. You didn’t even realise what you were doing to him, did you? You never did. You never fucking understood the damage you dealt—

—sweetly, softly, unintentionally.

“Comin’ to get you,” he muttered.

“What?” you breathed, caught off guard.

“Fuck’s sake, just stay where you are,” Ghost said again, firmer this time, already grabbing the jet black shirt from the back of his chair and pulled it on over his head with a rough jerk. “Don’t leave. I’ll come get you.”

“Wait, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t care. Stay put.”

He bent to grab his worn jeans, yanked them on with fingers that moved like muscle memory, like ritual, breath catching slightly as the room tilted for half a second. His stubborn hangover still clung to the back of his skull like dried blood, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now but getting to you. His boots sat by the door with military precision, laced tight, waiting like loyal dogs as he stepped into them.

“You don’t have to—” you tried again. “I shouldn’t’ve called. I’m sorry—”

But he wasn’t listening. Not really.

He was already moving, slamming his baseball cap low over his eyes and dragging his black surgical mask up over the lower half of his face, the fabric familiar against his skin, a quiet veil he could breathe behind. He yanked his coat from the hook by the door and shoved his arms through the sleeves, movement fast and angry, as if he could somehow outpace the ache coiled behind his sternum. His fingers flew through the motions as he threw up his hood like they were made for this—preparation, protection, damage control.

“Name of the pub?” he barked, voice hoarse.

“Er—Hold on.” You fumbled with the phone. There were irritating noises in the background. Music, laughter, some bloke yelling about tequila like it was the Second Coming. Then your voice came back, clearer but nervous. “The Grey Mare. It’s off Meard Street. Soho.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

“But Simon—”

He hung up before you could say anything else.

Before he could.

The phone slid into his pocket.

He needed both hands free. For the wheel. For the weight of this choice. For the hollow in his chest that had started to echo when he heard your voice again. The stairwell reeked of mildew and cigarettes. Every step echoed as he descended. The night had grown colder, it bit sharper, like it knew something was about to change.

Like it wanted to see it bleed.

The London streets were slick with rain.

Ghost didn’t remember getting in the car. Didn’t remember the way his fingers curled around the door handle like they were choking it, knuckles white. He just drove. He gripped the wheel tighter than necessary as he pulled out of his narrow street, headlights smearing across wet brick and dark pavement. Soho wasn’t far, but the drive stretched like wire under tension, each red light another nail through the heart. Rain flicked against the windscreen in nervous bursts, like even the sky couldn’t decide if it should cry or not.

His hands trembled on the gearshift.

Just once. Just for a moment.

Fuck. What the hell was he doing?

He should’ve never let this happen. He should’ve told you to go home. He should’ve stayed in his flat and let the memory of you dissolve like aspirin in the morning. Should’ve never let you near him. Should’ve built the wall higher. Should’ve scorched the bloody ground beneath his feet before letting you step close.

But then he remembered your voice.

I just wanted to know that you’re alright.

He didn’t know what he was going to say.

Ghost didn’t have a speech ready, no tactical approach to this situation. But you’d called him. After everything. After the silence, the argument, the look in your eyes when you’d told him you were done begging him to be human.

He parked half a block away, somewhere off Wardour Street, the kind of alley where piss and perfume lingered in equal measure. He killed the engine, shoved the door open, and stepped into the night. He stepped out into the wet, cold air, shoulders hunched against the drizzle, hands in his pockets. The streets were busy with bodies spilling from clubs and kebab shops, people blending into the Friday night. He moved like a shadow, weaving through it all, ears tuned to the cadence of your voice.

Ghost didn’t need to ask where you were.

He knew, knew before the turn, before the light changed. He felt you before he saw you, like gravity bending toward a star. He could’ve found you blindfolded in a burning city, through fog or fire or riot, guided by some merciless tether buried in his ribs. Even if a hundred hands dragged him back, even if they carved him down to bone—

—he’d still find you.

And there you were.

Perched on a bench outside the pub like some forgotten deity from a myth no one had written yet. One foot tucked beneath you, phone gripped in both hands like it might float away, head bowed beneath the soft blur of city lights. That daft periwinkle coat you always wore clung to you, sleeves darkened at the cuffs from the damp. Your hair was a halo of chaos, twisted back in that way you always did when you weren’t trying, but still managed to look divine. And your cheeks glowed like you’d stolen fire from the gods and didn’t know where to put it.

Your top glittered, sequins catching the amber light like a sky swallowing itself into dusk and shimmering like spilled stardust. Red, violet and indigo, colours he never thought could look holy on skin. But they did. On you, they did. A fucking galaxy written across your chest. You didn’t look real. You looked like a siren mid-breath, a goddess waiting at the edge of war, soft and unbothered while men burned for the right to kneel.

You looked unholy in your softness.

Like a cathedral dressed in neon—

—a saint cloaked in sin.

Ghost froze.

Something in him broke open.

Ghost felt the weight of you like revelation, like prophecy etched into bone. In that moment, all he wanted, all he needed, was to press his face between your thighs, to disappear into the scent and heat of you, to be unmade in your softness and drowned in the sacred altar where your warmth lived. Not for pleasure. Not for sin. But for absolution. To be ruined by you in the most reverent way a man could ask for. As if the only peace left in this goddamn world waited there. As if his salvation was the sound of you gasping his name.

His boots scuffed the wet pavement, and your head snapped up.

Eyes wide. Lips parted.

Like you hadn’t really believed he’d come.

Ghost stopped a few feet away, soaked through the shoulders already, staring down at you through rain and neon. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Your voice broke the quiet. “Jesus Christ. You really came.”

He stared at you for a long moment, chest burning with something ancient and endless.

“Told you to stay put, didn’t I?”

You huffed a laugh and looked away, embarrassed. “I did.”

He stepped closer. “You still drunk?”

You shook your head. “No.”

Ghost sighed. “Alright?”

“I don’t know,” you said. And it wasn’t a lie.

Another breathless beat dragged through the rain, each drop ticking like a slow countdown off the brim of his cap.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, searching, as if you couldn’t quite tell what story his silence would choose to write this time. Would it be rejection? Would it be the cold turn of his back, boots retreating into shadow while the night swallowed you whole? You looked at Ghost like you expected punishment, like you feared he might vanish with the rain and take your name with him. And God, he almost did. Almost turned. Almost broke.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he said, voice low, “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

A pause.

Then you rose, slowly, like the earth itself had to loosen its grip on you. The hem of your coat fluttered in the breathless hush between raindrops, and your hand slipped your phone into your pocket with a finality that made Ghost’s lungs tighten. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. The moment stretched, quiet and trembling, as you lingered beside him, your eyes lifting to meet his dark ones beneath the wet brim of his cap.

And oh, how you searched him.

Like you were looking for the path home in the wreckage of his face. For mercy, maybe. For the echo of that tenderness he buried so carefully. For a flicker of warmth he’d let slip once, too rare to trust, too sacred to name. Nostos, the old word whispered somewhere in the cradle of your gaze. The ache of return. Not to a place, but to a person. To him.

And then, you whispered, barely audible, “You look like shit, sir.”

Ghost huffed. Almost smiled.

Almost.

“You too.”

“You were the Iliad, he the ash after the fire. He brought the blade back with him, yes—but left the hand that held it.” Skin of Thunder Chapters

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avocado-writing · 22 days ago

Text

chapter 1: Times of Turmoil

a/n: a longer copia x reader fic I’m working on. reader is a revenant who works in the archives, a forgotten miracle raised by papa nihil. This fic is inspired by @writingjourney and the fic “I Knew Nothing But Shadows” (a truly remarkable story which has had me squealing at my phone) and the beautiful art of @wendi-g0 whose resurrected sibling of sin OC gave me the idea for the reader character! Please go and give them both some love! this fic is also on ao3.

words: 4.4k

rating: T for now, eventually E. this chapter contains graphic violence.

At night, when the world is quiet and still, you can still feel the moment of your death.

It plays before your tired eyes when sleep slips your grasp, a miserable reminder of your grisly fate. It had been a dark evening as you made your way back from the shops. When Sister Imperator had appeared in your dorm and asked for a volunteer, your hand was the first in the air despite not even knowing what the task was. You were young, new to the church, eager to please. Turns out someone needed to go into town to purchase some groceries for the siblings who ran the kitchen, a mistimed delivery meant they were short on ingredients for the next morning’s breakfast. Not exactly what you’d hoped - you’d been imagining yourself stepping up to a dark altar with a candle and a sexy habit - but still, you grabbed your coat and went.

You’d noticed someone was following you on the way back from the 24-hour supermarket. A feeling of fear run up your spine, a deer suddenly aware that it’s been stalked by a pack of wolves. Looking over your shoulder you’d seen a group of men, caps slung low on their heads, slowly closing the gap between you. You’d tried to run when you’d realised you were the subject of their hunt but it was too little, too late.

The paper bag fell from your hands, groceries tumbling to the sidewalk in the quiet of the evening as they’d dragged you into an alleyway, kicking and screaming. At first you tried to fight them off, flailing and striking out, crying out for help… but you’d gone dead still when one of them revealed the knife. Silver, hungry, glinting in the dim orange streetlight.

“Devil-worshipping scum,” the leader had said, “this world is better off without you. Jesus, guide my hand.”

It sank into your belly as you screamed in fear, in pain, in the injustice of it all. You hadn’t done anything. Your only crime was being from that strange monastery on the hill. Warm crimson flowed across your body as you desperately fought against your attackers but there was no point. It went into your heart next, and you felt yourself fading... Then, finally, the tip caught one side of your neck, digging into your carotid artery and carving along the soft meat of your throat. You’d choked as blood bubbled up, your hands raising in a useless attempt to clamp the wound shut, fingers scrabbling at wrought flesh. Your last memory was their smiling, victorious, vicious faces down at you as your little life had been snuffed out.

And then nothing. Not that you can remember, anyway. Just a feeling of calmness, of rest.

Of Him bringing you home.

You’d been Papa Nihil’s final miracle. Proof that he still had power, the desperate act of an old man who knew that the time of his real importance was coming to an end. When he’d heard about your unfortunate demise it was just too tempting for him to ignore. So he’d gathered the siblings in the sanctuary and, in the light of a thousand black candles, asked that the Dark One deliver you back to your body.

Apparently there had been a flash of lightning and every single one of those thousand little dancing flames went out at the same time, and you’d sat bolt upright from the altar. The congregation cheered so loud it was heard throughout the town. They’d danced and hollered, lifting you high into the air on their shoulders as the shudder of existence entered you again.

And so came the second part of your life.

You were celebrated for a while, true proof that the power of a Papa was His will done on earth. Miracolo, they called you. Miracle. The centre of every festival; in the front row of every Black Mass; asked for blessings by your fellow siblings. Not a figurehead but a mascot, for certain, and Nihil paraded you around every chance he got, like a prize pet that had a pedigree.

The issue was that the longer and closer they looked the clearer it became that you’d come back… wrong.

When they touched you to receive a blessing, they recoiled. Your skin was cold, too cold to be a creature of thrumming blood. Your eyes were too sunken, too haunted, and they blinked far too little - meaning looking at you was a challenge. Your chest only rose and fell with a breath every once a minute, if that.

You were alive, yes, but you were certainly not human. And then there was the matter of that scar cut across your neck. Red raw and slick, always looking like it was weeping no matter how the doctors of the ministry tried to dress it. A constant reminder that Papa Nihil had done his best with you but that was not good enough to imitate real life.

So everyone just began to avoid you. You were once the centre of celebrations, but people acknowledged you less and less at each gathering, and eventually they totally forgot about you altogether. Your seat in the front pew was no longer reserved on Sunday so you just slipped into the back instead, with the older Siblings who barely seemed to register you were amongst them at all. And those who did? Well, they would avert their eyes when they saw you coming, cross the corridor so as to get away from you.

Maybe it should have hurt, but how could you blame them? You were off-putting. You wouldn’t want to look at you either, and you hardly did - pointedly avoiding every mirror hung in the monastery, eventually memorising the way around your home that kept you clear of every reflective surface. Each time you caught sight of yourself it was another nail in the coffin of how unhuman you were.

Sister Imperator sat you down one day and, with the only time you had genuinely heard remorse in her voice, suggested that you might want to go and take the position down in the ministry’s archives. The last archivist had just passed into His arms, so the post was available. And perfect for someone nobody wants to be around, was the unspoken addition to that.

So you did. You took your things from your shared dorm room - trying to ignore the relief on the faces of your roommates - and hid in the basement with the books and the artefacts.

Alone.

Papa’s little forgotten miracle.

The hum of your coffee machine fills the air with noise and the smell of freshly ground beans. For not the first time, you marvel at the fact you were able to recover it before it went into the trash. It’s a nice one, expensive! And, yeah, it may not work one hundred percent of the time, but that doesn’t mean it’s broken. It’s just… quirky.

On cue, the machine screeches. The first time it did that it almost gave you a heart attack. Nowadays, you know you just have to slam it really, really hard with the meat of your palm a couple of times to get the nozzles to behave. Thump, thump, and finally an espresso begins to drip into the little glass you have ready.

Here goes another day.

You have a television down here, and though it only picks up a couple of channels, you like to have it on to fill your morning with some noise. The breakfast show presenter chats inanely to her boring guest - which you immediately tune out - and you make a mental list of everything that you need to get done today.

You’ve got to finish digitising those documents that were sent down to you last week. Every day you’ve been getting messages from Secondo asking when they will be done and you can tell he’s getting less and less patient. The words never come directly from his mouth, of course, he always sends a Sibling down with a note and a pained expression on their face. He’d never deign to come down here himself.

“Why does he even need them?” you ask yourself. “I’m sure he doesn't know how to use a computer.”

In your lack of company over the years, you’ve found the most willing conversationalist to be yourself, so often make little remarks out loud. Also it helps to make sure that you talk as often as you can. When the knife hit your throat it did something to your vocal chords, so if you don’t keep them warm your voice can become strange and scratchy from misuse. It’s already daunting enough for the poor Siblings to come down and talk to the odd archivist, they don’t need you croaking at them like some monster from a 50s B-movie.

You down your coffee, letting its liquid heat run down your oesophagus and settle comfortably in your stomach. It’s the only way you feel warm any more. Even with the thick jumpers you wear over your habit your skin is always cold and clammy. Sometimes your fingers will brush someone else’s when you’re handing over a pile of books from the archive, and you can see them try to repress a shudder at the feeling.

It isn’t a nice way to be reacted to. Just sort of reminds you why they shoved you down here.

The little espresso cup is washed up immediately and put back next to its pair. You wonder why you have two of them when only one of them ever gets used. Decoration purposes, you suppose. It would just look sad if you only had one of everything, and Satan knows it’s sad enough down here as it is.

You head into the shower, ignoring the discoloured patch of wall where the mirror used to hang, and enjoy your usual luke-warm low-pressure morning wash. One of the good things about living down here, at least, is you no longer have to share amenities with other Siblings. It might be old and out of date but it is all yours. You wonder if they had this installed for the previous archivist, or the archivist before her, or before them. You haven’t found any architectural plans for the monastery that reveal that particular secret yet. It doesn’t really matter anyway. All you know is that you have your ensuite, your own small kitchen - with an oven! - and a comfortable enough cot to sleep on every night. There are a few pieces hanging on your walls, copies of old prints you found to be interesting, particularly beautifully penned bits of old prayer.

One day it will belong to someone else, but for now, it is yours. Your own little sanctum in this cold world.

You dry and dress and head down the corridor to the archives. There are only three keys to this room, and one of them hangs around your neck, which makes you feel particularly important. One hangs in Sister Imperator’s office, and the final one…

Well, it belongs to whoever is Papa at the time, so you suppose Copia must have it.

Not that he’d come down here, of course. No. He is far too busy doing Papa things, whatever that involves. He can’t waste his time in the bowels of the monastery.

It is a shame, though. He’s always seemed… kind. You still go to Black Mass every Sunday because it is expected of you, but ever since Copia succeeded Terzo, you’ve actually been enjoying them a lot more. He seems to really care about what he preaches. His mismatched eyes are so full of life as he reads from his carefully-prepared sermons, and you find yourself smiling when he talks about how to find joy when worshipping in His name. It’s come to be the part of your week you find yourself looking forward to the most. Maybe it’s because of Copia, or maybe it’s because you get a couple of hours where you don’t have to deal with people sending you shitty emails just to follow up, as if you have a whole damned crew in the archive and not just you on your lonesome, running between the shelves like fucking Pac-Man.

You’re grinding your teeth.

“Don’t do that. It’s bad for you,” you say to yourself, sliding the brass key in the lock and opening the archives for the day.

This place is immense. People don’t perhaps realise how vast the archives are, but they take up most of the basement floor under the monastery. It is sort of thrilling to be in charge of something so large but it also means it’s exhausting to try and find anything. Up until you came along the previous archivist had been organising everything by paper. There are dozens of tomes worth of information, each with hundreds of pages about where to find each specific object down here. You’re slowly turning everything digital but it’s hard work. Your computer is worse than your coffee machine sometimes, screeching every time you turn it on and freezing for minutes at a time if you deign to switch a tab too quickly. Still, you work with what you have, because they haven’t okayed you getting a new one yet.

You sit down heavily at your desk and drag over the pile you’re working on for Secondo, start the fight to turn on your monitor, and get ready for another day of busy-work. For a moment you pause, your lungs seizing as you fall into a coughing fit, one which has your eyes watering and clutching for the box of tissues you keep on-hand. Annoying, they seem to be getting worse lately. You’d go see the Ministry doctors if you thought they could do anything to help, but any of your ailments are usually chalked up to “well you’re kinda dead”. You just sort of just ignore things until they go away, and today is no different.

The first couple of hours pass without incident. Your keyboard is old and loud, so the only sound echoing around the archive is the heavy clack clack clack of your typing. You’re considering going to make yourself another coffee when you hear a scratching noise coming from some shelves behind you.

You spin round. If your heart could beat more than a couple of times a minute, it would be racing. Eyes racing left and right you scan the scene. Your mind slingshots itself to the worst possibilities: someone’s broken in. They’re coming to finish the job. Down here, nobody will hear you scream, and this time they won’t bother about bringing you back. Maybe nobody will even find your corpse, not immediately, you’ll just be lost in the archives, bloody and broken…

“Stop catastrophizing,” you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut and forcing yourself to calm down. Realistically, nobody has walked through that door all morning, and it’s the only way in here. Well, there is a back door too, but it’s bolted with crates of old paintings stacked up in front of it - a fire hazard for sure, but definitely not going to open without you hearing it.

Maybe it’s one of the Ghouls. Sometimes they find their way down here and in order to mess with your stuff; you’re pretty sure it’s some kind of game to them. You chased one of them out of here less than a fortnight ago, broom in your hands, swatting at them as they run around with some sort of chalice in their grip. It had taken you all afternoon to return it to its place on the designated shelf and you do not want a repeat of the situation.

You grab the broom (you have a vacuum to deal with the dust, it truly is just for removing unwanted guests) and head into the labyrinth of shelves.

“Dewdrop, I swear on His name, if I find you down here again—!” you shout, thwacking the bristles against a stack of crates as if trying to shoo a raccoon. The noise stops for a moment before picking back up. You frown. It’s coming from a box you use for old papers, things you no longer need to archive but haven’t got round to throwing away yet - and if a Ghoul can fit in a two-foot box you’ll eat your sweater.

You lean your make-do weapon against a shelf and carefully grab the lid of the box, lifting it and peering down into its contents. You’re met with a tiny little face. Pink twitching nose, huge eyes, grey fur. Small claws that were being used to rip your out of date documents into shreds. The rat squeaks and grabs onto the edge of the box, lifting itself up to inspect you.

“Oh!” you gasp, enchanted. This isn’t a wild rat, the colouring is all off - besides, it looks too well taken care of. It’s probably a pet! That should mean that it’s friendly. You pick up the whole box and return to your desk, gently setting your guest down as you search for one of the little seed-and-nut mixes you keep in your drawer for stamina when you hit that mid-afternoon sugar crash. It sniffs the air curiously as you open the bag and greedily snatches the proffered peanut.

“You’re a hungry little guy, huh? Probably didn’t find much to eat down here…” you hum, scratching the top of his head - because he is obviously a boy - with the tip of your finger. He begins to boggle in delight and you have to hold back a squeak of joy. This rat is Cute with a capital C.

For a moment, visions dance across your brain: getting a cage in your room next door; filling it with tunnels and hammocks and pipes, all things for him to explore; getting him a mischief to hang out with; carrying them to work every day in the hood of your favourite pull-over…

Maybe not being so alone all the time. Maybe finally having someone to talk to, even if it is a pet. Or five.

You’re getting ahead of yourself, and your sense of reality pumps the brakes hard on this imagined scenario. If he’s a pet, realistically, he belongs to someone in the Ministry, and you can’t just keep him for yourself. That would be kidnap. And, as much as one is encouraged to sin here, you think it might be a step too far even for the Dark One. With a sigh you wiggle the mouse on your computer, wait for it to boot up, and click on your email app.

From: [email protected]

To: all

Subject: lost pet

Good morning everyone,

A pet rat has made his way into the archives. If he is yours please come and collect him.

Best wishes,

The archivist

With a sigh you force yourself to click the ‘send’ button. You wonder how many Ministry members will get a jumpscare when they see it pop up in their inbox, forced to remember once again that you actually exist down here.

“If nobody comes to collect you, you’re going to live with me, alright?” you tell the rat as you pass him a raisin. The rat seems ambivalent about your words, probably because he is a rat, but enthusiastic about the snack. You try and force yourself to get back to your work for Secondo, but it’s really hard when you have such an adorable new coworker. You spend the next hour watching him run around your deck and steal more of your trail mix, bursting with joy when he scurries up your arm and plonks himself down on your shoulder. Eventually he just falls asleep there and when you feel his little body rise and fall as he dreams, you think you might just explode.

Then there is a gentle knock at the door.

You almost fall off your seat in shock, having been far too focussed on your new friend to remember that there was a world outside of this desk. It’s probably one of Secondo’s staff, sent down yet again to bother you. You try and keep the sigh out of your voice when you call out.

“Come in!”

A leather glove holds the archive door as it pushes open. That’s… unfamiliar. You trace your eyes up the sleeve, along the chasuble, to the neck and white face paint…

“Hi, hello. Sorry, you are the archivist?”

It’s Papa Emeritus IV. Of course it is. You’re glad you’re wearing a jumper with a high enough collar to cover that horrid scar across your neck.

“Oh, fuck me,” mutter. Papa furrows his brow.

“Eh, what was that?” he asks, confused. You quickly clear your throat and stand up, not sure if you should bow, or kneel, or show some other display of respect. In fact your body just freezes and instead you stand there, staring at him, a deer in the headlights.

A moment passes as neither of you speak and you wish that the ground would open up and swallow you whole, Satan welcoming you once again into His arms and fucking keeping you there this time, just to get away from the horrid awkwardness of this encounter. But then the rat on your shoulder stirs and his gaze is drawn there, and his body visibly relaxes.

“Oh! Beelzebub, there you are. I’ve been looking for you for three days, piccole pesti.”

The rat squeaks as if he knows he is being addressed. It is enough to bring you back to the moment and you quickly adjust your posture, making sure you’re standing straight and proper in front of your Papa. You manage a smile even though you’re shaking in his presence.

“Sorry, your Dark Holiness, I wasn’t expecting to see you down here. I haven’t had a Papa visit me since…” you quickly count the years and then give up with a “...ever, I think. Welcome to the archives.”

Papa hits you with a genuine smile at your warmness that almost knocks you clean off your feet. He looks around the room, taking it in for the first time.

“This is where you work? It’s very big. Do you… do you have other members of staff?” he asks, eyes searching for company. You shake your head.

“No, Papa, it’s just me.”

“You must be very busy, eh?”

“Oh, I am, but it keeps me out of trouble!” you try to laugh and you’re worried he hears how forced it sounds, but the chuckle he gives you back seems sincere.

“Well, I’d like to thank you for all you do. I’m sure this Ministry would be a mess without you keeping on top of these things.”

Something in your chest stirs, and you think it’s your heart. You’re not sure of the last time anyone actually thanked you for your work. And, indeed, you probably have earned it - you can only imagine what a dump this place would be if you weren’t organising every item that came down here, cataloguing it, putting it in its proper place.

“Thank you, Papa. I appreciate you saying that,” you say, your voice a little thick with emotion from the honesty. Are the tips of his ears going pink? No, it must just be a trick of the darkness down here. The rat squeaks on your shoulder and you’re ricocheted back into the moment.

“Sorry, he probably wants to go home, right?” you ask. Papa rolls his eyes at the creature good-naturedly.

“Oh, he never wants to go home. This one is always trying to escape his brothers, giving his poor papa a heart attack.”

The fact he just referred to himself as a rat dad is not lost on you, and once again, your heart thumps in your chest. You’re not used to it. It’s making you feel a bit dizzy.

“Do you have many rats?”

“Just three at the moment. This is Beelzebub, and there is also Astaroth and, eh, Macaroni,” he confesses. The grin which passes your face threatens to rip your cheeks open. “Macaroni is from a previous mischief, I got the others so he wouldn’t be lonely.”

“And you fell into the perpetual rat problem?” you ask with a laugh. His eyes light up.

“Sì, yes! You know it. Do you have any?”

“Not at the moment. I did in my childhood. People always think you’re strange when you have rats, they don’t know that they can be just as affectionate as other animals. Little bodies, big personalities!”

“Exactly!” Papa agrees, clapping his hands together in delight at your words. Something passes between the two of you, something sweet and electric. You hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, and you’re overcome with the desire to ask him to stay with you, sit down and share a coffee as you discuss this shared interest.

But that wouldn’t be proper. Your computer pings, and you drag your eyes away from Papa’s beautiful mismatched ones to check your notifications. It’s from Secondo. He’s clearly fucking worked out how to bother you digitally now, too. You groan.

“Ah, I am sorry. You must have work, no?” Papa asks. NO, you want to scream, I WILL THROW THIS COMPUTER OUT THE NEAREST WINDOW IF YOU WILL STAY DOWN HERE WITH ME FOR JUST TEN MORE MINUTES.

You don’t scream that. Instead, you nod.

“My apologies, Papa. If I don’t finish this, Papa Secondo will…”

You trail off. It’s enough for him to understand what you mean. He gives you a sad smile.

“I will stop distracting you, then, and get this one back to his cage.”

You carefully scoop the rat off of your shoulder and deposit him into Papa’s outstretched hands. Your little finger grazes his as you do, and you’re delighted at how warm you find him to be even through the gloves. The two of you lock eyes again. Neither of you want to look away.

“Goodbye, Papa,” you force yourself to say.

“Goodbye, Miracolo,” he replies. It’s a name you haven’t heard yourself called for many, many years. Not in sincerity, anyway, always with the twinge of an insult behind it. Mockery. But there is no such unkindness from Papa’s lips. You think he means it.

He gives you one last smile as Beelzebub skitters up his sleeve to sit on his shoulder, and he closes the archive doors behind him. You are left in the quiet once again.

It hurts you to know that you’ll probably never see him again.

tags (lmk if you want to be added): @belilwen @circle--of--confusion

#Cardinal copia x reader #frater imperator x reader #papa emeritus iv x reader #Papa iv x reader #the band ghost x reader #the band ghost fanfic

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iliketangerines · 1 year ago

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Imagine being a soldier for the special forces in mk11 and catching Raidens attention😦- like it don’t matter which Raiden it is- dark or light- like imagine being being like “I have to consult the elder gods” but his ass just teleported away so he can go wank one out silly style to the thought of you-✨

desperate for you

a/n: i gotchu cutie. i'm actually so insane for old man raiden, and i'm so glad you requested this. i think it can be interpreted as either dark or light, but probably more light lmao

pairing: lord raiden x gn!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), blowjobs (thinking of them at least), dacryphilia

for eons, Raiden spent his life training warriors and being surrounded with hard muscle and sharp edges

he had sworn to never grow attached to the Earthrealmers as it would cause complications, and it had caused a rift between him and Fujin

and then he met you

you’re a consultant, a strategist for the special forces under Sonya, and she proudly introduces you as her best strategist, and that you can figure out the revenant’s plans and weak points

and fuck, you’re so much softer than anyone he’s ever met and so kind and full of curves rather than the hard muscle and cutting-edges he’s lived his whole life around

he’s standing next to you as you go over possible different strategies to invade the Netherrealm, and you’re sucking on a cherry lollipop as you do so

it’s driving Raiden insane, the way your lips are plump and red and how the spit shines on the hard candy, and he wishes it was you sucking on his dick instead

fuck, he can feel himself getting a boner just staring at your lips and how you suck and let your tongue flick out to wet your cherry red lips

you look up at him with wide eyes, asking him his opinion on the plan, and Raiden wants to fuck you until your eyes are teary and glazed-over

he wants to have you bouncing on his cock until you’re begging to cum, and-

you ask him again if the plan is okay, and Raiden clears his throat and says he must consult with the elder gods before disappearing in a flash of lightning and appearing in his personal bedroom at the sky temple

he doesn’t even go to sit in his grand bed or undress, he just pulls down his pants and grips at his cock, imagining it’s your hand instead

he imagines how soft your hands would be compared to his calloused ones, and he lets out a deep moan as he strokes himself

pre-cum pearls at the tip, and Raiden bites his lip as he dips his thumb into the slit and smears the pre-cum up and down the shaft

he thinks your mouth must be just as soft as the rest of your body, and fuck, he can’t stop thinking about the way your lips would look wrapped around his cock

they would be pretty and red by the end, and Raiden starts pumping his cock faster, imagining it's your wet and warm mouth instead

he’d destroy you, he was a large man, he knew that, but fuck, you’d be so tight and wet around him, and Raiden cums with a groan

his seed splatters against the stone floor, and he wishes he could cum in your mouth instead

Raiden tucks away his softening dick, clears his throat, and tries to think back on the plan you had gone over with him and others so that his excuse seems at least somewhat reasonable

he can’t remember a single detail, all he can remember are your plump lips, and the soft curve of your body, and fuck, he’s hard again

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meiplays · 21 days ago

Text

Chasing Shadows

PART 1

Word Count: ~5,070

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Genre: Romance, Drama, Supernatural

Warnings: Past grief (Jess), emotional vulnerability, heated moments, mild languages

╳°»｡ ∾･⁙･ ღ ➵ ⁘ ➵ ღ ･⁙･∾ ｡«°╳

You never expected to fall in love with a Winchester.

When Sam first walked into the dusty corner of that Kansas library, eyes under heavy brows, sleeves rolled to his elbows, he looked like a man on a mission. You were researching local folklore for your podcast. He was hunting something real. And though he never said much at first, there was something in the way he lingered near your table, glancing at your notes when he thought you weren’t looking.

You didn’t expect him to ask for your number. You definitely didn’t expect him to text you two nights later asking what you knew about Norse revenants. But you answered anyway. You always answered.

Fast forward six months.

You were sitting on a worn motel bed, your laptop on the nightstand, hair damp from a too-short shower. Sam was on the other bed, silently cleaning blood from a silver blade. The salt-and-burn earlier had gone south fast. You weren’t ready to handle the physical side of hunting yet, and he knew it. But you insisted on being there. You insisted on learning.

Sam hadn’t said much since they got back. His shoulders were tight. His jaw was clenched. You knew he wasn’t mad at you—he was mad at himself.

"You okay?" you asked softly.

He nodded, then didn’t. He ran a hand through his hair, then looked at you.

"You could’ve died tonight."

You swallowed. "But I didn’t."

Sam's voice dropped. "That’s not good enough."

You crossed the room slowly and sat beside him. "I know you’re scared. I know what you lost. But I’m not her. I’m not Jess."

His eyes closed, pain flickering across his face like lightning behind clouds.

"That doesn’t mean I won’t lose you too."

You reached out and cupped his cheek. "You won’t. Not if you let me do this right. Train me. Help me. Don’t lock me out."

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then finally, his arms came around you, drawing you in like the tide to shore. He didn’t kiss you. He just held you. Fiercely.

The bunker became your new home.

Sam trained you every day. You ran drills. Shot empty cans off posts with rock salt shells. Learned to recognize Enochian sigils from memory. Dean dropped by between cases, offering sarcastic commentary and the occasional head pat when you managed to beat Sam in a mock fight (he claimed he let you win, but you knew better).

Sam watched you closely, though. Always with that storm behind his eyes. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he was falling for you harder with every day and hating himself for it.

One night, after a brutal sparring session, you slumped into the reading nook with a beer, hands aching, hair damp with sweat. Sam joined you minutes later, fresh from the shower, hair curling at the ends.

"You ever think about quitting?" you asked, half-teasing.

He looked at you for a long time before replying.

"All the time. But then I think about how many people would die if we did."

You nodded. "That’s why I want to do this. Not just because of you. Because I want to make a difference."

His hand found yours on the couch. A small gesture. But it felt seismic.

The first time Sam really kissed you, it was almost too careful.

You were sitting on the hood of the Impala under a blanket of stars after a successful salt-and-burn. Dean was inside the motel talking to some cute waitress, and you and Sam were alone. The adrenaline was still running high, and your voice was hoarse from yelling at a pissed-off spirit that had nearly throttled you.

"You handled yourself well tonight," Sam said.

You smirked. "I nearly tripped into the fire pit."

"But you didn’t. You trusted your instincts."

You turned to face him. The moonlight silvered his face, softening the roughness. You had never wanted to kiss someone so badly.

He looked like he might say something else—but then he just leaned in, slow and hesitant. Like kissing you might break you. Like it might break him.

But you weren’t breakable. And neither was he.

You kissed him back just as gently. One hand sliding to his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble. His lips parted, and he deepened it, just a little. Just enough to taste the yearning behind his restraint.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"I don’t want to screw this up."

"Then don’t," you whispered.

The intimacy came slowly. Softly.

There were touches in the dark. His hand brushing your lower back when you passed him in the hallway. Your fingers lingering on his wrist longer than necessary. A look. A sigh. A shared breath.

He began sleeping in your room more often. At first just lying beside you. Then holding you. Then one night, when neither of you had slept and the nightmares were clawing at his throat, he pressed a kiss to your neck and whispered, "I’m still scared."

You turned to face him in the low light, running your fingers down his chest.

"Me too. But that doesn’t mean we stop."

He kissed you then with heat and softness all at once. Like he wanted to memorize your shape, your taste, your breath. His body pressed to yours, the slow burn building with every heartbeat.

Clothes didn’t come off. Not yet. But shirts were pushed up. Fingers wandered. Your name left his lips like a reverent prayer as he held you in his lap, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw, to your collarbone.

You touched his heart, and he let you.

You fell asleep tangled together, not because of exhaustion, but because it finally felt safe to be vulnerable.

But peace never lasts long in your world.

A case took you into the backwoods of Missouri. A banshee. Screams that curdled blood. Victims with shattered eardrums and ruptured eyes. Sam didn’t want you on this one, but you insisted.

You proved yourself that night.

You cornered the creature in a burned-out farmhouse, lured it with iron shavings and Gaelic incantations. Sam got injured. You didn’t hesitate. You ran into the fight.

Afterward, he sat on the motel bed, shirt off, bruises darkening his ribs. You cleaned the blood from his temple, tears stinging your eyes.

"Don’t ever do that again," he said.

"You mean save your ass?"

He grabbed your wrist, eyes burning. "I mean make me think I’d have to live without you."

You kissed him then. Fiercely. Fully.

And he let himself fall.

That night, you made love for the first time.

No fear. No holding back.

Just two broken people choosing each other.

And as dawn crept in, painting the walls gold, Sam whispered into your hair, "I never thought I’d get this again."

You whispered back, "You have me. All of me."

And he did.

He finally believed he could.

#sam Winchester #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam x reader #part 1 #supernatural #jared padalecki #jared padalecki imagine #supernatural imagine #supernatural fic #spn #spn sam #sammy

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hobgoblinsandpeachfuzz · 7 months ago

Text

Love is learned over time 'Til you're an expert in a dying field

Fic below the cut:

He was much too old to be as flummoxed as he was, but Emmrich and Alas’s flirtation was so new, so fresh, that he was not certain what to do at all. He hardly had realized that it had begun until Alas even said anything after their walk through the Memorial Gardens. It felt like being struck by lightning, a thrill to his senses, permission granted to indulge in thoughts he had attempted to keep quiet until now.

Then, all too quickly, it seemed to vanish, after their battle in the Crossroads with the Revenant Dragon. He reached out, called to Alas, and Alas turned away, and did not speak to anyone as they returned to the Lighthouse.

Affection, flirtation, infatuation, he was no expert in. But grief. Emmrich understood grief. And as a Mourn Watcher and a spirit caller, it was his solemn duty to aid those in their time of grief, more than anything. So when he heard the tinkling of piano keys in the middle of the night (or as close as he could tell, with the Fade and its ever inconsistent and shifting notions of light and dark), he sought out its source, and found Alas, bent over the piano, toiling away, alone.

He was already in the doorway, but he did not wish to startle, so he knocked all the same. Alas barely moved, though his head turned lightly, only to stare back at the keys. Emmrich’s heart sank. This was not how he had come to know Rook. Rook was jubilant, energetic, bouncing from here to there despite his age, always smiling, always ready with a quip and a laugh, racing to and fro, and never really stopping. To see them so still was–Emmrich sucked in a breath, and pressed the fear away at once. It would not do. He would simply have to assess the gripping and icy chill that threatened to effuse him at the thought of Alas’s lifeless body another time. For now, the living and breathing Alas was here and present and in need.

“May I sit?” he asked, thinking of taking a seat by the piano, across from him. But Alas scooted over on the bench, a wordless invitation. That was a positive sign, and Emmrich could not hide the small smile it brought to his face as he sat beside Rook.

It was best to be conversational in these matters. Slowly build to the topic at hand. To press too quickly would have the subject retreat. Wisps and people were oh so more alike than either considered, in that regard. “I didn’t know you played.”

He could not see his eyes from behind the curtain of his gray hair, but he saw Rook’s lips press together before answering. A gesture of shyness, perhaps. He could not imagine Alas as shy. “That’s what I was for. Back then. I served in June’s court, and I was his musician.”

Emmrich nodded. He had known that Alas was, much like Solas himself, an ancient elf, though the particulars were different with Alas than the Dread Wolf. Bellara had informed him as much, and he had been present for at least one of the Dread Wolf’s memories in the crossroads, where Alas had stopped, dead in their tracks, to stare at the face of the General who gave commands in those visions of the past. But speculation was not helpful. He would wait for Rook to tell him exactly. Even if he was curious for reasons beyond those of a Mourn Watcher.

“Do you play other instruments as well?”

They nodded, a wry little smile returning just faintly to their face, finally turning to look the whole music room over, and Emmrich could see how bone tired the poor elf looked. He had not been sleeping. Emmrich knew that. Alas brushed the concerns off whenever the rest of them tried to discuss it, that he had had plenty of sleep in the elven state of Uthenara, but from what Emmrich knew, that was not the same, and could not help.

“I was made to be an expert in them all,” Alas sighed. “I sang, I danced, all the fancy little tricks to entertain. Came to a point that I hated doing any of it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” they were looking at him now, finally, their golden eyes soft and piercing. Oh, but he’d been a fool to not realize that he was already far too deep with this infatuation, but he pressed a fist to his chest, and willed his heart to stop with its fluttering. Alas finally looked back at the keys, and their smile was gone. “Fel… Fel helped me love music again.”

“The General?” Emmrich had never been a jealous sort. It was a pathetic and silly emotion, and envy never featured in his ventures through the fade. There were other spirits and demons that sought him out. But now, he focused decidedly on Rook’s long fingers, dancing across the keys, playing a soft, quiet, and slow melody, something that sounded like the wish from one long ago, and tried not to think about the clear intensity of Alas’s devotion. “I would love to hear more about him.”

That brought the smile back to Alas’s face, a gentle thing this time. The melody picked up, no less soft, but firmer in its dedication, in its proud major notes.

“He was my General. I was his lieutenant. That’s who we were in the war, yeah. But there was so much more to him. He was my first friend. The first person who saw me for who I really wanted to be. When the war was over, and the veil went up, he put us both in uthenara, and awoke us years later. He’d do that, over and over, desperate to see but also not wanting to harm. He was dedicated to discovering this new world Solas left behind, and helping where he could. I followed him to the ends of Thedas and back.”

“He was funny, you know. He loved to tease and make riddles of even the simplest ideas. I think he liked the thought that people viewed him as mysterious, when really he was the most forthright and honest person you could find. I think it was his own little joke against Solas really. And I think he went back into uthenara all those times to… To try to make Solas see the beauty that we were finding.” Alas’s voice shook, and his eyes shone.

Envy was clearly not only infecting Emmrich. A dark look flashed in Alas’s eyes, before they closed them tight. “Fel never gave up on Solas. Not once. No matter… What I said.”

They stopped playing now, and wrapped their hands into fists, placing them on their knees, like the piano had burnt them.

“Then, sometime, I don’t know, in the age before this one at least… I got injured, fairly badly,” he gestured to his face, and the bit of his chest that Emmrich could see. Their scars, proudly worn, dancing around the scars that he must have chosen. “Protecting him,” he laughed. “I don’t… I don’t think he ever loved me the way I loved him, but he was broken up about it. Said he didn’t want to lose me, that he couldn’t bear the thought that I’d sacrifice myself for him. So he put me into Uthenara alone. Promised he’d wake me up when I was better.”

“I woke up when he died. When Solas killed him.”

“How… How did you find out?” he couldn’t help but wonder.

Alas shrugged. “Part of me just knew, but I did ask. There was some girl Felassan had been helping. Hear she’s a big deal in Orlais now. And then I confirmed with Solas as soon as the bastard got stuck in my head.” He held himself now, and swallowed hard, mouth opening and closing a few times, as if the next sentence would slip out against their will.

Alas’s whole body shuddered, and as he choked out a sob, Emmrich, though uncharacteristically nervous to do so, reached out, and stroked their back. Electricity shot through him when Alas leaned into his touch, clutching him. “And he’s everywhere here! I keep finding pieces of him, letters, notes, the way he arranged his books, the plants that grow, I can’t–I can’t stop seeing him! But he’s not here, Emmrich! I have looked and looked and I can’t even find the spirit of him! It’s like I lose him again and again every time I go into the crossroads!”

A wellspring of feeling had been unleashed, and Alas, nestled in Emmrich’s arms, simply cried for some time. He suspected that they had needed this for a very long time indeed. Millenia, perhaps. Something within him held Alas tighter than he might any other mourner, closer to his chest, stroking his hair. A fire was lit within him, and all he wanted was not simply to comfort this strange, beautiful person he was coming to know, but to take this pain far, far away, so that it may never reach Alas again. He knew, of course, that was not the proper way of things, that grief was a valuable gift–the memory that love happened, and it was there. But now, all he wished for was that it did not have to touch Alas, and take away the joyous, brash, bright spirit he knew.

Alas’s tears started to slow, and the two of them just sat there, on the piano bench, Emmrich whispering soft things, as Alas took deep, shaky breaths.

“I’m sorry, Em,” he coughed, and Emmrich held him tighter. “I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have…”

“Hush, my dear. What else do you think a Mourn Watcher is for?”

“I’m sorry I… I shook you away. After the dragon.”

“That’s quite alright, Rook. I understand,” and he did. He’d been hurt and confused and fearful before, and even now, part of him still was frightened, that this tenuous, small thing that had just started was simply a beginning meant to go nowhere, that Alas’s heart was spoken for and could never be reached again. But he also knew that was not fair, and that was not how the Mourn Watchers taught him. He just had to remember. “I overstepped perhaps. I will refrain from terms of endearment from now on, if that is beneficial.”

Alas shot up, and looked him dead in the eye, his eyes wide and worried. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” his heart had begun hammering again. He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him this flustered. But Alas was remarkably efficient at throwing off every bit of balance Emmrich had.

“I,” Rook started, and while their body language betrayed that perhaps they wanted to shrink away again, they did not stop looking right into Emmrich’s eyes. “I like it. I like you.”

His face felt hot. It was his turn to look away, to give ground, flushed and unused to this kind of attention.

And while he understood, yes, of course, he understood, his heart… did sink a little at Rook’s next words. “It’s just… Fel.”

This Felassan would always be there, deep within Alas’s soul, a fire that would never go out, a part of him, intrinsically. The things that Emmrich was coming to greatly admire in Alas were also parts of Felassan. That was how life worked. That was how love worked.

And he was a Mourn Watcher. He understood. And perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, it was better. He’d gotten his hopes perhaps a bit too high, knowing he had secrets of his own. Emmrich looked back at Alas, clasped his shoulders good-naturedly, and smiled.

“I completely understand, my dear. By the by, are you still injured?” Changing topics was a good plan. He wasn’t sure how much more of Alas’s soft amber eyes he could take, looking at him like he was a puzzle, an anchor, a star.

Their nose twitched, and they looked askance, shrugging. “Nothing a potion couldn’t handle.”

“Potions have their work cut out for them if those who imbibe them do not rest. Come, my dear,” he took Alas’s hands in his, and lifted the both of them gently from the piano bench. “You should sleep.”

Rook looked ready to protest, but finally, nodded, allowing Emmrich to help lead them to their room. He deposited his charge onto their small, narrow chaise, and moved to leave, before Alas caught his hand.

Their hands were rough, callused and strong. The long fingers of a musician, and the sturdiness of a warrior. Emmrich felt like his whole arm would light, getting to hold Alas’s hand.

“I do. Like you. Quite a bit, actually,” Rook smiled, and there was a hint of blush under that ruddy tan of his cheeks. Emmrich’s heart skipped a beat, like a school boy. “Thank you. I hope you know that.”

His throat felt tight, his own secrets threatening to spill out. But he wanted very much to just live in this lovely little infatuation, just a bit longer. It felt light and dizzying and just a bit like being alive.

Instead, he just smiled, and laid a gentle kiss on Rook’s hand. “Get some sleep, my dear.”

It was all he trusted himself to do.

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: the veilguard spoilers #da4 spoilers #veilguard spoilers #emmrich x alas #felassan x alas #emmrich x rook #felassan #stills art #emmrich volkarin #alas aldwir #my writing #long post

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