#oc: stars hide your fires | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pasukiyo · 3 months

Note

Hey! I really love your Riddle fics :)

Could we maybe get one where reader is in a relationship but has an attraction to Tom that she keeps under wraps? Like she tries to hide her crush on him but gets caught staring at him in class & etc- So he decides to do something about it.

It can be a little angsty too!

Hope it doesn't sound dumb, the idea just randomly came to me and I really like how you write for his character.

THIS CARNAL TETHER

tom riddle x f!ravenclaw!reader word count; 4,695 warnings; cheating!, fingering, smut! notes; vincent welch is not in canon, he is just an oc i made up for this particular fic! summary; you should've been over this crush years ago. but it's hard when tom riddle plagues your every thought and your boyfriend falls flat in the places you just knew tom wouldn't...

All is quiet in the Ravenclaw common room, save for the scratching of her quill against her parchment and the fire crackling in the hearth in the room’s center. It’s well past curfew and many are already in bed, but she stays awake, lounging on one of the many sofas, her Charms homework in her lap. Moonlight spills into the common room through the many windows and her parchment is illuminated solely by the lamp at her side.

Sleep weighs heavily on her eyelids and she pauses her scribbling to dig her knuckles into them, mouth parting to make way for a yawn. She stretches out her weary muscles, rolling her neck around in her shoulders just as footsteps permeate the once silent common room and she blinks through her tired vision as Vincent Welch marches towards her, a scowl twisting his lips.

She raises an eyebrow as he plops down onto the space on the sofa beside her with a huff, lolling his head back until it hits the top of the seat. His eyes flutter closed and she grants him this small moment of peace until her curiosity can no longer be tamed.

“Is everything alright?” She asks and he sighs, threading his fingers through his locks of golden brown, pushing them away from his face. He doesn’t reply at first, but his lids peel back open and he locks his fingers over his stomach, blinking up at the stars glimmering on the ceiling.

“That damn Tom Riddle is going to be the death of me,” Vincent mutters, his clipped tone dripping with venom. She stiffens at the name and clears her throat, carefully placing her quill down onto the parchment in her lap. “Oh,” she simply says, casting her gaze down to the floor, unable to meet her boyfriend’s eye.

She can feel Vincent hastily move beside her and she wrings her hands together, willing the blood biting at her cheeks to dwindle.

“Ran into him earlier in the prefects’ bathroom and do you know what he said?” He asks and she presses her lips together, humming, prompting him to continue. “He thinks that I am not adequate enough to be a prefect. He thinks Dippet made a mistake in giving me the title,” Vincent scoffs and she can see the shaking of his head through her periphery.

Still, she does not yet turn to fully see him.

“I think the mistake Dippet made was making him Head Boy,” Vincent continues, leaning back into the sofa again. “It certainly didn’t aid in reducing his ego, don’t you agree?”

She tries, really tries, to not let visions, even thoughts of Tom Riddle into her head, especially not with Vincent sitting right beside her. It’s entirely inappropriate, as well as it is unethical to think of another man when already committed to another.

And yet, she still cannot help the way her heart skips a beat when she thinks of the Head Boy like she’s a silly little first-year again, giddy and enthralled with her first crush. She’s crossed this bridge many times before but still, she teeters in the middle because no matter how hard she tries to continue pushing forward, to finally forget Tom once and for all, there’s still a part of her that desires to look back, to run back, even.

And how foolish this crush has made her, since Tom never so much as acknowledges her. In all her seven years at Hogwarts, she could only picture a handful of times where Tom has so much as glanced her way, and still, she finds herself plagued by wicked thoughts of betraying Vincent, of sullying whatever reputation she may or may not have had to indulge herself in these fantasies.

She feels sweat collect on her hairline and suddenly, everything is too much. The fire crackling in the hearth is too much, the velvet cushions of the sofa is too much, Vincent’s presence at her side is too much, these nefarious thoughts of Tom Riddle are too much, and all she really longs for is her bed, for sleep to overcome her so that she may escape her own mind for even just a moment.

She suddenly rises from her seat, clumsily hugging her parchment to her chest and Vincent stares up at her curiously, a hint of concern in the mossy green of his eyes. “Are you alright?” He asks and she notices his hand rise, reaching for hers and she moves away, albeit non-discreetly.

“I’m going to bed,” she announces and she has to swallow the lump in her throat, taking in a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m just… feeling really tired,” she murmurs, which isn’t exactly a lie. “I’ve been working on this for a while, I think it’s starting to make my head ache a bit,” she adds, breathing an awkward laugh.

Vincent blinks, his lips twisting in pity and he reaches for her hand again, grabbing it before she’s able to step away again. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t think he notices as he stands, leaning in to press a chaste peck to her lips.

“I hope you didn’t stay up for me,” he mutters, a guilty look creeping upon his face as his thumb soothes over the back of her hand.

She didn’t, but she appreciates that sentiment all the same.

She nods and forces a tight-lipped grin, ineptly pulling away from him and backing away.

“No, no, I just… well…” she trails off, cursing herself beneath her breath for being so ungraceful with her escape. “…well. Goodnight!”

She hastily turns, making her way towards the staircase and not picking up her pace until she’s certain she’s out of his sight.

Needless to say, she’s still plagued with thoughts of Tom Riddle when she wakes the following morning. She feels awful for it and it even makes her feel sick to her stomach, so much that she skips breakfast altogether. She hurriedly scribbles down the rest of the answers to her Charms homework before she breaks for class, although the entire walk makes her feel even worse, considering this is a class she knows Tom Riddle will be in.

Her heart pounds against her chest as she climbs the steps down, leading to the Charms classroom. The majority of the class has already arrived, but she keeps her head ducked as she makes her way towards her seat, for she knows Tom Riddle is just on the other side of the room. Vincent sits next to her and he grins at her arrival, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek as he bids her good morning.

Her heart should flutter, her stomach should be doing somersaults, she should want to kiss him back. But her body was reacting to all the wrong reasons— because she could see Tom Riddle just from the top of her vision. Her heart should beat for Vincent, her stomach should do flips for Vincent, she should want to kiss Vincent.

The warmth in her cheeks should be for Vincent, but instead, they warm for the boy who does not care for her, for a boy who has never even blinked twice at her.

“Morning,” she replies, trying to smile but turning away before he realizes she’s not. The professor enters and she’s saved from further conversation with Vincent for the time being but still, she fights a battle to keep her eyes away from Tom.

She tries, she really does. But it’s so hard when she envisions the pinkness of his lips, the dark, inviting obsidian irises that seem to absorb the pupils in his eyes, the stony expression that seems to always be on his face, the one where his brows are knit and his jaw is set. It’s hard when she thinks of his hands and how his fingers look curled around his quill, how they move when he writes, how the veins on the back of them protrude when he stretches them a certain way.

Surely one look would not hurt, right?

Just a swift glance, a fleet of the eyes, nothing more. Her gaze would not linger, only graze, and it would be for only the smallest of seconds, so nobody would notice.

Even as she tries rationalizing it, a small voice in the back of her mind protests, reminding her it is unwise, foolish even. She pushes the thought away and blinks up across the room to where Tom Riddle sits anyways, and she’s mesmerized.

He’s completely focused on the professor, transfixed on whatever lesson he was currently teaching (she hadn’t been paying attention, so she wouldn’t now.) His hands are just as she imagined them moments before— his fingers are wrapped around his quill, veins jutting from the skin on the back of his hand.

His lips are as pink as she remembers them, although they glisten now, as if he’d been swiping his tongue between them. And his eyes— they are as black as night, as bewitching as any spell in the book. She stares at them now and wonders how lost she might get in them, when—

“Ahem.”

She blinks herself out of her trance and finds that her professor now stands before her, a brow raised expectantly.

“Yes, Professor?” Her voice is small with embarrassment and the evidence comes in the form of blood biting her cheeks as she sinks down into her seat. “Your homework?” The professor asks and she clears her throat, dipping her chin as she rummages through her bag, fishing out the piece of parchment. “I apologize,” she says, handing over the scroll. The professor simply huffs, stalking away.

When he moves, she finds that Tom Riddle’s eyes are set on her, and those pink lips that were so tightly pressed in a firm, thin line before were now quirked to one side. His eyes, dark as they are, illuminate with something she can’t quite place— curiosity? Amusement? Humor?

No matter the case, mortification seeps through her skin and she sinks further down into her seat. She feels Vincent lean into her shoulder, his breath fanning over her ear.

“Are you alright?” He asks in a whisper and she grumbles, pressing her lips together as she avoids looking across the room at Tom altogether. She settles on the wooden desktop before her and she reaches out to fiddle with the feather of her quill. “I’m fine,” she clips. “Just tired.”

Vincent doesn’t attempt to question her further, more due to the fact that the professor was talking again rather than because of her behavior. She tries to still the beating of her heart as images of Tom looking at her flood her mind— it was driving her mental that she couldn’t quite decipher what that gleam in his eyes meant.

It was all she could ponder, and she was grateful that class ended before the professor had a chance to call her out again.

Vincent speaks beside her but she doesn’t hear a single thing he says as she swiftly gathers her things, tossing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, making her hasty exit. She cannot be in a room with Tom Riddle any longer— the mere presence of him had her acting foolish.

She makes a sharp right as soon as she leaves the classroom and begins her descent down the short staircase there, but she freezes where she stands almost as soon as she rounds the corner.

Tom Riddle lurks in the shadows of the staircase, arms crossed over his chest, back pressed to the wall. She presses her lips harder together to stifle any sounds that may emit as she turns, fully prepared to walk back up the stairs and find another route to her next class.

That is, until he speaks.

Her name drips like oil from his lips and she feels like she’s been set ablaze. She’s never heard him say her name before, never even heard him fully acknowledge her before. It’s like a symphony and a cacophony to her ears all the same and she’s uncertain whether her heart skips beats out of fear or in delight.

Her mouth opens and closes and she feels stuck to the very ground she stands on as words try but inevitably fail to escape from her lips. She settles on shakily saying, “Tom,” feeling her very bones rattle as if just speaking his name caused some sort of internal earthquake.

Her arms drop to her sides and she brings her hands together to thread her fingers through one another. Tom stalks closer and the lingering fear in the back of her head that someone— that Vincent— could see them now has her shaking, but she’s incapable of moving. So, she allows him to draw near, even if it feels like with every step he takes, she comes closer to bursting.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, his voice dropping one sultry octave, and she thinks to herself if she had a galleon for every time someone has asked her the very question over the past twenty-four hours, she would be rich.

Her throat constricts around words she tries to speak and her mouth suddenly feels like a desert, so she settles on nodding her head in reply. Tom Riddle clicks his tongue as he finally comes close enough that he towers over her, like the moon in an eclipse. She tries to still the quivering of her jaw, but she’s certain her efforts come to no fruition, for those eyes as black as coal scour her face, the corners of his lips twitching in amusement.

“You seemed awfully distracted in class today,” he continues, speaking so matter-of-factly, she almost forgets she’s being interrogated. “It is unlike you, you know. To be so… sidetracked.”

Her chest begins to rise and fall as she tries to will herself to breathe, and words muster on the tip of her tongue. This time, she finally speaks.

“Forgive me, Tom,” she says as steadily as she can manage. “But I fail to see how my performance in class today is any of your concern.”

She’s just as surprised at herself as he is when she says it. His brows raise ever so slightly and she thinks: this could be her chance to escape, to rush down the last remaining steps and be rid of the nightmare. She makes her attempt to step away from him and she even manages to make it past him before a hand clasps around her wrist, his grip so tight, she’s nearly knocked to her bum.

“I don’t think that’s any way to speak to someone who is showing you concern,” he practically hisses, and his words feel like thorns slicing into her skin. “Or your superior, may I remind you.”

She rolls her lips together and makes a feeble attempt to break away from his grip, but to no avail. “Forgive me, Tom,” she basically pleads, rounding her eyes in what she hopes is an expression soft enough, he’d spare some mercy on her. “I’m just… I’m just tired, is all.”

“Tired?” He repeats and she nods. The corner of his lips curve, “yes, I suppose it must be exhausting trying not to think about me when your boyfriend is around, hm?”

Weaves of horror thread through her cheeks like spider silk at the creeping realization that Tom Riddle knows she’s been staring at him, that she’s been plagued by thoughts of him. She isn’t sure how he knows of course, but at that moment, the answer didn’t matter. All she cares about now is fleeing, to find a moment alone where she can collect herself.

She breaks free from his grip at last and breaks down the rest of the stairs, turning the corner into the girls’ restroom, kneeling over to chase air back into her lungs once she’s alone. She feels impossibly hot, as if she were a volcano close to eruption.

After more than a few minutes have passed, she finally believes she can breathe, that she’s collected, that she’s calm, cool. She’s entirely late for Transfiguration, but Professor Dumbledore adores her; it shouldn’t be a problem if she’s a little tardy. She takes a deep breath as she approaches one of the bathroom mirrors, switching on the faucet and leaning over the sink, cupping water into her hands to splash them onto her cheeks. The cool water sends shivers slithering down her spine but it is refreshing— she feels better.

All that’s left to do now is leave and never run into Tom Riddle again. Simple. Easy.

She stands and wipes at her face with the sleeves of her robe, switching off the faucet and when she opens her eyes, she finds that she is no longer alone.

Tom Riddle stands behind her figure in the mirror and with a gasp, she turns, backing into the sink. She’s not sure whether to cry or run away or just let her desire take over her now, but what’s for certain is that all the work she made to calm herself has completely flown out the window.

“You’re so easy to read, you know,” he speaks as if they never stopped talking, slyly slithering back into conversation with great facility. Purely true snakelike fashion. “I always thought you Ravenclaws were supposed to be clever, but that boyfriend of yours is as dim as they come.”

Tom stalks closer and again, she’s unable to move, left to simply watch as he caves in on her, his hands on either side of the sink she’s backed up into, caging her. In a matter of seconds, she’s whisked into his game of cat and mouse, prey and predator. The only problem is, she’s not sure if she wants to run.

Not when he’s so close she can smell him, that she can feel his breath on her face, his arms brush against hers, his legs subtly weaving their way between hers.

“How he cannot see that you do not desire him the way you desire this…” Either of their gazes drop to her lap as Tom’s fingers slither up her knee where her robe parts, the tips pushing her skirt up and up until his hand rests on the soft, pillowy flesh of her thigh.

Gooseflesh creeps down her arms, all the way down to her legs as she tries to comprehend that this is reality and she is not dreaming. Her bottom lip quivers and that irritating flutter in her heart is back, inspiring a tingle low in her belly.

“…how he cannot see that he’s not enough for you, that what you want is risk, is beyond me,” he whispers near her ear and his hand finds her center, a ghostly touch above her panties and she gasps, instinctively locking her fingers around his wrist. Her eyes find his and for a moment the world stills and there is no more Hogwarts, no more girls’ bathroom, no more classes and homework and professors, and no more Vincent.

Her world is solely Tom Riddle, a sea of oblivion she loses herself endlessly in. She’s sucked into his abyss and she is forever falling, forever damned to be lost in his void. But there is a rush that comes with being tethered to Tom Riddle in this twisted, carnal bind. There is a certain warmth that draws her in, that makes her feel at ease, like a moth to a flame.

She realizes that perhaps he is right. Being with Vincent was always too safe, too simple, too plain. Vincent is just too good, too docile, too nice. Tom Riddle may seem duteous on the outside, yes, but he is also authoritative, dominant. There’s something so appealing about risk, about danger.

Even just being here alone with Tom Riddle in the girls’ bathroom was more of a risk than Vincent ever even dreamed of taking. The faster the realization that she isn’t satisfied with Vincent creeps in, the more she realizes that Tom was even better than she initially imagined. The ache deep in her belly blossoms and she glances down to his lips before peering back up into that endless ocean of obsidian in his eyes.

“It seems that you’re only now coming to terms with what you want,” he speaks again and she swears his face is closer now to hers than it was before. She holds her breath, waiting for him to continue. “You see it now, don’t you? That you want this, that you’ve been craving this.”

The hand on her underwear begins to move again and she exhales, gasping for breath as his fingertips reach the waistband, slowly inching beneath the fabric. His brows draw together and his fingertips halt just above her mound and it feels like her body is kicking, screaming for him to keep going. Her hips squirm but he holds them down with his free hand, never once breaking their gaze.

“I think I’d like to hear you say it,” he says, and her brows knit. She shakes her head, “what?” She sputters, trying to subtly rock her hips again but to no avail. His grip tightens on her flesh and she whimpers as he leans closer until their noses almost touch. His gaze darkens and suddenly, she’s under his trance, frozen by the crease between his brows.

“Say that you want me,” he whispers and his voice drips with derision, pulling her deeper into the murky waters of his black ocean, further into submission. “Then you can have what you so desire.”

Fear stops her heart, but her libido resuscitates it.

Her mouth parts and she closes it again, recollecting herself before she tries again.

“I…” her voice is unsteady and she swallows, starting again. “…I want this. I want you, Tom.”

Tom inhales sharply and for a moment, all is still again. She wonders if maybe he’s changed his mind, if he doesn’t actually want to do this, if the thought suddenly disgusts him, even. She feels so hot, like she could melt into a puddle of magma any moment now. She waits though, because how could she walk away now?

The world is still one moment and it’s spinning out of control the next.

Tom Riddle’s lips crash into hers like lightning striking the earth and her ground rocks, but his hand finds the side of her neck and she’s stable again. Their tongues are in a war that Tom will eventually win, and when he does, she’s malleable. The hand partly inside her underwear sinks further down until the pads of his fingers trace a stripe from her nub to her core and back up, a relentless pattern that leaves her mind spinning.

She whimpers against his mouth as he finds her clit again, his fingers rubbing small, tight circles against it as if to vex her. She lolls her head back to the mirror as his mouth breaks away from hers to venture lower towards her neck. She pants as he finds a delicate patch of skin, suckling it between his teeth as he applies more pressure to her aching center. Her legs twitch and her knees begin to wobble, prompting Tom to use his unoccupied hand to lift her up onto the sink so that she now sits.

She yelps and clasps a hand over her mouth to suppress any louder noises that may emit when he sinks his teeth into her neck, pulling away to admire his work. His fingers swirl around her clit before trailing down to her sopping cunt, using his middle and forefinger to work her open with a scissoring motion.

Her eyelids flutter close and she’s seeing stars, much like the ones on the ceiling of the Ravenclaw common room. She imagines she is one of those stars, a little ball of gas that burns brighter and brighter with each pump of his fingers, each kiss his lips grace upon her skin.

Tom swirls his tongue over the tender mark on her neck, already bruising, no doubt. His mouth leaves trails of kisses all the way up her chin to her mouth again, his free hand making its way to the back of her head to fist a handful of her hair, and she opens her eyes again. She feels small beneath his gaze, but it’s not because of how he stares at her, it’s how he stares into her, like he’s a spider crawling into her mind, a vine twisting around her brain.

He’s got her completely under his control between his gaze and his fingers pumping inside of her and she’s never once been so utterly someone’s before until this moment. A line forms between her brows as he works a third finger into the mix and it feels like he’s practically digging her orgasm out of her.

She pants and reaches out for him, for anything on his body she can hold onto. She settles for his elbow, the one on the same arm as the hand he has woven through her hair, her opposite hand falling to the side of the sink, her fingernails scratching the white surface.

“Tom, I’m…” she pants as he curls his fingers inside of her, using the pad of his thumb to circle her clit again. Her back is arching off of the mirror and somewhere in the back of her mind, she thanks Merlin that miraculously, nobody has walked into the bathroom yet. “…I’m going to… I’m…!”

“Do it,” he encourages beside her ear, his breath like smoke on her skin. “Poor things’ been so neglected, hasn’t been fucked enough. You must’ve been waiting so long for me to come save you and give you an orgasm, hm?”

She nods, feeling the salty bite of tears in her eyes. It’s all simply too much, being stuffed full of Tom’s fingers, his thumb on her clit, his fingers in her hair, his body so close to hers, his voice telling her such wicked things. To think that none of this would’ve happened if she hadn’t been caught staring at him earlier. That it took her dating someone whom Tom loathes such as Vincent to get her where she is now.

“Then do it,” he hisses again. “Come all over my fingers. Show me how neglected this poor cunt has been.”

Such a dirty thing for him to say and yet, it’s exactly what she needs to send her over the edge. His fingers hook inside of her heat and her body spasms when she comes undone, her toes curling while her lips fall in a silent scream. Tom gathers her mouth to seal them in a kiss once more as she rides her orgasm out on his fingers, and she moans against his lips, allowing his tongue to swirl over hers.

It feels like she’s been falling forever, but Tom eventually pulls his fingers away, eyes spilling into hers as he brings them to his lips. She feels like she could have another orgasm just watching him taste her on his fingers.

She reaches forward to cup the back of his head, pulling his mouth down onto hers, tasting a mix of his spit and her cum on his lips. It’s all very obscene, but it makes it all the more gratifying all the same.

Tom eventually pulls away, his lips prettily pink and glistening with spit, and he backs away, dusting off his robes. She feels the crease form in her forehead as he begins making for the door and she tilts her head, mustering the energy to call after him.

“Where are you going?” She asks and he turns only to peer over his shoulder. She can see his raised eyebrow and she suddenly feels stupid for asking the question. “To class,” he replies and then, the corner of his mouth curls into a nefarious grin. It’s enough to even send shivers slithering down her spine— how wicked he looks, grinning like a devil with remnants of her release on his lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you and your boyfriend in Defense Against the Dark Arts later.”

a/n; whew. i'm honestly surprised i got this one done LMFAO. anyways, THIS REQUEST HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY INBOX FOR MOST LIKELY OVER A YEAR AND I'M SO SORRY TO THE ANON FOR TAKING SO LONG TO WRITE THIS 😭 i still hope that if you are reading, you enjoy it! i hope this is angsty enough 😭

anyways, i hope everyone who reads this enjoys it! i absolutely love writing for tom and this is the most fun i've had writing for him since probably wrapped around your finger and its sequel :)

🪄 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! 🫶

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artethyst · 5 months

Text

~ Leaves In A Sky Full Of Stars ~

Eris Vanserra x Rhysand’s Sister!OC/Reader

“You know, I am High Lord.” Eris murmured against your exposed neck, “I could so easily decline the invitation-“

“No,” you grinned, moving his wandering hands to cup the ever so slight bump that rested above your womb- one that had turned Eris feral when it had finally made its hardly noticeable appearance days before. “We cannot keep it from them forever.”

“I can do as I please,” he retorted as you sighed, watching him in the large mirror you both were stood in front of.

“So can I.” You smirked. “You made me High Lady, remember? I have just as much power as you.”

“How could I ever forget…” He mumbled with a lazed smirk as you drank in the sight of him- dressed in fine maroon layers laced with gold, his crown perched lazily upon his auburn curls. He pressed a lingering kiss to your shoulder, his veined hand splayed protectively over your growing babe.

“It is only one evening, I am sure even you can tolerate that,” you mused, straightening your vermillion skirts and joining your much smaller and softer hands over his. “No matter how you feel on the matter, Rhysand will still be their uncle.”

“No need to remind me,” Eris grimaced, his feelings for his brother-in-law still very much apparent after all those years.

The two males coming to some sort of unspoken agreement they would remain civil for the sake of the most treasured female in their lives.

“Is Big Bad Wolf of Autumn afraid of my older brother?” You began to laugh as he nuzzled his head against your collar as one of his hounds might. “Worried he might castrate you for impregnating his little sister?”

It was Eris’ turn to smirk then.

“Bunny, if that is what will bother him, I can assure him I have done far worse.”

You rolled your eyes, a light blush on your cheeks at the insinuation of his words, softening when he spun you around to force you to face him properly.

With his slender hand angling your chin, amber irises burning an impassioned fire through your own, there was nothing that could escape him.

Not even the small pout that had come to rest on your full lips. The ones he had to fight himself not to lose himself in right there and then.

“You know I only jest my Love, I will behave how you ask of me. Anything you desire-“

“I-It is not that,” you breathed, eyes brimming with tears you could only blame on the growing flame in your stomach. “It is just…”

“Tell me,” Eris’ usually composed face flickered with concern, his sharp brows pulling together in worry, his senses ever so more heightened since news of your newfound state broke. “Whatever is wrong I will resolve-“

“I miss my home,” your voice was shaky as you refused to meet your Mate’s eye, unable to bear the hurt that flickered across his face. “I…I miss my family, and…And times like these just remind me that my child will not be raised the same way.”

Eris did not know how to respond.

He would have liked to think he had made you feel comfortable in Autumn- that his home was just as much yours than anyone’s.

That if you ever wanted to leave, you would tell him- not that you ever had to. He never stopped you from visiting, hell, would always accompany you- begrudgingly, whenever you wished for him to

He would never be like that sorry bastard Tamlin and have you locked away.

Were his worst fears finally coming true? Had you realised what he had known all along? That he did not deserve you? That you should have never accepted the bond-

“Are…Are you not happy here?” He could not hide the disappointment in his tone. “If you wish to leave-“

“No, Eris,” your tears began to fall at the sight of him- so vulnerable, thinking that he could never be enough for you. “That is not what I mean I…I never wish to be apart from you again, you…You are my true home.” You felt worse when he began to comfort you, sending waves of love down the bond as he gently thumbed circles into your lower back, his gestures more delicate than ever since your pregnancy.

“Whatever you want, Bunny, I will ensure you have it,” his words were sincere and you couldn’t help but break into small sobs, knowing just how far he would go- the things he would sacrifice for you.

It might have terrified you once, but now you understood why. You understood because you would do the same for him.

“I just…I just wish things were different,” you knew he had been trying, that your brother had too, but tensions were still rife amongst the courts. With loyalist Advisors Eris had yet to wheedle out and men like Keir who respected your husband than his own High Lord, politics were never simple. “O-Our child will not be brought up with same customs, attend school with their cousins-“

“If that is what you wish who is to deny you, High-Lady?” You couldn’t help but laugh through your tears, melting into your husband’s arms as though his muscled chest was the only salvation from the rest of Prythian.

“No I…I-I want them to know of their heritage- this heritage. To be part of their own Court’s customs…Be like their father,” Eris couldn’t help the way his own heart tightened at that, having to remind himself if not by anyone else, you were proud of him. “I just…I just wish we could have both…”

“Who says we cannot, hmmm?” He wiped away your tears, thumb lingering beneath your glittering eye, the ones it had only taken him one look in to be hooked on for the rest of his breathing days. “I shall see to it we spend a quarter of our year in Velaris. We will have a family residence where our children will be able to live freely in such a place that is theirs too to call home.”

You noticed the way he had said children.

Plural.

Despite his anxieties, he subconsciously was hoping for more.

“B-But what about you? Your duties-”

“My Love, why do you think I have delegates? And what else is Lucien useful for if not performing tasks that are below me?” You scoffed at that as he chuckled, tucking a stray curl lovingly behind your ear.

And no matter how unsettled he felt in Night- the stares that would follow him, the distrust certain members of yours- now his by proxy, family still scathingly looked upon him with, he would stomach it.

He would compromise anything- everything to ensure your happiness.

“Is residing in my old apartment no longer good enough for you?” You let out, trying to lighten the mood. Chin coming to rest at his sternum, reminiscing of the times when the only way to see him was to sneak him through the wards of your private quarters.

“My darling, I would buy every property in that wretched place if it would bring back your smile.”

You poked him in the ribs as he groaned.

“You just wish to show off your riches and have us live in a grander estate than my brother’s…On his own land.”

“You know me too well, My Love.”

And so that night, when you broke the news, with happy tears from Feyre and Cassian, drunken squeals from Mor (who had already known) and crushing embraces from Azriel and even Nesta, Rhysand did not have the heart to slight Eris.

And in return, neither did your Mate.

A warm smile on his hardened face as you tried to explain to a babbling Nyx- who couldn’t understand a thing, that he was to have a cousin. Watching you flourish with a new glow, surrounded by your family- surrounded by love in your childhood home.

Your home which you had opened to him.

#fanfic #acotar #acotar fic #acotar x oc #acotar x reader #eris acotar #eris vandaddy #eris vanserra #eris vanserra x oc #eris vanserra x reader #eris x oc #eris x reader

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vincentmatthews · 1 year

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♡~OC Asks~♡

{Please specify which OC the question is targeted to, for people who may have more than one. Thank you and have fun💕}

{Safe questions}

🦋What is their favorite season?

☕️What is their favorite coffee/tea?

🍓What is their favorite fruit?

🍿Favorite show/movie?

🧁What's their dream date place?

🎀Do they have something they collect? {Stamps, rocks, stickers, etc}

🐾Do they have a pet? What are they, and what's their name?

🌿Do they like camping or road trips?

🍋Do you have a song that you associate with them?

🥞What breakfast dish instantly reminds them of home or being a kid?

🍕What's their guilty pleasure food?

🥝Do they have a food allergy or food they hate?

🍉What is their favorite summer food?

🎄Favorite holiday?

🎃What would their Halloween outfit be?

🎁What is something they keep like: a souvenir, a keepsake, or a family heirloom; that means a lot to them? Why is it so important to them?

🧸Do they have a stuffed animal or item they've kept from when they were a kid?

🍷What is their drink of choice? Both alcoholic and non-alcoholic?

🔪Say they were put in a classic 80s slasher/horror setting, who would they be? {Example: The killer. The dude who dies first. Etc.}

🍄Say it's their love interests' birthday, how would they celebrate it?

🎟Say they go to a fair/carnival, what fair treat would they get to eat, and what attraction would they like the most?

🌊What is a phobia of theirs?

🐁Do they find a creature cute, that normal people don't? Such as spiders, rats, snakes, sharks, etc?

🦴Have they ever broken a bone or had any sort of major injuries before? If so, what was their ailment?

🍰What is their favorite dessert?

♥️Favorite color?

🎈If they could travel anywhere, where would they go?

🌻Favorite flower?

🦝What do they smell like?

🍞What smell reminds them of home or better days?

🧿Do they have a superstition or belief? Such as "black cats bring bad luck", belief in ghosts, tarot, crystals, meditation, etc.

🥰Tell me about a time they'd get romantic with someone {keep it pg-13 please}

💫What do they wish on shooting stars? What is their one wish they want to come true?

🪴Free Space for your own question~♡

🔮Random Question chosen by the poster~♡

{Spicy Questions}

🌶Where have they almost been caught having sex? And what were they almost caught doing?

🩵Do they bite or leave hickies on their partner? And do they leave them where people can see it? Or do they hide them and press on the marks when they're in public?

🍇What is their sexuality? And what is their "type"?

🍼Do they have kids? Or are they willing to have any?

🍾What's the the kinkiest thing they've done while drunk at a party?

🍪What is their dirty name for their partner?

🥀Do they have a favorite position?

🧨If they could screw anyone without any consequences, who would they choose?

🎉Say it's their love interests' birthday, how would they celebrate it~?

🌽Have they ever done a dirty video before? Either alone, or with others? If so, has anyone ever "found" it?

🥑What are some of their random kinks/fetishes?

🥥How vocal are they, during sex?

🍐Say they wanted to look sexy for their partner, what sort of outfit would they wear?

🍑How did they react to having their "first time?" And was their partner understanding if they were nervous?

🥧Have they ever had a one-night stand when they were drunk?

🐹What "pet" names do they like being used for them? {Babe, Kitten, Puppy, Mutt, etc.}

🐺Tell me about their first time trying bondage~♡

🔥Do they get turned on by strange things, such as fire, chaos, blood, etc?

🧀Are people with piercings and tattoos a +1 on them being attracted to them?

🐧Do they have a safe word? What is it?

💉Have they done drugs before? Which ones? And are they addicted to anything?

🌹Tell me about a time they'd get romantic with someone {you can add the kink here}

💋Do they kiss first? And do they bite their lips if they're mischievous or aroused? And do they bite their partner's lips when they try and pull away?

🍀Free Space for your own question~♡

🎲Random Question chosen by the poster~♡

#Sorry it's so long I've been working on this for a while #oc ask thing #oc asks #oc questions #oc prompt #oc #ask prompt #cyberpunk oc #I made this for y'all but please feel free to ask me~♡#Only if you want that is 🥺👉👈

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starlightfallz · 2 months

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💙Cold and cool like Neptune, Azure is here💙

I figured I should start introducing the starstrike members! But here’s azure my nsr au / oc design of purl-hew. His reference on the right is made by my friend Murky_meows!

Some information about him:

- He shines brighter than any star in the sky and his radiance shines all through the galaxy. He's the third member of the newly former intergalactic boyband Starstrike and is the third oldest of the group. He pilots the Starship that they live on!

- Like Neptune he's ice cold, an air of mystery surrounds him alluring fans all across space who can seem to get enough of this illusive robot. He's the designated cool guy of the group for sure, often hiding how he truly feels behind shades. Others may see him as quiet and calculating, judgemental and intimating but really he's a man with a piercing diamond stare that will chill you to the bone, but his words are the sweetest of them all.

- Sure, he may be quiet and quite the observer but in actuality he just struggles with voicing how he really feels. Introverted and hiding behind the facade of this cool guy guise. His core frozen over by the overwhelming power of ice. Walled up his heart, how could he learn to love when he's never known how? Will the fire of your love ignite and thaw out his heart? Will you melt away the walls of fear he's built so high?

NSR in space? 1010 being intergalactic space defenders ? More to come soon (maybe..)

#starart #no straight roads #nsr #nsr 1010 #Nsr au #starstrike au

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sweetiecutie · 2 years

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Pairing: dark! Sirius Black x fem! Reader

Warnings: obsessive behavior, yandere themes, stalking, blackmail(?), toxic behavior, oc as reader’s best friend but it’s really brief

A/n: it’s Friday 13th so here have some dark content. Im really into mood for yandere content, so there will be more💖

You thanked every possible goddess and greater mind existing as you stomped out of your detention, feeling positively angry and exhausted. You were hungry due to skipping today’s dinner, your arms hurt from continuous polishing of old Hogwarts armours, your head was buzzing with heavy thoughts only adding to your sour mood.

You’ve always liked professor Flitwick - him not only being a head of your house, but an excellent teacher and great person in general only made your respect towards him grow bigger with every day. But detentions with him were pure nightmare - meticulous and boring work, caused, in your case, by you being late with handing in your charms homework on time for nth time.

It was already past midnight and the only thing you wanted was to get into your warm cosy bed, hide under your fluffy blanket and black out for the rest of the night, getting well-deserved sleep.

You were making your way hurriedly down the dark Hogwarts halls, that looked strangely hostile and unwelcoming in a silver moonlight pouring in through numerous paned windows. You couldn’t help but constantly look behind, not being able to shrug off a feeling of being closely watched, just to find no one around, as expected in such a late hour.

Just a bit. Just a bit more and you’d be in the safety of Ravenclaw common room, welcomed by dying fire and fluorescent stars glued to the ceiling by generations of ravenclaws.

And just as you let your guard down, you felt a pair of strong hands grabbing you by your shoulders, turning you around swiftly so that your back was pressed tightly against a cold stone wall of a castle, your throat constricting in fright, not allowing a single sound to escape your lips.

And there he was, standing in front of you in all of his beauty - hogwarts playboy and your personal nightmare - Sirius Orion Black. He was grinning his usual, perfectly practiced, smile down at your shrinking form, and even despite recognizing the person cornering you your whole body only tensed impossibly more.

- Lovely to see you here, Y/n, - black-haired purred mere inches apart from your face, his dark eyes, glistening in a dim moonlight, were ogling you like a predator getting ready to pounce on an innocent lamb.

- Don’t act as if you weren’t stalking me all this time, you creep, - you spat out, anger mixed with revulsion and fear was bubbling underneath your skin. Black tutted at your bitter words, one hand coming to caress the side of your face with his knuckles, all wounded and rough from constant fights he was picking up. You seemed to regain a little control over your own body, your hands coming to boy’s broad chest in an attempt to push him off, but to no avail - Sirius didn’t budge, but only came closer, caging your smaller body under his towering height.

- Now, now, my dearest. Words can hurt, you know? - black-haired uttered in feigned offence, jutting his lips out like an upset child, but you knew better than all of that. You struggled against him once more, but fruitless - your muscles were too tired and weak after long hours or physical work, and Sirius was simply way bigger and stronger than you.

- What do you want from me, Black? - you inquired exasperatedly, voice seething with poison.

Sirius’ perfect eyebrows furrowed up a bit, an expression of fake hurt dissolving quickly and you could see that your question really did surprise him. The hand that was previously tenderly stroking your cheek stopped in its tracks. You could see anger brooding in his amethyst eyes, mad at you using his last name despite him asking you multiple times to refer to him with his first name instead.

- What do you mean? Y/n, we haven’t seen each other the whole day, all of our classes were separate, and this bloody detention of yours! Of course I’m here to see you, what else does it look like? - Sirius said all of that with such fierce, that you knew this time he was really offended by your question, as if the logic behind all of his actions was dead obvious.

- And I don’t want to see you. Leave. Me. Alone, - you seethed at him, sharply accentuating your last words with long pauses, looking him straight in the eyes.

You watched as Sirius’ jaw clenching tightly. The hand retrieved from your cheek, balling into a heavy fist; a moment later it hit on a stone wall mere centimeters next to your head with a dull thump, strength of the impact making cold stone of the wall behind you vibrate slightly. You jolted harshly at that, inhaling sharply through your nose; you didn’t dare to blink, too afraid to let your eyes off this, this animal - ferocious and insane, driven by his instincts and emotions only, and you were trapped right inside his claws.

A moment of silence stretched uncomfortably, with Sirius glaring down at your shrinking form and you trying your best not to break under the pressure of his heavy gaze.

- It’s her, isn’t it? That bitch Lena. She’s turning you against me, putting all that bullshit in your head? - Sirius’ chest thrummed with dry humorless chuckle, his eyes colder than ice.

You felt as if ground was swept right from beneath your feet, your chest swelling with sticky horror. No, not her. Not your best friend. Sirius was purely insane, deeply delusional in every aspect of you. He’ll simply kill her. Or injure her so badly, her chances to live would be near to zero. And he had more than enough money, influence and wit to make it seem as if he never had to do anything with such a ‘terrible accident’. You already knew that, after that Hufflepuff boy that obviously fancied you went missing one day, Sirius’ knuckles raw with fresh cuts and bruises.

- N-no, Sirius, wait, - you stammered out, hands instinctively flying up to rest on his shoulders, his muscles tense under your touch. Your mind was racing with a speed of sound as you tried to find a way out of this horrible situation, to keep Lena and yourself safe.

Sirius was watching you with his scrutinizing cold eyes, fury etched on his sharp features. You felt your eyes sting with tears of panic as you stammered out squeaky:

- S-She al-lways approved of y-you, Siri. Always, - you saw his stony expression crack slightly after hearing you use the nickname, your body shuddering intensely, panic was making it hard to breathe. It was a straight up lie - Lena saw right through Sirius’ insanity, warning you to stay as far as possible from him. But that didn’t matter, you’d do anything just to keep your best friend safe.

Sirius’ fist unclenched, coming to cradle your nape; expecting expression etched on his face encouraged you to go further.

- I… I was just playing. R-really, how could you eat that, huh? - you sputter out hastily, stumbling over your words and forcing a chuckle out, it came out way too tense to sound natural. But Sirius seemed to follow through everything you’ve said as soon as next words left your trembling lips:

- Of course I’m glad to see you.

His lips stretched in a wide grin, so brilliant it seemed to lighten up a thick darkness of a hall. His thumb came to rub small circles into the skin of your jaw; his other hand that was previously propping Sirius’ heavy body next to a wall came to rest on you waist, drawing you in until your bodies were pressed tightly against each other, you could feel heat radiating off of black-haired even despite numerous layers of clothing.

- You little minx, really got me here, - he murmured softly, eyes fixated upon your face. It took everything in you to force a smile onto your lips, your hands were trembling ferociously, still laying upon boy’s broad shoulders.

Sirius ducked down, rubbing your noses affectionately before sealing his lips with yours, his eyes fluttering closed, lost in euphoria, meanwhile you couldn’t bring yourself to even blink, watching his every move with great caution. His hand resting on the back of your head felt extremely heavy and a strong scent of his undoubtedly expensive cologne made you nauseous - it felt like you could pass out at any moment.

Sirius broke away shortly after, leaving a last small peck on your numb lips. It was the first time he went as far as actually kissing you, and you were terrified to even think of how long it’d take until he tries anything more heated than pressing his lips against yours for a few long seconds. Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

- Siri, I’m really tired. Detention was pure hell and I need some sleep, - you uttered quietly, his shoulders slumping slightly in disappointment underneath your palms, but he nodded his head in agreement.

- Yeah, right. Let’s get you to bed then, princess? - Black said with a cheeky grin stretching his soft (now you knew) lips. His hands left your body just to grab one of your hands into his, intertwining your fingers together, leading his way up to the Ravenclaw tower.

Making it up the spiral staircase and uttering a right answer to the metal raven upon heavy door, you looked up at Sirius just to find him already beaming down at you. His free hand came to cup your jaw, bringing your face closer to his - hot lips pressed to your forehead, leaving a chaste kiss on your unnaturally cold skin. He broke away rather reluctantly, winking down at you:

- Sleep tight, sweetness. See you tomorrow, - and with that you departed, slamming a heavy door shut behind you.

Standing in a huge circular room crammed with countless books and parchments, with welcoming fire cracking joyfully and fluorescent stars twinkling down at you - you felt utterly and wholly petrified. Cold sweat was seeping through the soft cotton of your uniform shirt on your back, heart pummeling at the huge surge of adrenaline running through your veins, knees trembling ferociously, struggling to keep your body up.

And it was only now that the realization fully sank in, realization of how deep you got yourself into trouble in your desperate attempt to ensure your best friend’s safety, now seeing absolutely no way out of Sirius’ tight clutches.

Part 2🖤

Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated - feedback inspires writers on creating even more content for you💖

#sirius black #dark!sirius black #yandere sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #harry potter #harry potter writing #harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #marauders #marauders x reader #marauders yandere #yandere harry potter #yandere x you #yandere x reader #marauders era #dark!harry potter

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senualothbrok · 8 months

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Promise

Screenshot by @dolceaspidenera

Summary: Gale learns what it means to love and be loved.

Sequel to Progress - a Professor Dekarios x OC journey through mental illness and recovery.

Word count: 7.9k

Disclaimers: Non-18+, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, mental illness and recovery.

Trigger warnings: Mental illness, eating disorder, body dysmorphia. Please practise self-care.

AO3 link

She looks happy.

She is smiling at you. You are lying in bed, facing each other. Sunlight streaks through your bedroom curtains as dawn breaks. You have to remind yourself that this is not a dream. She is really, truly here.

She closes her eyes as you run your thumb over her freckles, which fan out like stars over the contours of her face. Your fingers dance over her arm, the dip in her waist, the curve of her thighs. She does not shy away from your touch, nor try to hide her flesh from you. Her grey eyes quiver.

“I love you,” she whispers.

You cannot tell whether it is your tears or hers that linger on your tongue as you melt into each other.

---

You can still taste her salt and sweetness as you lie on your back, your arm curled around her as she nestles into your chest. She smells like lavender, soap, and sweat, and you cannot get enough of her scent as you bury your nose into her dark, damp waves. She is playing with the hairs that trail from your chest to your navel, and you shiver from the shadow of her fingers. She notices.

“It’s a new experience, having such an effect on a man. It’s quite…flattering.”

She looks up at you with a small smile.

You chuckle. “You don’t know half of the effect that you’ve had on me, Aurora. I’ve spent two years imagining this moment, and still, my fantasies scarcely touched the surface of the miracle that you are.”

She is blushing, shifting. You kiss her on the tip of her nose, where she has the tiniest scar. You are engraving her every mark on the shrine of your memory.

“So…” She clears her throat. “You’re saying that you’ve been lusting after me since the first day we met? Your eyes met mine across the lecture hall and you thought, ‘This is a maiden I long for’. One glimpse of me was enough to rouse the fire in your loins. Is that it?”

She is playful now, teasing. You are aflame with this new side of her that no one else has seen.

You laugh. “Perhaps I exaggerate. But if not two years, then twenty months at most. I fell in love with you very quickly, Aurora. Much as I resisted it, or denied it to myself.”

Her gaze is evasive now, as though she is embarrassed. You clasp her to you. You need her to know, to feel the truth in your words. She must understand what she means to you. What she has meant to you, all this time.

“I’ve been alone since Mystra cast me off. At times, it’s been immensely lonely. To meet you, a kindred spirit, a soul that touched mine so instantly … that happens very rarely in a lifetime, if at all. Let’s just say that my body and soul yearned for you like water in a desert.”

You do not tell her about the frenzy that so often overcame you, slumped over your desk or under these very same sheets, thinking of her. The appetites of a schoolboy that she restored in you, when those desires had been all but dormant. Some things are better left to the imagination.

She is quiet. You can feel the faint timbre of her heartbeat through your skin.

“These things fluster you,” you observe.

She nods, biting her lip.

“Why? Don’t you believe me?”

“No, Gale, it’s not that.” She shakes her head. “I just find it hard to believe that someone like you could feel that way about me.”

She takes a deep breath.

“When we first met, I thought I’d found my first ever friend. And even that, I struggled to believe. I didn’t want to admit to myself that… well, I didn’t know what love was. Besides, how could it be possible? You’re the best man, the most beautiful person, I’ve ever known.”

You have such an urge to answer her with your mouth, your tongue, your body. But she is hesitant, and you must wait until the doubt passes. You must help her understand.

“But that’s what you are to me, Aurora.”

A frown passes across her brow.

“You’re the one and only.”

You brush your lips over her forehead. She sighs, her features softening.

“Also,” you add. “Little things that you did drove me wild.”

Something glints in her gaze. “Like what?”

She presses herself closer to you.

“Too many to count. The way you bit your lip, for one. How delicately you turned the pages of every book. The way your face lit up talking about an illusion or a poem you loved.”

You can feel a familiar ache building.

“The way you widened your eyes when you looked at me. Like that. What you’re doing now.”

You thought you were spent, but you are already hardening. She runs her tongue over her bottom lip.

“So I’m driving you wild at this very moment?”

You move your mouth closer to hers. “Yes.”

“Well.” She tilts her head. Her hand begins to float downwards from your navel. “It would be cruel to stop at that.”

As you push yourself on top of her, she lets out a little moan.

---

“Are you sure I look acceptable?”

She is fussing at the waistband of her skirt, the buttons on her sleeves. She fidgets with her hair clips, smoothing and re-smoothing her bodice.

“Is this the sort of thing that your mother will expect? Or should I wear something more modest?”

You chuckle. “You’re hardly baring every inch of your flesh to the world, Aurora.”

“Is it too conservative, then? Should I-”

You move closer to snake your hands around her waist. She leans her forehead against your chest.

“You look perfect. Marvellous.”

“I don’t,” she murmurs.

“You’re breathtaking.”

You are playing with the fabric on her shoulder. It torments you, the trail of freckles that drifts down the curve of her cheek, disappearing on the edge of her neck, only to reappear on her collarbone and shoulder blade. Aurora’s freckles are like winding roads in an unchartered territory, waiting to be discovered. Instinctively, your mouth dips down to follow where they lead.

“Gale…”

She looks up, frowning.

“What are you doing?”

You are losing yourself. There is something about having her here with you, in the home that you have occupied for so many years with only Tara for company, readying herself to meet those you cherish most. You never thought such a thing would be possible. You are suddenly dizzy with love and desire. Your tongue swirls against her skin, yearning for more of her.

“Your mother and Tara will be here any moment.”

But you can hear how her breath is hitching. Her eyes are half lidded, her lips parted. That she cannot resist you only fuels your hunger. You slide your hand underneath her skirt. She trembles against it.

“They can let themselves in,” you rasp.

---

Morena and Tara cannot conceal their joy when they see you stumbling down the stairs. The flush on Aurora’s cheeks has not yet receded as you make introductions. It does not escape their eagle eyes, how you repeatedly clear your throats and smooth your clothes and hair. How you rub at your beard again and again. When Aurora bites her lip, the images that rush through your mind make you shift to find your centre. Morena and Tara glance at each other with glee as you sit, sipping at the lukewarm cup of tea that has been waiting for you.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Tara and Gale, dear.” Morena beams. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you at last.”

She clasps Aurora’s hand. Aurora’s eyes widen. She is surprised by your mother’s warmth, just as she was taken aback by yours. You remember that she has never known a mother to give anything but punishment.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs Dekarios.”

Morena huffs. “Please, let’s dispense with such formalities. You can call me Morena, and hopefully, one day, you’ll call me Mother.”

You choke on your tea, glaring at Tara as she tuts at you. Aurora strokes you on the back as you cough and sputter, trying to conceal her alarm.

“Mother,” you say when you can breathe again. “Will you have some cake? A cookie? Something to stuff your very empty mouth?”

“My dear son,” she chirps. “It’s so kind of you to worry over your mother’s happiness and comfort. In fact, it brings immeasurable joy to this old heart to see you in your current state. Just look at the two of you. Glowing, positively radiant, with love.”

She claps her hands together with a sigh. Tara joins in with a fluttering of wings.

“Now that I’ve seen you in person, dearest Aurora, I know that all of Tara’s reports are true. You and my son are perfectly matched. You’re a vision.”

Aurora’s cheeks are reddening. Pride surges through you as she speaks.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Mrs- I mean, Morena. Your son is an exceptional man. I’m very lucky to be here with him.”

She interlaces her fingers with yours under the table. You almost wish that Tara and Morena would leave now, so you can keep showing her how exceptional you can be.

Tara and Morena exchange a look. As if on cue, they flash their teeth in a grin.

“You are such a dear.” Morena titters. “Now, I hope you won’t take offence in me pointing this out, but neither of you are getting any younger-”

You bristle, raising a finger. “Mother, may I ask where you’re going with this?”

She pushes your finger down instantly. “My son, I was coming onto the future for the two of you. Tara and I have been waiting for years for-”

“Oh Gods.” You stand, waving your hands around. “Look at the time. I didn’t realise how late it was.”

Morena narrows her eyes.

“Mother, don’t you have an auction or something to hurry off to?”

“I actually-”

You stare at Tara. “And Tara, don’t you need to escort my dear Mother to her next appointment, to make sure she doesn’t get lost? She can be ever so disoriented these days.”

Tara arches her back.

Confusion and panic brim in Aurora’s gaze as it flits between the three of you. There is a long silence. You do not back down. Morena purses her lips and rises to her feet slowly.

“Yes,” she drawls. “I’m in an awful rush. I’m so grateful that you reminded me.”

You give her your sweetest, most innocent smile. You embrace her, kissing her gently on the cheek. She squeezes your shoulder.

“Come on, Tara. Let’s leave the lovebirds to their merrymaking.”

---

“Your mother is…”

“Difficult? Wonderful? Awkward?”

“I was going to say persistent.”

You laugh, whether it is from relief, amusement, or fear, you are not sure.

You are sitting on the sofa in the library. Her head rests on your lap as you untangle the braids from her hair. You had hoped that her first meeting with the inimitable Morena Dekarios would not be catastrophic. From the way that Aurora giggles now, you are reassured that it was not. Though whether this was solely owing to your premature termination of the meeting, you cannot say.

“She likes you,” you remark.

Aurora sighs. “I hope so.”

“It’s clear.” You chuckle. “You would know if she didn’t.”

She nestles further into you. You trace your finger up and down her jawline. How is it possible for a heart to feel so full? Perhaps that is what makes you feel brave.

“What did you think of Mother’s question?” You clear your throat. “About the future?”

She tilts her head. “That depends.”

“On what?” you ask, a little too quickly.

She pauses, and the sorrow in her smile wounds you.

“On how long you can put up with me.”

You pull her up into you. You kiss her so deeply, so desperately, that your flesh aches from where it has touched her. She is shaking when you come apart.

“I don’t want a future that doesn’t have you in it,” you breathe.

She pants into your lips. “Neither do I.”

---

There are good days, and there are bad days.

You expected this. The doctors and nurses warned you. You are prepared for the worst. You told them that nothing could phase you, and you are determined. You love her, and you will do what it takes.

You are an intellectual. You can measure things in the abstract, and see things with an academic’s remove. You know that the good days outweigh the bad days. You can see how she is changing, growing. You can see the chains which she is fighting to break.

Aurora has never lived with anyone but her mother. She has never known freedom, and it is a struggle to adjust. She has shed her glamour, and for the most part, she no longer hides behind the shroud of loose robes. She is full of passion and apprehension as she takes on management of Mr Serpentil’s bookstore. She supplements her income by hosting poetry and novel readings with elaborate shows of illusion. She is building a life for herself, which comes with as many obstacles as gains. There is laughter alongside her tears, hope alongside her despair. Her tenderness for you overflows between and beyond the sheets.

The doctors had wondered if it was too soon, if you were moving too fast. You have only known each other for two years, they warned, and Aurora’s affliction is not for the faint-hearted. Such challenges break even the strongest and most well-established relationships. You rebuffed them. You feel like you have known her your entire life, and you cannot waste any more time. You have suffered much, lost much, and you do not take anything for granted. You want to spend every moment with her.

You want to share everything with her, to bare your soul to her so completely that there are no more secrets between you. You tell her everything about your past, even the things that cause you grief and shame. You give your whole heart to her. It is the only way you know how to love her.

But there are times when the weight of her condition is crushing. When she hides from you, and cannot be touched. When she cannot speak of the fears that claw at her, and retreats to a place you cannot go. When she freezes at the dinner table, stifling tears that come later in bed, when she shrinks away from your embrace.

It does not touch your love, only your resolve.

You know that kindness can overcome the burdens that a person carries. You yourself had friends who stood by you when you were a walking apocalypse, a ticking time bomb. They never abandoned you. They did not leave you to die.

You know that knowledge is the weapon to face any challenge.

You must find a solution, a cure, for her affliction.

---

Birthdays are difficult for her. All they signify is the devastation of yet another wasted year. She has never celebrated them. Her mother certainly never bothered, beyond reminding her of her shame and failures.

So when her birthday comes, you decide to celebrate her as she deserves.

You do what you do best. You array the dining room with candles and floating orbs. You fill the room with the scent of flowers, covering the table with a velvet cloth of rich green, her favourite colour. You spend hours preparing a rich, three course dinner, making sure that you dress the plates just so. You set the piano playing songs that have made Aurora smile. You brim with nervous excitement.

Tara insists that you wear your deep blue doublet and shave your beard, so you look your best. You humour her by doing the former, but you ignore her latter suggestion. From the speed with which Tara leaves, you can tell she thinks this night will involve more than a simple birthday celebration.

When Aurora returns home from the bookshop, shock blooms on her face. You take her hand and lead her into the dining room, where she looks around in bewilderment.

“You did all this for me,” she breathes, her eyes dilated with gratitude and desire.

“Happy birthday,” you reply, drawing her close.

You stumble and sway as your mouths find each other’s. She tastes of peppermint and smells of sea wind. You come apart panting, flushed, and you pull away from her only so you do not burn the food that is cooking. You glimpse a spasm of anxiety on her face, so you pass her your gift as you make your way to the kitchen.

“Gale.” She takes the box from you. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She stands at the boundary of the kitchen door as she unwraps it. You have found first edition copies of the complete works of Lorazelle Staunth, one of Aurora’s favourite romance writers. It took you some wrangling, but you managed to convince a colleague, a distant cousin of Staunth’s, to get them signed by their author. It is difficult to focus on the gravy you are stirring as you watch her out of the corner of your eye. She gasps, beaming, turning each book over in her hands with wonder and reverence, murmuring to herself.

You grin. “You’re welcome.”

She strides into the kitchen, over the invisible border that she has always feared to tread. Your breath catches as she leans into your back and wraps her arms around you. She does not let go, even when you have to walk back and forth to gather the dishes together to serve. Nor do you have the heart to ask her to release you.

You have never loved anyone so completely. You have never felt such happiness.

When you eventually sit down to eat, you take for granted what it is that you are asking. It dawns on you, as her jaw clenches and she grimaces. She tries, so hard, smiling, thanking you, complimenting your efforts. Her cutlery clatters on her plate, her movements are laboured. She tries to follow the thread of conversation, even when her gaze glazes and her words become broken. But in the end, it is too much, and you know you have pushed her too far, too soon.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps.

When she retreats to the bathroom, guilt engulfs you. You leave the untouched dishes, blow out the candles, silence the piano. You follow her, standing outside the locked door, listening to her muffled cries. You want to ask her to let you in. You do not know what to do, what to say. You wait.

How could you have been so foolish, so thoughtless? How could you have caused her such agony? You, who have always taken pride in your wisdom, your keen powers of observation. You have pushed the woman you love off a precipice, because you were selfish and insensitive. She has every right to be angry. To decide that you love her poorly. That you are unworthy.

You should have known better. You must make it up to her. You must find a way.

“This is my fault, Aurora,” you manage. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I should have been more mindful… Please forgive me.”

The door creaks open slowly. Her eyes are swollen, her voice is hoarse.

“There’s nothing to forgive. You didn’t do anything wrong, Gale.”

She trudges back to the dining room, and you trail behind her. You can tell from her footsteps that she is exhausted. Adrift. She gestures towards the table.

“Do you mind if we…”

You wrap your arms around her. She stands stiffly. She neither returns nor rejects your embrace. When you step back, she will not look at you.

“I don’t think I can give you what you need, Gale.”

You are taken aback by her words. Panic grows within you.

“What do you mean?”

She bites her lip, shaking her head.

“That’s not true, Aurora.” Your stomach lurches. “Please don’t say such things.”

She stares at you. There is something like coldness in her gaze, but you know it is not that. It is a wall of resignation, shame. There is bitterness in her voice, but it is not directed at you.

“You deserve someone who you can enjoy a dinner that you took such great lengths to prepare. Someone who’s grateful for all the amazing things you do. Someone who can receive the gifts that you give without reservations and certainly without…”

She swipes her hand towards the bathroom, the dining table, herself.

“…This. You deserve more than this shambles.”

“No, Aurora.” Your voice shakes like a plea. “No. I love you, what I deserve is-”

Her face twists.

“What if this is what it’s like, for the rest of my life? What if I can never sit beside you like a normal person and share such a wonderful meal that you so lovingly made? Will that be enough for you? Truly?”

You do not hesitate, not even for a second.

“Yes. Always. You’ll always be enough for me.”

She jerks her head back and forth. She knows you are being genuine, but there is dismay in her reaction.

“It isn’t enough. You deserve better.”

When you reach out to her, she turns away.

---

“Gale.”

There is uncertainty in her voice. She is flicking through the books and papers that clutter your desk as you look up from the letter you are furiously writing. When she last visited, Shadowheart told you about Sister Rose, a cleric at the House of the Moon, reputedly an expert in afflictions of this nature. You are bent on making her acquaintance as soon as possible.

“There’s an awful lot of research here about...”

You nod. She still struggles to give her condition a name.

“What about your own research? Your studies on Illusion?” She frowns. “Do you have time for…all this?”

It is true that you have put your own research on hold for the moment, but it hardly matters. You do not understand why both she and Tara have been asking you about this. You place your quill to one side and stand, crossing over to her. You place one hand on each shoulder, lowering your head to look straight into her eyes.

“This is my only priority right now, Aurora. If there’s anything out there that can help you be free of this burden, then I’ll find it.”

She winces. It stings you. All you want is to show her that you love and care for her more than anything. You do not understand.

“I think it might a bit more complicated than that, Gale.” Her gaze flickers away, then back to you. “I don’t think it’s an equation that can be solved with a simple formula.”

You search her eyes. She is withdrawing, you can sense it. Soon, you will not be able to follow. Desperation bubbles within you. You must show her that you can do it. You can help her.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. There’s a wealth of knowledge that I’ve not even touched yet. We’ll find a way out of this together.”

Her features spasm. She closes her eyes.

“This isn’t your burden, Gale. It isn’t your problem to fix.”

You take her face in your hands. Her eyes are misted now, darkening. You feel helpless to stop the clouds that are coming.

“You’re the woman I love. I do this because I love you.”

She presses her hand against yours. It is so small, so cold.

“Gale, your research, your studies-“

“Nothing matters more to me than you.”

She makes a choked sound. There is anguish in it. You need to prove to her that it can be done, that you can find her the keys to freedom. She holds you, and you can feel her shivering slightly. She turns, and you watch, bereft, as she leaves the room.

---

You jolt awake on some nights, clutching your chest where the mark of the orb used to be. Pain still blazes through you after the nightmares, emanating from the orb’s phantom, ripping through every muscle. You grit your teeth and clench the sheets, waiting for it to pass. You do not know if you are imagining it, or if there are traces of the orb which remain. Perhaps Mystra is not fully pleased with you, despite having promised her forgiveness. Perhaps you still disappoint her, and this is the only reprimand that she can be bothered to muster.

Your dreams are black and purple. Gossamer veils and black tentacles wind around you, flooding the chambers of your heart. You are a young boy behind a rose bush, and then you are a man stripped bare by a command, and you are on your knees, undone before the astral abyss. The goddess looms over you, pronouncing your judgment, and you are terrified and alone.

Every time you wake trembling, shouting, she is by your side. She holds you, her dawn light caressing your hands, your chest, your eyes. She cradles you, and her whispers are like healing spells. You are loved. You are safe. You are enough. You are still here.

You wish you could do the same for her, every time the darkness comes.

---

“The dancing figures, and then the dragons that you conjured… the battle that you represented with those floating lights… It was truly spectacular, Aurora, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

You have returned home with Aurora. Your hands are a flurry, and you can barely contain the excitement and pride in your voice. For almost four months she has been working with a collection of poets and playwrights to put together a showcase of their debut works. A small production, but a raving success. That only a modest crowd attended the performance seems to you the greatest injustice.

On the walk back, she has been smiling, nodding, making the occasional sound of agreement. But you can tell that she is not present. You tell yourself it must be post-performance exhaustion, frayed nerves. Perhaps she has not eaten or drunk enough. Maybe she needs more sleep. Her days have been long lately.

Yet there is something in her quietness that gives you pause.

“Aurora, are you alright?” You place a hand on her cheek. “Is something the matter?”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine, Gale.”

You can tell from the way that she hunches into herself, from the wall that has come up behind her eyes, that she is not fine.

“What’s wrong? Was it something I said?”

“No.” She turns away. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Aurora.” You take her hand. “Please, tell me.”

Her lip quivers. She starts and stops. “I can’t. I don’t…”

She closes her eyes. She pushes you away when you try to hold her. Sometimes, it is agonising when she withdraws. When you have shown her your whole soul, and there are parts of herself she hides from you. Tonight, it feels like a rejection. Perhaps it is not that she cannot give you everything, or that she fears to do so. Perhaps she simply does not wish to.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Your voice comes out flat, but inside you are breaking. The torment in her gaze is like a gash in your heart.

“No, I…” She balls her fists. “I just…”

You never thought you would ever wish to have a mindflayer tadpole again. But tonight, you remember how it was, to so easily join your thoughts to another’s, to share their memories and feelings, to see the world through their eyes. Tonight, you wish you both had a tadpole, so you could ask her to let you in. So you could understand her.

But perhaps she still would not wish to open herself to you.

“It’s alright, Aurora. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Gale…”

Old memories are coming to you now. Old wounds, from giving of yourself and asking, then failing to receive. Of waiting, fighting to become worthy. Of being shut behind icy walls, left with nothing but your lack.

“I understand if there are things you don’t wish to share with me.”

She steps towards you. “It’s not that…”

A flood has begun inside you now, and you feel like you may drown.

“I understand if you don’t feel like you can trust me. Perhaps I need to do more to earn your trust.”

She is shaking her head furiously.

“I know that I’ve failed on many occasions to be what you need me to be-”

“Gale, please stop.”

There is such an urgency in her words. You stare at her.

“It’s not your fault.”

A tear rolls down her cheek.

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you… I just don’t have the words to tell you. Everything inside is just… a mess.”

There is a flash of light inside you. A wave of relief ripples amongst the flood.

“I want you to read my thoughts.”

You are speechless for a moment. You are considering what this means, what she is giving you. The weight of rejection that you no longer have to carry. The fear that you can cast out.

She nods at you, firmly, earnestly.

“I want you to know everything. Please, Gale. Cast the spell.”

---

When you read her thoughts, you see. You feel the anguish that jolts through her, watching the meaningless flirtations that are cast your way. The painted faces and willowy figures flaunted by younger women she believes are more worthy of your attentions. You hear the voices within her, screaming at her for the ways in which she differs from them. Her hair, lank and dark, her skin, blemished and rubbery. Bulges in her flesh where other bodies lay flat. Endless mirrors, laden with shame and anger twisted inwards like a blade, a barbed yearning to be different, better, beautiful.

He is so beautiful, the voice chants, and you are not. He will soon see, and grow weary of you. And then he will leave.

There had been a few women, after the performance, who had thrown themselves at you. You scarcely remembered them, they were so trivial, their chattering so absurd. You had never been one to fawn over such superficial things. Others may consider you attractive, but what of it? You have no eyes for anyone else but her.

But now you see, and you understand. You realise that the frequency of such incidents hurts her. It is not your fault, but she struggles nonetheless.

“Aurora.” You are afraid you might cry from the intensity of her pain. “There’s no one else. You’re the only one I see.”

You are not on your knees, but you feel as though you are begging.

“I love you. Only you. You must believe me. You must see it.”

You can tell how badly she wants to say yes. But she does not.

“What can I do to prove it to you?” you plea. “What more can I do to show you? Because I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for you.”

She takes your face in her hands. She looks at you with love and despair.

“You’ve given me everything, Gale. There’s nothing more you can do.”

---

“Thank you so much for seeing me, Sister.”

Her face crinkles as she smiles. She seems kind enough, but you are uncertain she will be able to give you more than the leading scholars you have harangued. But you are willing to try anything. Even an elderly cleric of Selune who has spoken to you for half an hour about gardening.

“It sounds like you’ve done considerable research into this condition, Professor Dekarios.”

“I have,” you confess. “But I’m aware that you have considerable practical experience in healing individuals with this affliction. And that’s why I’m here, to understand the methods that have given you such success.”

“Oh?” She rests her chin on steepled fingers.

“Yes,” you continue. “I’ve been trying to apply the recommended approaches, Sister, based on the latest advice from the House of Healing in-”

“Approaches?”

You nod. She considers for a moment, her brow furrowed.

“Professor Dekarios,” she begins. “Do you love your fiancé?”

“She’s not my-”

You stop yourself. She is more to you than even that.

“Yes. I do. Very much.”

“And do you show her that, with your words and actions?”

You are not sure where this line of reasoning is leading. But you are reassured by the gentleness in the Sister’s voice.

“Yes. I do.”

She leans forward in her chair.

“When she struggles, do you show her patience, kindness, and respect?”

“Of course.” You frown. You assume this is obvious. How could you not? “And I try, always, to broaden the limits of my understanding.”

She hums. “And when you speak to your fiancé, do you speak to her soul, or her affliction?”

You arch an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what you mean, Sister.”

“Do you truly see her? The truth of her person, beyond the hold that this condition has on her? Who she is, outside of this suffering?”

You remember the way she rocked against you as she wept, that first time she had let you visit her in the House of Healing. ‘This is all I am,’ she had said. ‘This is all I’ve ever been.’ It was not true then, and it is not true now.

“I do, Sister.”

She nods, then leans back again.

“Then you’re doing everything that you can do.”

That cannot be all. You cannot mask the exasperation in your voice.

“Surely there must be something more I can do. There must be a remedy-”

Something steels in her gaze. “May I speak frankly, Professor Dekarios?”

“Of course.”

She draws in a sharp breath.

“What your fiancé suffers from cannot be cured with a spell or a tincture, a scalpel or a course of medicine. She must walk herself through a tangle of vines, and cut them off one by one at the root. It may take her a few months, or it may take her a lifetime. But you can’t do this for her. Neither is it your responsibility to do so.”

She cuts you off before you can interject.

“You can’t cure her. All you can do is love her, and show her what lies beyond the vines. That’s enough, Professor Dekarios.”

Her smile is light, but her words are heavy.

“You’re doing enough.”

---

As soon as you open the front door, the smell of burning assails you. You rush into your home, leaping from room to room, calling out her name. Eventually, her voice comes to you from the kitchen.

You find her there, crouching on the floor amidst a scattering of broken china. She is holding a cloth around her right thumb, drenched in crimson.

“What happened?” you gasp.

You hurry to her side. As you fuss over her injury, gathering up the sharp shards around you, she tries to reassure you that she is fine, everything is fine.

“I wanted to make you something,” she explains. “Something we could share together – I wanted to try, to show you I’m getting better.”

She stares at her bleeding thumb, at the remains of the charred dish she could not prepare. You wrap your arms around her. You do not want her to be crushed by disappointment, feeling she has failed. You want to shield her from it all, forever.

“You have nothing to prove, Aurora.”

“But I do.” She looks up at you with whirling eyes. “I don’t want you to run yourself into the ground, trying to fix me.”

“It’s not like that-”

“But it is, Gale. I love you, and I always will. You don’t need to earn it. You can’t fix me. You don’t need to.”

The words stick in your throat. You are overwhelmed by the knowledge that even in her distress, she has sought to give you comfort. To assure you of her love. In the light of her gaze, the shadows of your old wounds seem to fade.

“I’m not going anywhere.” The resolve in her voice fills you with hope. “And I’ll fight this until the end.”

She curls into you, and you cradle her head against your heart. You are not sure how long you remain there, still and silent, cocooned in each other. You become aware of her lips brushing against the exposed skin of your chest, drifting softly up the side of your neck, over the line of your jaw. You tremble as her tongue flutters on the bristles of your cheek. Her searching mouth opens to yours.

And then, all you can feel and taste and smell is her.

---

“Where did you learn all these things?”

You smirk at the question. Your body drapes over hers like a mantle. There is awe and mischief in her tone. Dusted with pink, her skin gleams with the after-effects of your passion. You cannot get enough of the sight.

“Aurora,” you chide. “A gentleman doesn’t speak of such things.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You aren’t always a gentleman.”

“I suppose not.”

You swipe your tongue around the peak of her nipple. She moans, batting you softly away as you laugh.

“But Gale,” she whines. “I’m curious.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, I am.” Those wide, bright eyes again. You can never refuse them.

“I’ll do my best to sate your curiosity,” you mumble into her neck.

She chews her lip. “I know there were a few others, before Mystra.”

“There were.”

She sighs as you nibble at her collarbone.

“But no one of note, you said.”

You hum, tracing your nose down her shoulder. “Forgettable. Distractions.”

“And then Mystra preferred things abstract, incorporeal…”

“She did.” You are following Aurora’s freckles again, down to the underside of her breast. You can feel the vibrations of her body.

“So how did you gain such proficiency in-”

She sucks in a breath as you lick at the spray of freckles around her navel, meandering down to her centre. Her hips roll ever so slightly. You are surging.

You grin as you look up at her. “I studied and practised.”

---

Your clasp and unclasp your hands behind your back. Your throat is dry, your chest a tangle. In a haze, you scan the smiling faces of all your nearest and dearest, gathered before you with eager anticipation. The scent of lavender drifts from the arch behind you, stilling your thoughts for a moment.

You had been planning to ask her. For weeks you had fretted over the words, the time and place. You had worried that it was too soon, too much. Your research told you that such events could often trigger an exacerbation of her affliction. You did not want to subject her to such agony. And though you knew her love and desire for you, fear still clung to you like your phantom orb. Part of you was still afraid she would not accept.

She had turned up at Blackstaff unexpectedly on your birthday. You had planned to take a stroll into the city together after your classes were over, but she wanted to give you a present before then. With wonder, you unravelled a collection of poems she had written. Entitled “Promise”, the first page was a dedication to you.

Her poems conjured the splendour of stars bursting. It did not take long for you to devour them all. And she had known you would, because the last line of the final poem ended: “Marry me.”

It is true that there were tears, and half-eaten meals, and broken mirrors. You tried to take on as many of the preparations as possible, to shield her from the stress. You reassured her that the wedding could be postponed or cancelled if she was not ready. You could not take away her fears about what she might wear, how she might look. Yet she had promised that she would fight, and fight she did. And now, you are here.

You can see your mother giggling as she whispers to your aunt and uncle, your cousins jostling keenly around them. Nurse Mona sits amongst a small group of druids and bards, Aurora’s closest friends. Elminster bobs his head to the rhythm of the lutist. Karlach glimmers with muted fire, grinning at you and waving. You wave back, extending your greeting to a beaming Halsin beside her. You glimpse Astarion and Tav, fiddling with each other’s collars, and Shadowheart examining a piece of parchment with Xan. Lae’zel watches and listens with silent pride.

It has been years since you have come together with your companions from the old days. Time and distance could not sever the bonds that formed between you so long ago. Yet their absence was a hole inside you that ached to be filled, until today.

To stand here, surrounded by these people you cherish so dearly, knowing you are loved and desired by her so completely – it is overwhelming. You are blinking, rubbing your eyes hard. Wyll squeezes your arm behind you. You turn to face him.

“Remember what we talked about, Gale.”

You inhale sharply, running your fingers through your hair.

“Breathe…” Wyll chants. “Think: Calm. Composed. Dignified.”

“I am calm and composed,” you echo. “I am dignified.”

He nods sagely. “We have the whole day ahead of us.”

“And I can’t be a blubbering mess already.” You clear your throat.

Wyll chuckles. “If anyone can handle this, my friend, it’s you.”

In his gold-embroidered, midnight blue doublet, Wyll exudes courtly bearing. When he and Karlach had returned to Baldur’s Gate, it did not take long for you to rekindle your friendship.

“Thank you for being here, Wyll. I can’t think of a better man to stand by my side.”

His smile is warm as the summer sun.

“Thank you, Gale. The honour is all mine.”

---

When Sister Rose begins her opening remarks, you are barely listening. Your eyes have caught on a flurry of movement in the distance. Your breath hitches.

Tara flutters down the aisle, and comes to rest opposite you and Wyll. Your oldest companion, your most loyal friend. The one who cared for you when you had no one else. Now, she stands by the woman that you love as her most ardent defender, her confidante. You reach out to her. She nuzzles your hand with her cheek. Your vision is beginning to blur.

Everything around you dissolves as Aurora steps forward. She wears her dark waves like a crown. Her face glows in the sunlight, bare except for a flicker of blue kohl on her eyelids and a dusting of glitter on her freckled cheekbones. Her gown is a waterfall of stars at midnight, resting lightly around her waist, cascading around her as she moves. It is a masterful, delicate illusion, but it does not conceal her, nor temper her beauty. She strides towards you with the certainty of hope, the resolve of love.

The tears come, and you cannot stop them.

She does not take her eyes off yours as she approaches. You have never before witnessed such a miracle, nor felt a happiness so bright and raw.

You are both crying as she takes her place. There is a ripple of sighs from the crowd as Wyll passes you a handkerchief and Sister Rose presses a cloth into Aurora’s shaking fingers. You are laughing as you wipe away each other’s tears.

You take hold of her hands, and it begins.

---

“Here he is, the man of the hour.”

You dip your head at Astarion. Tav embraces you.

“I do apologise. I was making a beeline for you, but got accosted by a very merry Elminster, extolling the virtues of our cheese board in painstaking detail.”

“None of us have been able to get near it,” Tav laments. “Or dared to try.”

“Lovely cloak, Astarion. Very… vampiric.”

Astarion arches an eyebrow. “It was either this or not coming at all. Fashion is less important than not frying in the sun, I’m afraid, even for such a momentous occasion.”

You chuckle. “Thank you for coming.”

His fangs glint as he grins. Tav circles an arm around his shoulder.

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Gale,” Tav exclaims. “We’re so, so happy for you.”

“We just had the pleasure of your wife’s acquaintance.” Astarion takes a sip of wine. “I didn’t think I would ever meet someone so similar to you in every respect, yet not insufferable at all! Your wife is simply charming. An absolute delight.”

“Astarion,” Tav warns.

You titter. “I think I’ll take that comment in the spirit in which it was intended. She’s exceptional. Remarkable. I agree.”

“I can only imagine how many long and intense discussions you had in the library,” Astarion purrs. “Staring longingly at each other, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s-”

Tav jostles him. “Astarion, stop!”

Astarion cackles.

“What’s so funny?”

You flinch a little from the force of Karlach’s hug. Halsin, deep in conversation with a smiling Aurora, follows behind. She radiates with joy, and you have never wanted her more.

You clasp Halsin’s hand in greeting.

“Just to be clear, Halsin.” You plant a kiss on Aurora’s cheek, intertwining your fingers with hers. “My wife and I are quite happy with our relationship, as it is. Just the two of us.”

Halsin holds his hands up. “I wouldn’t presume otherwise, Gale.”

Aurora looks at you in confusion. You touch your nose to hers.

Karlach chortles. “You two are so fucking sweet.”

---

“So we’ll see you again next month?” Aurora asks hopefully.

“Of course.” Shadowheart takes the wine that you offer her. “I might end up staying longer at the House of the Moon this time. I’ll bring you those scrolls and tinctures that we discussed.”

Aurora’s eyes dance with delight.

“Will you bring the owlbear?” Karlach gushes. “Wyll and I have missed the little guy.”

“Perhaps that would be an opportunity for Xan.” Lae’zel glances at the child. “You wanted to make a sculpture of a great beast of Faerun, did you not?”

Xan nods thoughtfully. He scribbles something in his notebook.

“It would be a great opportunity for us, too, Lae’zel,” you muse. “To hear more of your jokes.”

Lae’zel twitches.

“And to learn about more unconventional uses of Githyanki psionics.” You catch Aurora’s eye, and she bites her lip.

“Observe, Xan,” Lae’zel remarks, gesturing between the two of you. “Waterdhavian mating rituals are indeed more refined than others in Faerun.”

There is the slightest lift of Lae’zel’s eyebrow. You clap your hands together and laugh.

---

How is it possible for a heart to feel so full?

You stand silently, bathing in the light of the stars, buoyed by the song of those you love around you. You search for her, and it does not take long to find her.

She lingers near the central table, admiring the intricate designs on the cake which your mother crafted with tenderness and zeal. Gently, she takes a small slice in her hands, lifting it to her lips.

She takes one bite, and then pauses. She takes another. She smiles.

Her grey eyes meet yours across the expanse. You bound towards her, and she squeals as you lift her up and spin her around. You can taste brandy and chocolate as her mouth glides against yours.

“I think it’s time to go,” you whisper.

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

Author's note: When I finished Progress, I thought it would be a standalone fic. But I was so in love with Gale and Aurora, and so wanted to give them a happy ending. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for taking the time to engage with this story.

If you liked this fic, you can check out my other work here.

Please, feel free to reach out, I'd love to hear from you.

Read the sequel: Revelation

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #gale fic #bg 3 gale fic #gale romance #professor gale x oc #gale x oc #professor dekarios x oc #gale fanfic

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mara-tevith-solo · 1 year

Text

Fate Thinks She’s Funny

Screw it, I might make this a series. Part of the One Enchanted Evening fic. Reader here has a recycled OC background I made for the MCU. Essentially came to Earth after Order 66 in the 90′s, was forcibly conscripted in the US Military and she gets tangled up in everything because of the Ancient One, the Jedi inability to not meddle, and Billy. It’s a 43k word fic that is no where near complete and probably will never be

Pairing: Adam Warlock x ex-avenger/guardian! reader

Warnings: Canon levels of violence, love at first sight, prospective death, Adam pulling his punches just for you because he hates the idea of hurting you after 0.001 seconds, reader compares him to a Rancor of all things

Words: 1.8k+

Rated: 18+ as always

It was the crashing that alerted you initially, pulling you from the half-sleep you had managed to finally fall into. You didn't even bother shutting the door to your apartment behind you as you went to investigate, Groot wrapped around something on fire shooting past without much preamble. You were fully awake before he was out of sight, already trying to calculate his trajectory to be there to stop him. You ran over walkways and tight wires, not truly looking where you were going besides making sure the way was clear, making sure that no one would get hurt from the debris. It barely occurred to you that you were only dressed in one of Stephen's old shirts and a pair of sleeping shorts, your main concern being the citizens, and then the attacker.

A mother and child huddled on main street gave you pause, the mother trying to shelter her screaming child as debris began raining down towards them. Protecting them with the Force was reactionary, no really thought put into it until they were safe and you were on the move again. You skidded to a stop on a catwalk as Kraglin's arrow smacked the man harmlessly across the cheek, making him stop angrily in his tracks "Who threw this thing at me?" He demanded sharply, looking around the rubble he'd created. No one dared to answer him, all of them hiding and fighting to remain silent despite their fear. He looked, disarmed by the fear, choosing to move on "Baby." He chided before continuing on his path.

Landing on the attacker was easy, he was strutting through main street like he owned the place, like he wasn't trying to tear it apart bit by bit. He fell to the ground under you with an annoyed yell, your claws sinking into his shoulders before you were moving off of him, twisting and throwing him over your head and down into the ground with a shout. You didn't wait for the dust to settle to grab him again, hoisting him up to his feet as he tried regaining his barrings. For a moment, one single solitary moment, your eyes met, gold giving way to his pupils as they dilated, his breath stuttering as his golden lips dropped open the barest fraction. There was something star struck in his expression, something you forced yourself to not dwell on as you let go of his tunic just long enough to Spartan Kick him further away from where he'd thrown Nebula. He didn't go far, landing on his back with a forced exhale before he was clambering up to his feet with a bewildered glare "Do that again and I'll be forced to kill you." He was warning you as he shook the dust from his person, not taking his eyes off your form.

"Pity." You huffed, calling my saber, reaching back towards your apartment.

"What's that? What is the purpose of that?" He asked, genuinely curious, tilting his head like a puppy. It genuinely caught you off guard, both the fact that he genuinely didn't know what you were doing, and the fact that he seemed so innocent in that moment. You didn't answer him, instead taking a ready stance as soon as the hilt was in your hand, the familiar hum and yellow hue a comfort. He blinked, taking in your position and your weapon before deciding that you were still intent on being a threat, powering up with a frustrated grunt and a silent snarl, his hands engulfed in blades of light. It was like dancing, fighting with him, meeting him strike for strike even though it didn't feel like his heart was fully in it. He depowered one hand enough to grab your saber hand, immobilizing it no matter how hard you struggled, making you grab his arm that was still powered up, holding it above both of your heads in a struggle of wills. "I do not want to kill you." He admitted with a grunt, trying to break the hold you had on him.

"Not the first time I've heard that." You growled back a little bitterly, straining against him for a moment before you saw an opening and took it. Your forehead collided with his, a resounding crack! echoing through your head and the square as he cried out in pain, stumbling blindly back in retreat. "Fucking hell." You groaned, doubling over as you pressed your freehand to your forehead, trying to sooth the ache that was still blooming there. You could feel the tale tell tickle of a small track of blood dripping down the bridge of your nose, but didn't think much of it as you focused an eye on him, watching him recollect himself with that snarl of his.

"Are you always this stubborn?!" He asked you indignantly, throwing his hands out with exasperation.

You couldn't stop your expression if you wanted to, open bewilderment taking your face by storm as you just stared at him "You're trying to kill my friends! Of course I'm 'being stubborn'!"

"I just want the squirrel." He rebutted as though it was so simple.

"You can't have our friend! He's not property!"

Before he could say another word, Drax grabbed him and began throwing him around "Pick on someone your own size!"

You wanted to just hide somewhere as you backed away from the two men, your heart pounding deafeningly in your chest as Drax threw him into the headquarters sign "Y/n!" You could hear Mantis calling desperately from the med center, tears in her voice spurring you into action, ignoring the suddenly very determined man as he lifted himself from the dirt. You had to stop, your eyes glued to the scene, as the man met Drax hit for hit, matching every bit of his strength easily. It made you want to throw up. You watched, helpless, as beams of light came from the man's hands again, Drax barely able to stop them, holding the man at bay with groans of strain. "Y/n! Help!" Mantis wailed again, but you couldn't tear your gaze away as the stranger's power began to whine audibly, getting brighter and brighter until he was blowing Drax back with it.

As soon as he straddled and began pummeling Drax you were in motion, charging without a thought of your own safety. You dove at the last possible moment, only loosing a cry when your shoulder collided with his ribs, ripping him off of Drax and into the dirt with you. Scrabbling for dominance in the dirt with him, you didn't care to use finesse, or any true skill. He'd already proven that he was ridiculously strong, that you had to fight dirty to get any advantage. You barely paid attention to the darkening of his cheeks and neck as you straddled his waist and tried to punch his lights out, your fist raining punishment into his pretty face over and over again as your other hand kept you anchored to him, fisted tightly into the collar of his tunic. He seemed more concerned with trying to fend off the blows than fight back "ENOUGH!" He roared under you, almost succeeding in turning over under you as he tried to protect himself. You didn't listen to him as you pressed him back down, driving your fist into his sternum as you continued to punch the daylights out of him. "I said," He grabbed you by the thighs, his hands engulfing them by nearly half before he was usurping your position, driving your back into the dirt, his weight pressing down between your legs "enough!" It was only at that moment that he seemed to realize the position he had put you both in, making you feel like you were on fire as he stared down at you with those wide doe eyes that just screamed innocence.

You blinked back up at him, suddenly uncomfortable with the vulnerable position, your grip on his collar almost slackening with the shock that you liked it, until Drax groaned in pain, snapping you back to reality. Your legs tightened around his lower ribs, locking at the ankles behind him as you squeezed for all you were worth, not letting up as he sucked in a panicked, ragged breath. His hands found your thighs again as he sat up, dragging you up with him as you resumed punching and he tried pushing, his fingers digging painfully into your flesh, trying to pry you off before you constricted him to death. In a split second he gave up trying to get you off of him, his hand molding around the column of your throat like it was made to be there, cutting off your own breath as he pressed you back down into the dirt with a heavy glare. You tightened your hold on his ribs defiantly as you tried to pry his hand off, snarling right back up at him as he reared his fist back to finally fight back. A glowing blade erupted from his chest, instantly taking the fight out of him as he incredulously looked from you to it "That... hurts!" He breathed as golden blood dripped from the tip of the blade and down onto your shirt, immediately standing out from the blood sweat and dirt that clung to it.

"What a pity." Nebula growled from behind him as his hand loosened around your throat, allowing you to suck in a greedy lungful of air that had never tasted so sweet. The man looked back down at you as you gulped down ragged breaths past your burning throat, a small trickle of blood dripping past his lips as he grunted in pain. You let him go as soon as the blade retreated, letting him fall to the dust beside you. You couldn't look at him, it hurt to and you couldn't figure out why, why his imminent death was going to bother you. He'd been trying to kill your friends since he'd arrived on Knowhere and yet... "Still alive down there?" Nebula's voice broke you out of your thoughts and slammed you back into the moment as the man continued to suffer quietly beside you.

She was fighting a ghost of a smile as she offered you an arm "He hits like a Rancor." Your voice was still rough as it passed your burning throat, your healing taking its sweet time as you accepted her help to climb to your feet. She just shook her head with amusement before going to Drax, leaving you there. You didn't want to, but you looked down at the man, acknowledging his gaze as he turned onto his back, his eyes begging you for help "I'm sorry, I didn't want it to end like this." The words felt right as they hit the air, your chest aching at the idea that he'd die there. You were quick to turn away from him and limp to the Med Center, your thighs shivering with every step. You didn't want to face his death, didn't want to acknowledge it and you couldn't figure out why.

#adam warlock x reader #adam warlock #adam warlock x you #gotg vol 3

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the-xolotl · 6 months

Text

Dusk Meets Dawn at Twilight

Lucifer x moth!OC, Vésper

A/N: Fun fact: Vésper means evening star in latin.

Summary: Lucifer finds himself in a very low, vulnerable point and self isolation is all he knows. However, his trusty assistant unintentionally prevents that (I suck at summaries. I’m sorry :’))

—• TAGS/CW/TW: Angst, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, Lucifer struggling with very strong emotions, some use of non-verbal communication, crying, alludes to feather-picking, mentions of (angelic) blood, preening, Vésper isn’t good at emotions. but she’s emotionally intelligent enough, proof read, no heavy topics actually mentioned explicitly.

“Highness?” Vésper knocked tentatively at the door. Silence. She knocked again softly a couple times for good measure to make sure Lucifer hasn’t somehow not heard her. Still she was met with no answer, not a sound. Which is really odd even for his normal isolation habits, causing the moth demon to worry.

Vésper bit her bottom lip debating wether this really warranted going into the King’s quarters. Lucifer could go through bad periods of depression and bed-rotting, sure; days, weeks. But to not be seen for two entire weeks and none of the staff had spoken to him at all? Not even the work shop?

Vésper heard alarms in her head after one of the maids pointed out His Majesty’s bedroom doors were locked a few days ago. Immediately, she went to his door to find it locked just how the maid had said. Lucifer never did that, he’d avoid contact when he didn’t want it but he never locked doors or hide for this long without a word. The only thing that had kept her from trying to go in by force was that there was still shuffling heard from inside for a few days, which meant he was going about his room occasionally so understanding her King’s habits she let it be until today.

With a heavy sigh, she put her hand over the key-hole entrance reluctantly, “Your Highness, I’m coming in. I deeply apologize in advance,” she said in a raised voice ensuring he would at least be warned or be prompted to open the door willingly. After a beat of silence she concentrated a sphere of energy and bumped the lock of the door with it. Unfortunately she didn’t know any refined magic to make it smoother but she didn’t have a choice. The small blast that did minimal damage to the golden hinges while still doing the trick will have to do.

Prying the door open, just enough to take a peak inside, Vésper is greeted by darkness that her eyes quickly adjusted to. “Sir?” she tried again. Movement coming from the bed caught her eyes. She squinted at the big mass on the lavish bed, a groan followed. Quickly she entered just past the door and closing it behind her, “Sir, are you ok—“ her words cut off by a growl.

“Leave. Now,” She could recognize it’s Lucifer, despite how grovel it sounded. “I can’t do that, Majesty. You’ve been gone for two weeks,” she protests taking another step into the room. She looks around the room some more now that she could see better, realizing there’s not just an absolute mess and disarray but feathers everywhere. Red and white feathers littered across the room, even on whatever she can see of the messy bed.

A deep frown formed on her brow, about to speak again but was snapped out of her thoughts at Lucifer standing up from the bed, demonic form on full display, all 3 sets of wings spreading behind him making him look taller, puffing up to make him seem more intimidating.

“I said L̷̆͜Ȅ̴̃A̷̐̚V̵̛̈́Ḛ̵͐.̸̊̄ ̴̛̫W̴̕͝H̶̡͆Ö̶ Ǎ̮R̸E YOU TO DISOBEY YOUR ̸́́K̶͑I̓͑N̷̬̔G’S ORDERS?̵͕̈́” Lucifer lashes out, a stream a fire expanding towards the moth sinner making her tumble backwards and fall ass first. Screaming in terror she raised her arms to cover face, his outburst only missing her by a hair. She trembled in unbridled fear, eyes wide and fixed on the floor not daring to look at him again.

He realized a little too late what he’d done, he tried retracting his arm back seeing his assistant in utter panic. “Shit! I’m- I’m sorry Vés I didn’t mean to—“ Lucifer stammered, his voice sounding more normal but with a shake and hints of remorse. He tried to help her up but Vésper involuntarily flinched and backed away, a small sob slipping past her lips.

“God damn it,” he whispers under his breath, taking steps back from his assistant and falling on to the floor bumping into his night stand on his way down. Lucifer groaned in frustration wrapping his wings around himself, “I’m sorry Vésper. I didn’t mean to lash out, I’m so sorry…” his voice shook with a dead tone, like he’s near tears. But she’s too shaken up to respond.

She chances a glance at him eying the feathery cocoon he’s turned himself into. She could see little trembles and shaking of his wings with each breath he took. Lucifer is clearly in a vulnerable state, one she didn’t know how to help and with the panic still present in her body it was hard to move, let alone want to get near him.

Lucifer made no more advance toward her, giving her a chance to regain her wits about her. Logically she knew he’d never hurt her but Vésper had also never seen him angry, not even his demonic form in the time she’s worked for him. It’s jarring, exactly what she expected the Devil to look like, the stuff of nightmares.

But she managed to regain composure again after a while with deep breaths distracting herself with the state of the chaotically dirty chambers. The more she looked the worse it got; not only feathers and broken belongings but specks of a smeared golden substance. Not abundantly so, but mostly on the floor at the foot of the bed and on the sheets. Small splotches she’d worry about later.

Standing, her unsteady legs finally approach the ball of wings the King had turned himself into, “Sire…” she tried to coax sitting on her knees in front of the bundle, “It’s okay. I… I know you didn’t mean it,” softly she spoke tryin to peek between the messy feathers. Another thing she noticed now that she is up close is that the golden liquid is on him. More specifically on his wings and tips of his finger tips.

Lucifer sat with his knees against his chest and face buried in his hands from what she could see from between the matted fluff. She sighed silently, “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

He looked miserable and something in her hated seeing a typically goofy man like him in such a state. It made her chest tighten to see Lucifer so vulnerable and emotional, this is a different level that she’s never seen. Despite herself, a gentle hand rose hesitantly to rest atop one of the wings as a gesture of comfort.

When she felt the wing move under her touch she flinched back worried she’d crossed a line. The wing parted a bit exposing his face once again, “How did you manage to get in?” asking softly his wings dropped a bit around him.

Vésper shifted not wanting to tell him just yet, “We can worry about that later, Your Majesty,” her eyes taking in his disheveled appearance, “I care more about your well being. Are you okay? Is there anything I can assist you with? It’s been weeks, we’re all worried about you, Sir.” Lucifer averts his glassy eyes in both shame and guilt.

Another long stretch of silence befell them. Lucifer felt weak, a little humiliated at being seen in a vulnerable position, he couldn’t bring himself to speak again or meet her eyes. He really hoped she’d understand, knowing it’s a little selfish to expect her to just know. He opened up his wings a bit more and stretched out a hand for her to take not really looking at her still. Only when his gaze flicked down to his palm signaling to take it, she got the hint the second time he did it.

His hand is oddly warm, she didn’t really have expectations but it’s still surprising angelic beings have body warmth. Deep inside she wished she knew what to do, Vésper herself isn’t great at expressing her own feelings let alone deal with them from others. So she thinks back to the times her Mother would comfort her as a child, holding Vésper to her chest and knowing just what to say to ease the baby in her motherly instincts. Unfortunately she isn’t as good as her Mother with these kinds of things.

Is that even what he needed? Everyone needs a little kindness, her Mother would often tell her, everyone needs a hand to hold. The moth sinner’s thumb gently caresses at his knuckles, holding his hand delicately. This goes beyond professional boundaries, but Vésper gets the sense he’s dealing with much more than seasonal depression or just a down period. For now she’d allow the lines of professionalism to blur for the sake of her King.

It seemed to be the right thing to do because eventually Lucifer had unwrapped himself from his wings, now letting them rest at ease and his legs are less tucked against him.

Even though it feels like it’s been hours by now, at best an actual hour had passed, but despite that the scare Lucifer gave her has now dissipated, watching his inner turmoil pass over his features and voided eyes is still nagging at her. He felt so far away, his eyes not particularly focused on anything, lost in who knows how many different thoughts and emotions. Closed off. Vésper debated on a couple thoughts, words she could say to make him feel better.

She gnawed at her bottom lip with the words at the tip of her tongue eyes fixed on the hand she held. The professional bounds had already been crossed she thought, fuck it.

“Do you need a hug?” she asked quietly, she almost hoped Lucifer didn’t actually hear her. Almost hoped he was zoned out enough.

The ex-angel blinked a couple times his head finally turning toward her, red eyes locking with the black void that are her eyes searching them for honesty. He definitely heard her, but paused to debate whether he could really accept the offer. If he could really handle it or if she really even meant it. Averting his eyes again he nodded.

Lucifer went to open his arms but Vésper pulled him up and closer to her as she stood up. She tried to follow the way her Mother comforted her, it’s the best she could think of doing. As soon as her arms wrapped around him, mindful of his wings, she rubbed his back slowly and soothingly. For a moment Lucifer stiffen at the gentle hold, a little startled at the touch he didn’t initiate himself but found himself relaxing in her arms and returning the hug.

Silence more comfortable than the last stretched over them again, very gently swaying from side to side while Vésper embraced Lucifer. It supposed to mimic the feel of being swayed in a Mother’s arms, though she’s unsure if he found it relaxing it sure helped her keep it together in this unfamiliar situation.

“Majesty,” She murmurs to get his attention, “Have you eaten?” He shakes his head no slightly without moving away from the embrace. “Have you taken a bath?” Again, he shakes his head. She hums in acknowledgment, “How about I go get you something to eat while you wash up?” Her tone gentle, struggling to maintain some formalities.

Lucifer is still not answering verbally but by the way his grip tightens she can tell he doesn’t want to let go.

“You can’t go this long without proper sustenance, please?” she tried again, “Besides, I need to also clean a little around here. There’s golden, sparkly splotches everywhere and on you.”

The mention of the gold liquid makes him freeze. He had forgotten about that, he only hopes she hadn’t payed too close attention to his wings in that moment. So he reluctantly let’s go avoiding eye contact, rather looking around his room at the absolute chaos. He grimaces at the gross mess and snaps his fingers, clouds of red smoke enveloping the entire room. When it dissipate everything is back in its place, floors are cleared and whatever had been broken is fixed as if nothing had even happened.

“Or… that…” She chuckles, “I’ll be right back, okay?” Lucifer only nods and heads towards a door on the other side of the room that she can only guess is his bathroom.

Taking a little longer than intended, but with practically a full food cart she returns to Lucifer’s private quarters. Knocking she warns of her arrival, “I’m coming in,” opening the door slowly and peeking to make sure she’s alright to come in. She’s greeted to the sight of the King sitting at the edge of his bed with messy damped hair undone wearing silky night attire with a duck pattern. Of course, she thinks shaking her head with the tiniest endearing smile. His wings are wrapped around him lazily again as he watches his assistant coming in.

“I don’t expect you to eat much or all of it,” She clarifies with a firm but gentle tone, “But do eat your fill. However much or little that is.”

The moth sinner rolls up to where he’s sitting and parks the cart in front of him. The first thing he goes for are the pancakes, Vésper finally relaxes since she came into the room hours ago. This is progress.

Lucifer offers by pointing at one of the plates but Vésper declines with a polite 'Thank you'. She takes a closer look at him, specifically the wings she doesn’t get to see very often. They were clean now, but still made a complete mess with askew and crooked feathers.

“Suit yourself, V,” Lucifer speaks for the first time since his earlier outburst. She grins, “Ah, and so he speaks,” she meant it as a small tease but the relief washing over her betrayed her a little making it sound like an endearing remark.

Lucifer sighs with a self-deprecating smile, “I apologize…Old habits.” The atmosphere threatens to turn tense again, “And I deeply apologize for scaring you and… almost hurting you. I really didn’t mean to,” Vésper can see the evident regret and honesty behind the apology. Except he didn’t really need to apologize, she had already forgiven him.

“You needn’t justify anything to me. If anything I should apologize. I was rude intruding in your privacy, Your Highness.”

“Lucifer,” he corrects.

“Pardon?” Vésper whips her head to look at him, eating the last bite of the pancakes.

“You might as well just call me Lucifer,” wiping his mouth with the napkin his put on his lap and sitting further up on the bed.

Vésper’s eyes widen at the scandalous suggestion, “I could never-“

Lucifer interrupts her, “You can. Your Kings says so,” a shit eating grin spreads across his face. How does she forget this man embodies the sin of Pride?

She sighs reluctantly, but still avoids saying his name, “As you wish,” is all she replies. He looks damn satisfied with himself, and she can’t even be bothered by the little antics being she’s more at ease that some of his usual personality is back.

With a deep inhale of air Vésper stands fixing her clothes and adjusting her neat attire. She rolls her shoulders slightly and stretching her own wings to ease the tension from the muscles due to the anxiety she had experienced most of the day. “Some rest is in order, yes?” She asks in her more formal tone looking at Lucifer expectantly. His smile falters and there’s visible disappointment in his eyes.

“You’re leaving?” What he wanted to ask is if she could stay, but being more aware of himself and senses more alert his pride didn’t allow him to ask so outwardly. He’d let his guard down enough for a life time, but the sinking loneliness is winning out. Feeling consumed by a darkness he’s barely escaping, Lucifer craves company so excruciatingly bad.

She also sensed it, even without knowing much about him it’s palpable. It just takes a little bit of empathy to realize he’s not doing well and he desperately needs something or someone to ground him in these trying times. She takes a glance at the window, bright red sky now a dark auburn indicating it’s late night. “I’m interested in you getting a full night’s rest. If my presence helps, I’ll stay if you so wish it,” Vésper offers. Meeting in the middle, she supposes in her head.

“Yes,” Lucifer nods, “Please.”

Vésper sat back down where she had been previously. However, Lucifer didn’t immediately tuck himself under the covers, instead stretched his wings in front of him. Slowly and delicately his clawed fingers started at the tip of his wings to take care of the messy feathers.

The sinner tried not to stare too deadpan at the King casually preening his expansive wings. Which now that she could take a better look at them, even in the dim light they seem to sparkle beautifully like freshly fallen snow. Or stars. Then she remembered he’s the morning-star.

She wonder how heavy 3 sets of wings are on his back, specially when all 6 of them are taller than he is.

She looked away closing her eyes briefly, feeling so unbecoming of shamelessly gawking. Even if he is right in front of her but it’s such a rare sight to behold it’s hard to not look. She glanced back again to see Lucifer struggling to comfortably reach the feather back rows. Without thinking before speaking she asked, “Require some assistance?” Lucifer looked at her pausing all his movements. Realizing what she said she wanted to disintegrate in that moment but she remained composed despite the embarrassment rising hot up her spine.

“Uh…” he blinked a few times, eyes looking between his wings and her, “You know what, fuck it sure. Just um… Be careful.” Lucifer shifted his position, showing his back to her. He laid out a singular wing out while tucking the other ones in. “It’s easier to do it with your index and thumb uh…” he makes the gestures as he explains, “And straighten it in the right direction.”

Vésper nods. Easy enough she tells herself. She gets to work as best as she can how he had indicated her, she wasn’t half bad just slower than he is and much gentler. Which he welcomed, he found it endearing how careful she’s being and Lucifer lets her find a rhythm on her own. Vésper has never touched something so soft in her entire life completely enthralled she stops herself from petting rather than preening. His feather puff and shake every so often to keep the feathers organized.

Lucifer thought she’d only help with the ones he had a harder time reaching but Vésper continued to the next wing row by row. Lucifer just let her finding comfort in the act of service. She found more confidence to speed up and let herself concentrate, kinda forgetting who she’s doing this for. There’s an unspoken intimacy they both pointedly ignore while she continued.

For once, Vésper was tired of the silence deciding to break it, “Even if they’re right in front of me, under my fingertips I still can’t fathom how gorgeous they are,” she said warmly continuing to the next row.

She heard Lucifer chuckle, “Pure divine, heavenly beauty,” However, the tone of his voice was less cheerful this time. Like longing. “Sometimes they feel like a heavy burden, though.” Vésper is taken aback by the confession, “Now they just feel like a cruel reminder of what I use to be and what was taken away from me. Of the failure I am.”

Bitterness tinted his words with a strong mix of regret. Vésper was about to speak again when she realized his shoulders had begun to shake, so she stopped the preening instead resting a hand on his shoulder. That’s when she heard it, small sobs falling from him with tears cascading down his face. The sight absolutely broke Vésper, the usually confident facade completely torn away, his air of arrogance he carried everywhere he went completely gone. Instead there’s a shell of a man that he keeps tucked away most days and in front of anyone left.

She did the only thing she knew to do, making Lucifer turn around to face her. He wanted to protest by bringing his wings around himself protectively. However, she didn’t allow him, pressing him into another hug and bringing him to her chest she patted his soft blonde locks.

“They’re part of you, but they don’t define you. Nor does where you come from,” She spoke barely above a whisper, “You are Lucifer Morningstar; the most powerful being in all of Hell and supreme ruler. You are not a failure.”

It was like a dam that had been sealed for millennia broke loose in that moment. Lucifer sobbed and shook in her arms, emotions completely overwhelming his being. His grip tightened around her assistant, sometimes tight enough to make it hard to breathe, not mentioning it she just comforted him through it. Years, upon years of suppressed emotions came crashing down at once and there was no closing the faucet until it dried out.

No words were spoken for a long while as she held the crying King, serving as a physical anchor and solace. Broken sobs one after another broke Vésper’s heart into a million pieces. She’s never heard so much pain coming from one person and she couldn’t help but hurt for him. A few tears also running down her face before she quickly wiped them away.

“Let it all out… I’m here…” she comforted. She tried with gentle affirmations, soft reassurances and there somehow wanting to find the right combination of words that would ease the immense pain. She knew she wouldn’t, yet still tried. He bagan to apologize profusely but she only shush him and encouraged him to hold her as long as he needed. This back and forth continued until he managed to fall asleep.

She guessed the exhaustion caught up to him once morning came because once the sobs had stopped, Lucifer was out cold. She struggled to unravel herself from him without waking him, but Vésper managed to get him laid down. She went to stand but a hand tighten around hers. Lucifer is still dead asleep, and even unconscious he didn’t let her go.

She smiled softly leaving her hand in his, pulling up a chair by the edge of the bed where she would remain until he woke up again. Sleeping half sitting and leaned over the mattress will have her body aching later but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. So she justified herself with the excuse that the King had requested that she stay.

A/N: ow this one took a really heavy toll on me :’) ngl i got a little emotional while writing it. funny how i spent a few days working on two smutty shots just to write this in a couple hours. i ended up finishing this one first so here it goes.

btw ! Vésper up to this point in time where this story takes place she had never seen Angelic blood nor did she know angels bled at all.

⤷ dividers : cafekitsune ✰

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hesthermay · 7 months

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 (𝐏𝐓 𝟏)

PAIRING: sergeant hunter x fem!oc reader

SUMMARY: the assignment of miri rocksled to clone force 99 brought an even higher success rate than the two groups presented on their own; in the times of the clone wars a well working and formidable team was necessary for the republic, but little did it know that the decision would become the biggest thorn in the empires side. master rocksled had never been like other jedi, and the bad batch had never been like other clones, and as they navigate the end of everything they had known and the beginning of something dark those traits are put to the test. rules no longer exist, lines are blurred, and forbidden waters are tread as the bad batch fight the great fight for everything they deserve.

WORD COUNT: 3.1k

RATINGS + WARNINGS: general audiences, mature themes, angst. female oc, use of she/her, mentions of death and order 66. eventual series. follows the bad batch timeline.

NOTES: bada bing bada boom another one?! what?! im just fuckin good like that (im really not this has taken me a bit but im done and now im ready for you all to see it)

STAR WARS MASTERLIST THE GREAT FIGHT MASTERLIST

The scene that Clone Force 99 and their General walked into was familiar to them at this point.

Chaos, in its entirety, had consumed Kaller as Republic forces fought off Separatist battle droids coming from every direction. The ground, covered with snow, was black with ash from the repeated firing of weapons; this battle had been long, and it was not over yet.

Depa Billaba had requested backup, and though these were not the fighters she had wanted, they were all she was going to get. The Republic was stretched thin, it had seemed they had reached the climax of the Clone Wars and though it was only an inkling, it felt as if something was just over the hill.

“Master Rocksled!” Someone called from the treeline. The young Caleb Dunne, sent to retrieve said backup, watched in awe as the stories he had heard came true right in front of him.

Miri Rocksled was not like other Jedi, and in very fitting fashion, her troopers were not like other clones. Master Billaba had told him that was why she was assigned to them, and together they were the odd ones out of the GAR.

Caleb’s words had been lost in the noise, but eventually the last droid had been smashed and all attention was on him. “Master Rocksled,” he repeated, breathing slightly heavy.

“Commander Dunne, it looks like we’re your reinforcements,” she replied, grinning slightly as she walked closer towards him, the clones following suit. “What’s it looking like down there?”

After a plan was devised, the padawan was sent back to his master with the promise that they were right behind him. There was doubt, and a lot of it, upon his return. It did not look promising, him showing up empty handed with talks of five clones and one Jedi, but he asked for trust anyways. And it was not in vain, as the giant boulder that had caught the attention of the droids came crashing into view, making for a grand entrance.

Clone Force 99 made quick work of things with detonators, blasters, their very skilled sniper, brute force, strategic maneuvers, and one orange bladed lightsaber.

“I don’t believe it,” Captain Grey started, lowering the binocs as he watched. “That’s Clone Force 99.”

The two Jedi turn their heads to glance at him, and then one another. “And that’s Miri Rocksled,” Caleb whispered to his master, eyes blown wide.

……..

“Master Billaba,” Miri greeted, sheathing her lightsaber and clipping it to her waist. For a split second she gave thought to the second saber she was set to receive soon and the excitement to have an addition to her signature handle.

“If you’re done hiding down there, I suggest you launch a counterattack,” Hunter interjected, helmet under his arm. “Another droid battalion’s approaching.”

Grey stepped forward, on attack mode in the presence of clones who regarded the protocol he was held to as merely a suggestion. It was even evident in the way they had just addressed a Jedi General, someone who outranked them all as an army. “The General is the one who gives the orders around here.”

Billaba held out her hand, an effort to ease the clone's frustrations as they were not needed, nor helpful.“He’s right, Captain. This is our chance,” she nodded her head slightly, sure of her words. “Launch the counterattack.”

With that, the men were sent on their way and Master and Padawan came out into the open. “There you are little Jedi,” Wrecker stated, pushing his way to the front. “You missed all the fun.”

Caleb, who pulled his hood off, grinned. “Watching your team in action was all the fun.” Miri was reminded of being a padawan and being in awe of some of the Masters when she watched them spar, or went on assignments with them.

Billaba stepped forward, placing a hand on the young boy's shoulder. “Care to introduce your new friends, Caleb?”

“Yes, Master. This is Wrecker,” he gestured to each one as he named them off. “Hunter, Echo, Tech, and Crosshair.” He turned back to her when there was only one left. “And, you know Master Rocksled, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” she affirmed with a slight smile before turning her head back to the rest. “While I’m not sure ‘fun’ is the sentiment I would express, I agree with my Padawan. Your exploits were quite impressive. The Council was right when we assigned you to them,” she directed at Miri, who only shrugged one shoulder.

“Exploits?” Wrecker questioned, confusion written all over him as he looked around.

Behind him, Crosshair walked by with his rifle propped on his shoulder. “Don’t overthink it, Wrecker,” he commented, as snide as ever. Crosshair had been an acquired taste, but his attitude was tolerable with some time.

“Thank you, General,” Echo stepped up, almost as straightlaced as ever. As a reg, Echo expressed different traits than that of the experimental unit when it came to working with others, but that was not a testament to his place within the Batch. Echo had found a home in Clone Force 99, one that he had not thought he would get a chance at after the Citadel.

Master Billaba’s inquisitive eyes were once again on her fellow Jedi. “Would you care to explain where my actual reinforcement are, Master Rocksled?”

Miri sighed ever so slightly, for her answer to that question was not a good one, nor a helpful one. “Rerouted to the capital. I’m afraid we’re all you’re getting, my friend,” she replied lowly.

“Ha! We’re all you need,” Wrecker boasted, hands on his hips. And for almost the first time since this interaction had started, Tech looked up from his device.

“Actually,” he held up a finger, a signature pose for the brainiac of the group. “If my intel is correct, the General will not need any of us. The Clone War may soon be over.”

Intrigue trickled down from the crown of Miri’s head at his words. Her feeling, the one that had been nagging and nagging, that something was to come entered the forefront of her mind. She did not hear the responses to Tech’s statement, but she did hear him begin once again, more information to unload. “I am referring to the encrypted comm chatter. Clone intelligence is reporting that Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi has found and engaged General Grievous on Utapau.”

“No way,” Miri whispered. This had been something her, Obi-Wan, and Anakin had been trying to chase for ages now, and it would seem one of her friends had finally reached their goal. General Grievous was the answer to ending the droid army that upheld the Separatist’s defenses.

“If he captures or kills Grievous, the Separatist command structure will collapse,” Echo affirmed her thoughts.

“And most likely the droid armies along with them.”

“A fascinating theory,” Master Billaba cut in, “yet unfortunately not something we can control from here. I suggest we focus on the task at hand.”

Hunter glanced at Miri before looking back at Billaba. With a shrug of his shoulders, he stepped forward. “Any orders? Or shall we do what we do?” Helmets were placed on heads, and Wrecker cheered, boisterous voice filling the space around them.

“Let’s blow something up. Yeah!”

Caleb had watched them this entire time with a smile on his face, and it made Miri feel giddy. She always got a kick out of impressing the younglings and padawans. “Well, Caleb, shall we let them do what they do?” Master Billaba questioned, as if she had seen the same thing. It was nice, to see her Padawan smile in these trying times he was forced to grow up in; a welcome change when circumstances permitted.

“Only if I can go with them,” he countered eagerly, looking up at his mentor.

She glanced over at Miri, who only nodded before the woman grinned. “Very well,” she conceded.

“Hey, kid, you ready for this? We move fast,” Hunter emphasized, deep voice coming out gravelly through the modulator.

“Good,” Caleb shot back with a quirked brow, “that’s the only way I know.” He earned a laugh from Wrecker before they started to dart off, but Miri remained where she was. It was Hunter who shot her a look over his shoulder, a silent question.

“I’m going to speak with Master Billaba for a second,” Miri answered, playing off the heaviness on her shoulders. “Go on, Sergeant. I’ll catch up,” she smiled, hoping it would be enough to send him off. She was his general, and technically she had given him an order that he could not go against, but things were different in the Batch.

Things were different between Miri and Hunter.

As inappropriate and forbidden as it was, the pair had found themselves harboring something of a romance. It was not spoken of, it couldn’t be spoken of; but it did not need to be. Miri knew she was special to Hunter, and he knew he was special to her. It was as simple as that, for the Jedi Order would only let it be so.

It had worked, however she knew she would be questioned later. The pause before he nodded told her he had picked up on whatever it was she was trying to keep at bay, and even though he ran off after one final salute she still felt his presence as she turned to her colleague.

“What is it, Master Rocksled?” Billaba questioned, eyes still trained on her padawan in the distance.

“Do—” she started, but had to rethink her wording once again. “Do you feel like something is about to happen?” She asked, sincerity written on her face because she was desperate to know why she had grown heavier by the minute. Billaba’s focus had now moved to her, squinted eyes watching the young woman as her question hung in the air. “Like…like we're at the top of the hill, but what’s on the other side isn’t what we’ve been expecting?”

“Miri…” She whispered, shaking her head ever so slightly as her mind registered and her thoughts raced. She never got to continue, however, as behind her Captain Grey received a message through the commlink in his helmet. As Miri’s eyes watched him turn away from them, she grew ominously cold. Dread poured over her body, and in her peripheral she saw Master Billaba cautiously look over her shoulder, as a hologram activated.

A cloaked figure, hunched over with a voice almost familiar to them, spoke directly to the clones. “Execute Order 66.”

Captain Grey did not respond verbally, but he did comply by putting the holo device back on his belt and staring at the Generals before him for a moment longer, before drawing his weapon and firing two shots off, both aimed at their heads. Lightsabers were drawn as the pair dodged the blaster fire, but more troopers were closing in.

Depa Billaba and Miri Rocksled found the same weapons their soldiers used against their enemies aimed at them instead. In the back of her mind, Miri knew this was it. The crest of the hill they’d been climbing for three years, the cause of the sick and twisted feeling in her stomach, and the ultimate demise of the Jedi Order as a whole.

In the distance, it would seem that the same feeling had reached Caleb; the dread had stretched through the air and clouded around him through the Force, and he slowed his pace until he was still. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he heard the sounds of saber blades deflecting blaster shots, and he slowly turned.

Troopers, his troopers, drawing in on the two Masters, shots aimed to kill. His ears began to ring and he sprinted toward them, drawing his own saber. “Master!” He shouted, a desperation in his voice he knew would raise brows, but he didn’t care. Horror filled his body Billaba and Rocksled were separated, and the distance between the troopers and the Jedi was growing smaller and smaller. He stopped in his tracks as his master risked a look at him.

“You must run!” She screamed, hand held out in a desperation she knew would be frowned upon, but she didn’t care. As his feet remained glued to the ground, her eyes remained on him. With her back exposed, a shot landed on her shoulder that rendered her arm almost useless as she tried to defend herself. “Run, Caleb!” She cried out, words echoing as her padawan turned and followed her orders.

Miri had been pushed far enough away that the Bad Batch couldn't see her when they turned and watched the kid run towards the brutal scene, but she was close enough to still see the fall of Jedi Master Depa Billaba, and every emotion that she had been warned about filled her to the brim. Fear, horror, anger, grief, they washed over her until her limbs felt like they were made of stone. Sweat covered her face despite the snowy climate of Kaller, and she felt every burn from a grazed blaster shot, every bruise from trying to fight them off, and when the first successful shot landed on her left thigh, she fell to the scarlett stained snow. As they drew in closer, like predator hunting prey, one hand reached out on instinct. The Force, a power not to be trifled with yet one she was not even sure one would come to her, pushed them back but did little to stop them.

One opportunity, that she was lucky enough to have given herself, to escape. To where, she did not know. With whom, well, she knew it would be nobody. She was on her own, and she deliberately pushed the existence of Clone Force 99 out of her mind. She could not afford to think of them participating in this betrayal, could not afford to feel the debilitating heartbreak of her boys turning on her. Instead, she grunted as she struggled to rise from the ground, the cold seeping through the gaps between the bits of armor she wore as she held a hand out towards where her friend lay. Depa’s lightsaber flew to her and smacked against her palm, and she grasped it with a tight fist as she retreated. Pain radiated from the wound on her leg, and her skin stung as it rubbed against the fabric of her clothes, but she used it to push her forward, to fuel her escape as she attempted to form a plan in her hazy mind.

The treeline was the obvious choice, more things to hide behind, more things to block their view as they aimed at her. She skirted through the woods, not caring for the prints she left behind; she was too weak to hide in the treetops to avoid the snow so she did the best she could to make up for the trail leading them right to her. Trickery.

They would find her, and they would shoot at her, and to them they would succeed. Miri Rocksled would fall at the hands of the Cone Army, and it would be logged somewhere for someone to keep track of.

But this would not be so, as the drop off before her filled in the gaps of her plan. She would need to pull out some theatrics, rather unconventional for a Jedi but she never claimed to follow the grain, and perhaps she could pull off this scheme.

And so, when the shots started firing in her direction once again, she did not dodge them. She ran towards the drop off, feeling the heat from the blaster fire as it got closer and closer, and once the edge was in sight she drew Depa’s saber, turning as if she was cornered and this was her last chance to fight. Convincing, as the troopers took her bait and opened fire directly on her, and she only put up as much of a fight as she needed before the real test began. Her focus drifted from the men before her, and the outside noise drowned itself out. The Force, as present as ever, was all around. It was one with her, and it was always with her.

Her heart slowed in her chest, and it seemed as if things moved in slow motion as she let Captain Grey shoot her in the abdomen, the pain harsh but dulled with the rest of her senses as she used the Force to put her body in a state of comatose. She dropped the lightsaber, using the momentum from the shot to send herself over the edge. She let herself plummet towards the snowy abyss below, slowing herself slightly. When her body collided with the ground, clouds of powdery snow erupted around her, almost shrouding her as the clones looked over the edge.

Her eyes weren’t quite shut, lashes touching as she lay with her head rolled to the side, arms splayed out. Her heart was barely beating, her body mimicking all signs of death in the very name of preservation. In her mind, she thought of her own clones as the ones above confirmed that they had taken out both Jedi Generals. They scooped up the lightsaber before retreating, the presumed dead woman left to freeze on Kaller only a small blip in their minds.

Memories of her squad replayed in her mind as time passed, the coast long since clear as she remained stuck in the icy hold of the world around her. Memories of Hunter, of how beautiful he really was to her, how much he wanted to protect her.

If you don’t move, you’ll die.

His voice, just a whisper of him, echoed in her ears when all noises had been blocked out by the ringing silence.

You are going to freeze. You are bleeding out.

Wake up, Miri. Wake up.

It was with the last snap of his words that all her senses rushed back to her at once, jolting her from her stupor. She gasped, eyes wide as her body worked to resume its normal functions after such a pause. Pain seeped in as much as the cold, and she reminded herself that she was fighting the great fight; she did not have time to dwell on such things. Escape was imperative, and time was dwindling. She had been trained for this, her whole life had been learning how to survive against all odds with the gift she had been given, and this was not going to stop her.

all works on this blog belong to hesthermay.tumblr.com: do not copy, repost onto other sites, or claim my content as your own.

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rowaelinsdaughter · 9 months

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KEEP MY HEART CHAPTER I

a/n;; everybody, this is HAPPENING OMG!!!! this is going to be my first story and this is my first fic with my OC (read the information here). this fic is written in 3rd person so there is no use of "you".

i was thinking and maybe im going to write fics using my oc, as i said in my post of the OC, i want to improve, i want to change, i want new things, new experiences... and this is my first step. so i hope u guys enjoy this. (reblogs are appreciated and this doesnt mean im not going to write character x reader, my requests are still open)

WARNINGS;; spoilers for heir of fire, mentions of death

manon blackbeak was eager to come back. she has been hunting crochans for weeks and finally, she reached a cottage in the north of fenharrow and now, she was prepared for blood. hiding in the closet, she listened to the three men that had broken in.

she heard them open the door to the room.

“come out, little crochan,” one of them said.

with their backs to the closet, manon slipped out and quietly closed the bedroom door.

“wrong kind of witch.”

✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

the moon was up in the sky when ayla moonsinger approached the cliff where a certain moon-white haired witch was waiting. she looked how her hair danced with the wind and by the pose, she knew manon was enjoying the wind. knew there were few sounds she enjoyed more than the groans of dying men, but the wind was one of them.

step by step, she got closer to her figure until her arms were hugging manons waist, feeling them a smile appeared on her face, one that never allowed to show in front of the matron… or anyone except for the thirteen. her coven. she twisted around to face ayla and took her face between her hands.

hazel eyes and golden eyes looked at each other. looked into their souls.

“hello witchling” manon purred.

ayla leaned her forehead until they were touching. manon was the first one who initiated the kiss. their hands explored each other's bodies while their mouths were a mix of teeth, lips and tongues. ayla was the first one who broke the kiss first, caressing her cheek, manon left kisses on her neck making ayla laugh with delightment.

“manon, your grandmother is coming here soon…”

“let me feel you, i haven't seen you in months”

“i know… i missed you too”

a low whistle sounded from behind and manon snarled, ayla turned around and found asterin leaned on a tree, a smirk displayed on her beautiful face and her braid falled down her shoulder.

“calm down you wolf, it's only asterin.”

manon rolled her eyes and left a kiss on her cheek. if asterin was here that meant the rest of the coven was also here… and the blackbeak matron would be here anytime soon.

they were all positioned when the matron arrived. voluminous midnight robes flowed around her with the wind. the memories flooded her mind like it was yesterday.

her parents dead. her screaming. the matron slapping her face. “you’re coming with me”. her first day, week, month, year. the anniversary of their parents. the old houses of terrasen honoring her house, honoring the last member of the family… her. her first crochan. her first kill.

she hated her. hated the way she was and the way she treated everyone, specially manon and the thirteen. and she hated how she needed to act to survive. because that was not what she learned, she wasnt that way. she wasn't cold hearted, she wasn't cruel. there wasn't a day in which she didn't regret the person she was sometimes. what would my parents think about me? she usually asked herself, and in the long nights where she was hunting, in the nights she couldn't sleep next to her mate, she looked to the stars and searched for the lord of the north and mourned a family, a city, long forgotten.

two hours passed until the matron got out of the caravan where she had talked with a duke. “we are leaving now,” the matron said. manon jerked her chin to the thirteen and they fell in line, ayla between asterin and sorrel. “you two will protect her with your life, is that clear?” and that was 100 years ago. a lifetime now that the magic was gone.

ayla watched manon and her grandmother talk. about what? she didn't want to hear it.

when the matron was gone, ayla and the thirteen approached manon, the first one caressing her lovers back.

“apparently, the king needs riders. wyvern riders for his cavalry” her smile was wicked “we are traveling north”

tagging;; @danikamariewrites @thehighladywrites @throneofsapphics @shadowdaddies @ladybambifae

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pisupsala · 9 months

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 17 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 7.9k

Library

Chapter 17 - Dream a Little Dream of Me

He doesn’t sleep anymore. Not really. When his body finally gives in to the exhaustion, and he lets his guard down, his mind catches a second wind, serving up the worst visions from the war. Bradley refuses to call them dreams, but he would hesitate to call them nightmares. He doesn’t wake up bathing in a cold sweat, heart beating, desperately trying to catch his breath anymore. It’s a never-ending reel that starts playing the moment he closes his eyes like it’s been seared into his eyelids, and all he can do is watch.

On that misty gray morning in June, he followed Mav over the channel. Flanked by countless squadrons, passing over the largest armada assembled, they were prepared for everything. Anything. Flying low, the sight of the shallows on the Atlantic in Normandy colored blood-red knocks the wind out of him.

Bradley has seen plenty of battles in his years in the war. He’s seen friend and foe disappear in balls of fire in midair, watched them plummet to the earth, spinning out of control. He’s seen cities go up in flames under him. He was the one helping ignite them. In a certain regard, he was lucky — he never had to see the resulting carnage firsthand. He never had to look another pilot in the face before they died. He couldn’t see the people running to hide in air raid shelters as the bombers he was escorting flew over.

High in the sky, war often seems quite far away.

Bradley is quite aware of his own mortality — after his own crash, how could he not be? But he also knows it is either them or him. It’s the simple equation of a dogfight. But the sight of a blood-red sea — how much blood must there be in order to dilute the seawater? — simply won’t leave him.

How many seas of blood has he caused?

If the battle for Europe was a raw lesson in the mass casualty of war, Bradley kept holding out hope that his wing would stay assigned to the theater. Holding out hope that if he could follow the advance, it could get him closer to you again. However, in the early fall of 1944, most Naval aviators get re-assigned to the Pacific theater as the European front moves inland, and the USAF and RAF take the lead in establishing air superiority. Bradley is a Luitenant Commander now, the rows of ribbons on his chest gradually growing, weighing him down.

He doesn’t sleep anymore. At night, he wanders the halls of the carrier, unable to rest. The belly of the ship is claustrophobic, noisy and overcrowded at best, and Bradley cannot stand it anymore. After those endless days in that small room, you being his only reprieve, the walls keep closing in on him everywhere. In England, he could go for walks, but now he is resigned to the tight metal corridors, walking the same route, over, and over, and over.

Before he takes off from the carrier, his hand automatically moves to his left chest pocket. Your handkerchief still sits there, carefully folded, lovingly kept. Bradley never goes anywhere without it anymore. It’s his only comfort through the sleepless nights, his good luck charm for every sortie, his promise to you.

If Operation Overlord was a raw wake-up call for the mass massacre up close, the Pacific Theater comes bearing horrors from the darkest nightmares. He is on deck one sunny day when two Japanese planes bore themselves, deliberately, into the cruiser just off the starboard—the desperate screams from the sea of fire echo. Just moments later, two planes hit the carrier. The enemy has resorted to the most desperate strategy of taking everyone down with them.

He appears to be lucky, again, all things considered. Bradley manages to make it with just a few scrapes. In the months of island hopping, he manages to make it through with nothing more than a few bullet holes. Bob jokes Bradley has an angel on his shoulder. Mav praises him for finally learning to trust his instincts instead of overthinking. The praise feels hollow. Many others don’t make it back. It’s not an issue of skill. Bob is right — it’s all luck.

And luck runs out.

It’s been over a year — fourteen grueling months, since Bradley was assigned to the USS Intrepid, and with the island-hopping campaign has now made it all the way to Okinawa. It’s March 1945.

When Bradley thinks back about those days, he has trouble remembering what happened. The chaos and carnage bleed into each other; the constant pressure and the heat boil everything into a large, horrifying mass in his head.

He can’t sleep. He just sees the endless reel of horrors devoid of time and meaning. Bradley reaches for his chest pocket, fingers tracing over the soft outline of your handkerchief. It’s still there. When he closes his eyes, he wishes he could see you. Hear you.

In the few moments of calm that he manages to find, he tries to grasp at the memory of you, but every time it eludes him more. It’s like he can only remember the individual notes of you: a flash of your smile, the wrinkle between your eyebrows, the sparkle in your eye. Your teasing tone as you said his name, the bubble of your laugh, your soft kiss. Like that broken melody, he can’t put the notes together again. And it scares him.

What if he forgets completely?

What if you will always dance just out of his reach, always on the periphery of his mind — never enough for him to truly remember?

And then his luck truly runs out.

In a desperate dog fight, trying to keep the Kamikaze pilots from torpedoing the Allied ships aiming for Okinawa. A hail of bullets perforates the port side of Bradley’s jet, cracking the canopy and busting the fuselage. One bullet pierces his left shoulder. The pain is so intense it’s making him see double.

Bradley always loved flying over the ocean. The sea and the sky become one on the horizon in and endless expanse of heavenly blue. Like a world with no end.

Now, he has trouble telling what is up and what is down. He can hear Mav screaming at him over the radio.

Eject! Eject! Eject!

No. He can make it. If he ejects now, he’ll be a sitting duck in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a battle. Bradley knows that if he stays calm, he can make it back to the USS Intrepid. Nothing is on fire. Yet. He’s losing pressure, and his fuel is getting practically dumped into the ocean.

Slow and steady. Turn off auxiliary instruments to preserve power — flicking the switch of the radio, he cuts off Mav mid-command. Bradley blinks heavily against the pain as he tries to focus on the gyroscope. The plane is level, descending. He turns his head, straining audibly: no one is following him. His squadron seems to be distracting the enemy well, so Bradley can get away.

Slow and steady. Throttle back, keep level, keep above the water. At this rate, he will be flying on fumes by the time he reaches the carrier. Bradley’s left side feels sticky, but he needs all his energy to focus on flying right now — he knows he’s bleeding, but he can’t take his hand off the steering to apply pressure to his shoulder. His left hand is shaking now.

On the horizon, the silhouette of the USS Intrepid looms. The batteries are firing, billowing smoke.

He can make it.

Bradley switches his radio back on.

“Tower, tower -” He gasps for breath. “Tower, tower, permission to land, over”

The reply comes out garbled. Or maybe it’s just the loud rushing in his ears from blood loss. Carefully, Bradley taps the fuel gauge. He’s never seen it so low. He must have called his status because, finally, something legible comes through the radio.

“Affirmative — deck is ready, Rooster,”

He’s going to get one shot at this. Get enough speed to generate just enough lift to get him to the right altitude so he can make it onto the flight deck.

There’s not going to be a do-over for this.

Bradley loses consciousness the moment his landing gear hits the deck. The angle of his descent is too steep; he has too little strength to course correct. On impact, the front wheel snaps off, grinding the nose of the plane into the deck in a rain of sparks, knocking his head into the canopy.

When he comes by, Bradley is still on the landing deck, splayed out, while a medic is putting a painful amount of pressure on his shoulder. Bradley grunts in agony. His whole left side is soaked.

“Good, you’re awake,” The medic deadpans. “Rooster, stay awake now.”

“My pocket-” He chokes out, trying to get his right arm up. “My left pocket.”

“Take it easy now, Rooster,” The medic admonishes him. “You’re bleeding out here.”

“But I need, I need -” Bradley lifts his head from the tarmac, vision still blurry. “Left pocket.”

“Stay down!”

“Jesus Christ, son,” Bradley recognizes Beau Simpson's voice. If the admiral is on deck, that landing isn’t going to win him any prizes, he thinks idly. “What do you need from your pocket?”

Bradley answers the question clearly in his head, but in reality, the words come out half-mumbled. It’s enough, however. Someone, maybe Simpson, presses a square of soft fabric into Bradley’s right palm. His fingers close over it, crumpling it in the process. But Bradley needs something to hold onto right now, something to remind him that there’s more beyond this hell, beyond all this pain.

***

Laying in a hospital bed, Bradley feels like a caged animal. The white walls, ceiling, and small window remind him of that room. He can’t get up; he’s not allowed to leave. Bradley’s fingers itch, his heart beating in a panic, cold sweat trickling down his spine.

“Everything okay here?” Soft curls pinned into a pristine white hat with a red cross, bright smile, and rosy cheeks. Nurse Jenny. She’s playfully peeking around the privacy curtain. Bradley doesn’t miss how her eyes wander over him.

“Yeah, yeah, everything is fine,” Bradley replies, forcing himself to keep his voice level, meeting the nurse’s gaze shortly. The sweat is prickling on his forehead, but at least he can pretend that the sweltering Manila heat is causing it. His heart rate is slowly returning to normal — flexing his fingers a few times, the strange tension leaves his nerves.

“Let me get you something to cool you down, Lieutenant Commander,” Her soft hand brushes over his clammy forehead. “Just to make sure you don’t start running a fever.”

Her voice is soft and pleasant. She is soft and pleasant.

Bradley feels a twinge of guilt in his stomach.

Jenny is just a nurse, and Bradley is just a patient.

She doesn’t look like you, not even if Bradley squinted. She doesn’t carry herself in the same way that you do — Jenny isn’t as much of an enigma but rather wears her heart on her sleeve. But in the short two weeks, when he thinks of you and tries to conjure up the memory of you, he isn’t sure if he’s seeing Jenny. Did your smile always look like that? Did your voice always have that same timbre?

It’s been two years since he left you on that platform. Two long and lonely years. Now, stuck in a hospital bed, stuck with his own thoughts again, the walls close in. Except when Jenny comes in. Just like you did.

Bradley closes his eyes as the nurse places a cool cloth over his forehead. Didn’t you do the same? Did your eyes wander in the same way?

“There, much better,” Jenny concludes. “How’s the shoulder today?”

“Getting better, Nurse, thank you,” Bradley replies, smiling automatically. “Any chance I’m getting off bed rest anytime soon?” He asks, tone jovial, trying to mask his discomfort of the hospital room.

Jenny titters as she wipes her hands on her apron. “Trust me, the sooner you’re up and about, the better.”

“Am I such a bad patient?” The words come completely automatically to Bradley, a cocky grin settling on his face. Jenny flushes lightly. For a moment, he feels great — fun, teasing, catching every eye. Just like he always did. As comes naturally to him.

The next moment, his smile falters. Why would he want to catch Jenny’s eye?

“No, no-,” She replies bashfully. “You just seem eager to get out of here.”

“Aren’t you?”

Jenny blinks at him before a broad smile appears on her face. Her cheeks are still adorably flushed. It’s just satisfying his ego, nothing more. It’s just a bit of fun. Just something to make the crushing boredom and oppressive heat in the hospital more bearable.

“I’ll check up on you again later, Lieutenant Commander,” She chirps happily before she hurriedly disappears behind the curtain with a girlish giggle.

Bradley carefully opens the small drawer on his bedside stand when he's sure she's left. A few personal possessions lay scattered; among them, quite unceremoniously, a Purple Heart. He has no need for more medals.

Carefully, Bradley takes out your handkerchief. His heart sinks every time he looks at it now. The side that was against his chest has been soaked through with blood, the once pristine white now a dirty, rusty color. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. The neat folding has been crumpled, leaving the square disheveled.

Bradley knows he should get it washed, but he has an irrational fear that if he does, he will wash away whatever is left of you, his lucky charm, in the fabric. It will just be an ordinary handkerchief after that. He traces his thumb over the stitching of your initials.

Sokolova. After some careful prodding, Bradley found out it meant falcon. From Hangman, no less, who in turn hounded him for why he wanted to know. Bradley never even hinted at as to why, causing Hangman to stop speaking to him completely. As if that was supposed to be a form of punishment.

But, how fitting.

Rooster and Falcon.

Bradley hasn’t forgotten his promise to you. It’s been two years, but he has every intention to find you again, and make good on all the words he filled your head with.

Guilt twists in his gut. He’s lonely. Bradley has never done well by himself. Even now, he’s back with Mav, Bob is around — he’s seen Fanboy several times. Harvard is in the Pacific, too. It’s not that kind of loneliness he is grappling with. It’s the lack of intimacy, however fleeting. The kind he never had trouble finding, the kind that stopped all the wayward pain of his life and loss that he never wanted to confront.

Six days with you were not enough. It was never going to be enough.

***

“So, can I call you Rooster?”

Jenny is sitting across from Bradley in the noisy bar, chin leaning on her hand, with that fantastic smile on her face. “Or do you prefer Commander?” She adds coyly, taking a sip of her colorful cocktail.

“Rooster is fine,” He replies with a small smile, averting his gaze to the ice melting in his Old Fashioned. Bradley was promoted to Commander today. The whole ceremony, if you can call it that, was over in less than three minutes. Bradley did not even have to get up from bed. An Admiral Bradley had never met before handed him his new pins after a few short words, flanked by a petty officer and some doctors. A firm handshake, followed by a quick salute, and the man and his entourage were sauntering out of the room again. Without much thought, Bradley dunked the pins into the drawer of his bedside table.

Better news came from the doctor on the next round: he was finally well enough to leave the hospital. A few rounds of physical therapy to regain full mobility of his shoulder would be needed, but Bradley wasn’t planning on hanging around for that. He could do some stretches on the carrier, too. The war isn’t over yet.

As he got dressed and stuffed all his meager belongings into a small bag, Jenny appeared, looking somewhat hesitant.

The silver oak leaf Commander pin still feels foreign on the collar of his khaki uniform.

“Looking to get out of here?” She ventured. “For a drink first, maybe?”

Bradley should have said no. But was there really any harm in getting a drink and some conversation? That’s normal, he reasons. It’s what people do. It’s just a drink to celebrate his promotion — no matter how much he doesn’t really care for his new rank — it’s a normal and polite thing to do. And Jenny is nice enough.

“So, Rooster it is,” Jenny smiles brightly. “Are you really leaving today?”

“Yeah,” Bradley shrugs. “I’m catching the first ride out of here and back to my ship.”

“Well, then, don’t be a stranger,” She ventures carefully. “I was wondering if I could write you?”

Bradley doesn’t reply immediately, taking a sip of his drink instead. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Jenny.” He finally replies.

“Oh.” She looks a little crestfallen. “You’re not married, are you?” Jenny looks mildly alarmed at the notion. “Because I’m not like that, you know?”

Bradley chuckles. “No, I’m not married. And I know you’re a good girl, don’t worry.”

The words flow from his mouth easily, words that he said a million times, honed to the greatest effect. Jenny, predictably, seems to relax at his words. Bradley pulls back in his chair as if to create additional distance between himself and Jenny at the small table. The conversation idles on, and a new round of drinks appears on the table.

“So Rooster,” Jenny looks up at him through her lashes, scooting her chair a little bit closer to the table. “What are your plans for after the war?”

“First thing is probably just to return home,” Bradley smiles fondly at the thought.

“Where is home?”

“In Virginia Beach,” He supplies easily. God, he misses home.

“Oh, really?” Jenny’s eyes light up. “I’m from Baltimore!”

Bradley doesn’t respond verbally, more just nodding his head in understanding.

“I’ll be returning stateside after the war, too.” She continues, almost shyly. “Maybe I could come down to Virginia Beach, and you could show me around?”

“Let’s see,” Bradley replies evasively, not meeting her gaze. An icy feeling sinks in his stomach. He should just say no. Why can’t he just say no?

Because he enjoys the feeling of having a pretty nurse fawning over him, trying to sweet talk him.

Because it makes him feel less horribly lonely for a moment.

Because he’s not doing anything wrong.

He downs the rest of his drink.

“It’s been a pleasure, Jenny,” He says warmly as he gets up, pulling out his wallet and leaving a few bills on the table. Jenny shoots up out of her chair.

“I’ll write you,” She tries again, eyes large with hope.

“Sure,” Bradley replies, nodding in her direction in a hurried goodbye, guilt twisting in his gut before he legs it out of the bar. He never wants to return here again. And he should never see Jenny again. It’s a fun distraction, a band-aid for his loneliness and pain, but he wants nothing to come of it.

Right?

***

The streets around the Manila harbor are packed. Every sailor, officer, marine, and aviator who is lucky enough to have made port this night has poured out of the docked ships and barracks onto the street. There’s a cacophony of music and singing, ship horns being blown, glasses clinking — bodies are pushing past each other in dancing, drunk and deliriously happy.

It’s V.E. Day.

Clutching a half-drunk bottle of whiskey, Bradley stumbles past the dancing crowd. He lost Mav, who was at least as drunk as he is, somewhere in the throng of people. God knows where Bob, who mostly doesn’t drink, disappeared to.

Someone grabs him by the elbow, dragging him into a group — Bradley vaguely recognizes a few fellow aviators. The atmosphere is jubilant: the Nazis capitulated, Europe has been liberated. The Pacific Theater cannot be far behind. They might all be going home soon.

He might be able to go look for you soon.

Bradley accepts a bottle of clear liquid, taking a swig without registering what he was handed. In exchange, he offers up his bottle of whiskey. After months, years of hell, it feels like all the pressure is finally finding release. Harvard suddenly pops up, greeting Bradley with a jovial hug. Strange, normally, they were cordial at best, but it feels completely natural under the circumstances.

“How have you been, Harvard?” Bradley asks, offering him some of the quickly dwindling whiskey.

“Oh man,” Harvard blinks forcefully, trying to steady himself while he gathers his thoughts. “I’ve seen some shit, Rooster.”

He takes the bottle, nearly pitching backward as he tries to drink from it. Bradley grabs him by arm, pulling Harvard back upright.

“Yeah,” Bradley agrees, too drunk to say anything of meaning back. “Where’s — where’s… Yale?

“I dunno man,” Harvard shrugs. “I just want to go home, man — hey, give me another shot, Rooster.” He slurs.

“You’re still holding the bottle, you ass,” Bradley laughs. “Have another shot, c’mon.” He starts taunting Harvard, deciding in his drunken haze that it would be hilarious to watch him fall off his Ivy League pedestal and on his ass.

Distracted, Bradley is nearly bowled over himself as two slim arms lock around his neck. He stumbles backward, ears full of girlish giggles. He grabs Jenny by the waist to steady himself. Her cheeks are flushed from alcohol — his own face feels pretty hot now, too.

Carefully, he tries to put Jenny down, bending over somewhat awkwardly. She doesn’t let go, however.

“You never wrote me back, Rooster,” She pouts playfully.

Did he ever receive any mail from Jenny? Maybe it was still stuck somewhere in transit, or did he purposefully ignore it?

“Busy times at sea,” He replies jokingly instead.

“Hey, Rooster?” Harvard is calling somewhere from behind Jenny. “Imma — I’m going to keep this, ok?”

Bradley looks up, just in time to see Harvard making off with the practically empty bottle. Jenny puts a hand on his cheek, directing his gaze back to her.

“You are not too busy for me now, right, Rooster?” She asks, almost bashfully, large eyes pleading at him.

Bradley wishes that he could pretend that she looked like you, that it triggered something in him because the alcohol blurred his vision. But Jenny looks nothing like you, not even close. The way she carries herself, the way she speaks, all down to the way her skin feels, is nothing like you. Jenny is not what Bradley wants; it’s not what he is looking for. Rationally, he knows all this.

But he is just lonely, selfish, and she is here.

His lips are on hers, the fabric of her dress crumpling under his grasp. Jenny gasps into his mouth, granting him deeper access. He half expects her to stop him, and push him off. But Jenny seems to have her mind made up and is pulling him deeper, hands clutching the collar of his uniform.

Time is passing in a blur. Somewhere between kisses and giggles, Bradley drinks more. It’s like he is trying to disinfect his mind from reality — every time the voice in the back of his head becomes too strong, the wrench of guilt in his stomach too painful, a dousing of alcohol stills it.

They dance. Jenny often steps on his toe, and his back hurts from the awkward angle he’s holding her.

You fit so nicely in his arms; you always moved so in sync with him.

With the next drink, the thought drowns in the background noise.

He has Jenny pushed up against a wall between barrack buildings. She is pulling his shirt up from his pants, drunkenly fumbling with buttons. Her legs are around his waist, and her dress bunched up at her hips. Bradley’s hands are feverishly working their way up Jenny’s thighs, pushing up her slip dress, unclasping the garters holding up her stockings.

“I thought you were a good girl, Jenny?” He groans as she dips her hands up his undershirt.

“I am,” She gasps, rolling her hips into his. “You just bring out the worst in me, Rooster.”

Bradley chuckles as his fingers ghost over Jenny’s panties. She whimpers, her hips stuttering against his fingers, looking for more friction. Her hands travel down to his belt, pulling it open unceremoniously and unzipping Bradley’s slacks. Jenny’s small, warm hands start rubbing his shaft over his underwear. Bradley is so drunk, he didn’t even realize he could still get hard.

“I’ve thought about this so much,” Jenny whispers in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. “I’ve been dreaming about you, Rooster.”

“F-fuck,” Bradley swears. Jenny’s words make him so good. And so bad.

“I need you,” Jenny pleads. “Do you need me? Do you want me, Bradley?”

It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water is dumped over him. Bradley pulls back from Jenny like he’s been burned. The haze is melting off him rapidly. The sounds of the street — the music, the signing — are suddenly deafeningly loud.

He lets go of Jenny, unceremoniously plopping her back on the ground as he stumbles back.

“Bradley?” She is blinking up at him, dress crumpled, hair messy, stocking rolled down her leg. Jenny looks like she is about to cry. As fast as his drunk fingers will allow him, Bradley zips his slacks back up.

“Don’t -” He swallows a breath. “Don’t call me that.”

“Wait!” Jenny is straightening out her dress as she makes her way to follow him. “Rooster!”

“Leave me alone, Jenny,” He bites out hurriedly, rubbing his eyes. Bradley has disappeared into the crowd before Jenny can bring out another word.

It feels like his legs are filled with lead, every step is sobering, slow, and painful. Bradley doesn’t remember how he gets back to the ship. He feels like a black hole is eating him from the inside now the haze of the alcohol has lifted, the dam of his guilt has broken through. Collapsing face first onto his bunk, his head is spinning.

He meant every word he said to you.

Didn’t he?

He just voided every promise he made to you. Just like he’s done so many times before, to so many girls before you. You were different. But Bradley was, unfortunately, still the same.

***

You can hear the wind as it picks up through the crowns of the trees—leaves rustling, birds taking flight. Everything feels soft and warm; you know you are in a familiar and safe place. Stretched out on a blanket, your eyes are closed, but you can tell it’s a bright sunny day; the rays feel warm on your skin. Wiggling your toes, you expect to feel cool grass, twigs and dirt, but instead, there is…sand?

You don’t want to open your eyes yet, afraid you will lose how comfortable you feel. So you listen closer.

It’s not the wind and rustle of leaves around you. It’s the gentle wash of waves, grains of sand dancing over a wide plain, carried on a breeze. You can hear the birds now—seagulls, clearly. The salty sea air tickles your nose. Somewhere in the distance, there are voices, happily chatting and laughing.

Blinking heavily against the summer sun, you sit up, leaning on your elbows, looking around. A white and yellow striped parasol stuck in the sand casts a pleasant shadow over you. The sea is merrily reflecting the sun in many shades of blue, while the pale yellow sand around you stretches far past the horizon. Behind you, jagged cliffs loom, with tufts of green helm grass peeking from between the cracks and crevasses of the towering stone wall. You can’t see anyone but still hear chatter and laughter— like a movie being played in a different room.

You’re wearing a bathing suit, white with blue dots—precisely like the one you had been admiring in that store window for so long.

It’s strange. Familiar. And everything feels so real. You feel light, like a feather on a breeze.

You are flying.

And nothing hurts.

Turning onto your side, head leaning on your head, you take a moment to observe Bradley. He’s lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other casually draped over his stomach, breathing steady, like he is asleep. Somewhere, you knew he was here the whole time, but your heart still leaps from joy as you take in his form.

He looks tanner, blonder even, than you remember him. Like sunshine poured into human form. His deliciously broad shoulders are relaxed, but you can clearly see the definition of the muscles on his stomach, contracting with every breath. Bradley’s dark sunglasses sit a little crooked on his face, lips slightly parted, and his soft sun-kissed curls are mussed up—it’s adorable.

You can’t help yourself. Bradley looks so at peace, but you are starving for him. So you reach out, gently grazing the palm of your hand over his jaw, fingers lightly dancing over his throat and collarbone—you delight in seeing him tense under your touch. Boldly, you caress his bare chest, leaving goosebumps in your wake despite the warm weather. Finally, your fingers dance over Bradley’s stomach, your nails playfully scratching through the trail of light hair from his belly button to the waistband of his shorts. Bradley’s abs twitch, and you lick your lips.

“Anya…” Bradley’s voice is deep, something primal seeping through.

“Yes, my love?” You reply with a giggle, resting your palm on his lower stomach.

“Don’t tease like that, sweetheart,” He murmurs lowly, doing very little to actually discourage you. You are pretty sure Bradley’s eyes are still closed—he hasn’t even moved his head. It just won’t do.

You are starved for him; the way he looks at you so sweetly, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, that roguish grin as he teases you. The weight of his body against yours, his strong arms wrapped around you, his fingers digging into your skin.

“Tease like what, Bradley?” You reply innocently as your fingers dance over his lower stomach. Playfully, he grabs your adventuring hand, lacing his fingers through yours and resting it on his stomach again. A moment passes as you pout, considering your next move, when Bradley suddenly sits up, leaning on his elbow. He lets go of your hand again and clumsily pushes his sunglasses up. He looks so surprised to see you, it makes you laugh.

But of course he is surprised. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep, drunk, angry and burning with shame and guilt. So long he had been fighting to remember your face and voice, just the way you are, extricated from every contamination it picked up over the years. But he couldn’t; it was like his memory of you was endlessly diluted.

And now you are here. That mischievous smile on your face, laughing at him, as beautiful as the day he left you. It has to be you; Bradley couldn’t dream you up as perfect as you are now.

You lean into him, gently cradling his face between your hands. His large brown eyes follow your every move. Up close, you can see the specks of green and gold in his irises. The scars on Bradley’s face are faded—but you can still feel the subtle raised ridges.

“I’ve missed you,” You tell him earnestly. Not bothering to wait for his reply, you press your mouth onto his. To his credit, Bradley reacts immediately, pulling you into him as he lays back down, opening his mouth and granting you full control. You are half draped over him now, scandalously so.

But it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t take you that long to put two and two together. You are dead, right? This is either your punishment or your reward—one more moment with your lover. Maybe Bradley is dead too, and now you can take back the time that was stolen from you. One final moment where you get to live out the promise he made you — together, as you should have been.

It’s not something you’re choosing to dwell on. When it comes to Bradley, you’ve made the same decision over and over, and you’re not planning on changing that now. You will gladly suffer for eternity if it means you get to live your time with him to the fullest.

Without consequence.

“I’ve missed you so much,” you breathe between kisses, running your hands through his hair, tugging him closer to you. “I needed you, Bradley.”

“Anya,” Bradley groans, his grip tightening on your waist. “Jesus Chri-”

“I love you.” You almost cut him off in your urge to make sure he knows—he needs to know. This might be your only chance to tell him, and it’s burning a hole in your heart. “I should have told you the day you left, but I didn’t understand yet. Not a day has gone by that I didn’t think about you.”

Bradley feels the guilt cropping up in the pit of his stomach again, but he quickly pushes it away. He hoped for so long that you would say those words to him—that he could really tell you how he felt without scaring you away.

“I love you too,” He tells you, tucking your head under his chin, kissing your temple. Your lips immediately latch onto his neck. Bradley hisses in pleasure, caressing your spine, trying to keep his thoughts in order. “I knew—Anya, I knew since… too long.” He admits between heavy breaths. “I should have taken you with me; I hate myself for leaving you behind.”

“But now I’m here,” Your voice is soft, lips caressing the shell of his ear.

“You’re here,” He echoes with a smile. “Thank god you’re here.”

Bradley never wants to wake up. Rationally, he knows he is asleep in his bunk in Manila, but it all feels so far away now. He could stay here with you, on this beach, and never want for anything else. Everything feels so real, like it’s pulled from all his deepest, most precious wish—your lips on his, the small sighs, even the way your skin feels. How could this only be a dream?

You always kept some parts of yourself so skillfully hidden—most things you did were carefully calculated. There were snapshots of moments where Bradley was sure he found the real you: the stubborn, mischievous, infuriating, adorable, eager-to-please you. He saw it in your smile, the sparkle in your eye, he felt it in your kiss. His little spitfire.

But now—now you are unencumbered, freer than ever before. Nothing is waiting for you outside this bubble: there is no war, no ticking clock. There’s just him. And you.

Not a single of his fragmented memories would ever do you justice. Bradley can’t stop himself from touching you to assure himself that he hasn’t truly forgotten, to feel the familiarity of your skin and curves, the smell of your soap — even the way your hair tickles his face as you kiss him.

He doesn’t want to question why he is seeing you now, why you have appeared in front of him so completely, so closely and ever so lovely when he was hitting rock bottom. A heart so worn down, so broken, it will make him suffer the most perfect vision of you.

“Don’t frown like that, Bradley,” Your teasing tone breaks him out of his reverie, the tip of your index finger pressing between his eyebrows. The sun casts a halo around your form. “It makes you look old.”

“I’m not old,” He defends himself, chuckling.

“Didn’t say you were, my love,” You retort, pressing your lips against his forehead. Bradley laughs, squeezing your thigh playfully, serenity finally setting in. If this is a hell of his own making, he will take it over the hell on earth he has seen. Because in this hell, at least he is still together with you, even for a moment. And then he will wake up alone.

Bradley easily flips you over onto your back, leaning on his forearm as your body molds against his. Your surprised giggle turns into a soft moan.

If you could have everything you wished for, just for a moment, knowing you would lose it all — would you still do it?

The question is playing over and over in Bradley’s mind as he pulls your leg over his hip, nipping at your collarbone. You squeal in delight as you feel his familiar weight against you, pressing down in all the right places.

Would you?

Gently, your hands envelop Bradley’s face, bringing him up to face you. You can see it play out in his expression, in flashes and shadows. You can hear the question that pains him so much.

“Yes,” You say simply, smiling. Bradley blinks, confused. “I would do it all again, Bradley,” You continue, sincerely. A shiver runs up his spine as you say his name.

“Even if…” He starts carefully.

“Even then,” You reiterate determinedly, not needing him to finish the sentence. The look on your face is serene — you’ve come to accept this dream. Your fate. You might never get another chance to say these things to him. And at the end of the line, the conclusion is clear as day: “I don’t regret anything.”

Bradley sighs, pulling you impossibly closer, his lips crashing against yours. He doesn’t need to say anything else — it’s all in his kiss, his touch. He knows you understand.

Bradley could never regret you.

Time passes in an impossible loop. Hours pass in seconds, and minutes stretch for an eternity. Your lips find Bradley’s a million times; his hands map every inch of your skin over and over. Your body still fits so perfectly against his; nothing, no one, could ever compare to how your arms drape against his neck, how you arch into him, and how every thrill in your voice is like music to his ears.

“The sun is going down,” Bradley remarks. The once blue sky is now dappled in warm colors, the sun slowly disappearing behind the horizon. You are leaning with your back against his chest, snugly tucked between his strong thighs. Bradley is playing with the shoulder strap of your bathing suit. You know the dream is ending, but you are not worried.

You will just fall asleep in Bradley’s arms. And if you never wake up again, that is okay. You will spend your final moments in the peace you have longed for. You will spend your final moments with Bradley in his embrace, giving you more than you could ever wish for.

Bradley’s arms tighten around you. You sigh contentedly, closing your eyes and leaning your head back. He watches the sea gradually darken, taking on an almost ominous dark hue. The ruby red reflects on the waves in what should look romantic, but he can only see one thing.

Blood.

So much blood it’s turning the whole sea red. He can smell the sickening metallic odor mixing with the salt air now. It feels oppressive, corrosive.

Bradley buries his nose in your hair, closing his eyes. This is just a dream, and he gets to dream about what he wants. He smells your soap, just for a moment — burned hair, jet fuel and smoke suddenly fill the air. When he opens his eyes, Bradley almost screams out.

You are limp in his arms, blood pouring from the side of your head, smoke billowing strangely from your form. You are so impossibly hot in his hands suddenly; it’s like you are on fire. Your mouth is agape and eyes are closed, like you are asleep.

You look dead.

The realization hit Bradley so hard, the dream shatters around him. He wakes up with a bang, pitching from his bunk onto the unforgiving metal floor of his cabin.

Everything hurts: from the searing headache to the alarming pain in his shoulder — Bradley’s adrenaline is through the roof.

He needs to get out of here.

He needs to find you.

He needs to…

Scrambling up, Bradley only just makes it to the small trashcan in the room, desperately heaving, before emptying the contents of his stomach.

***

“Rooster, someone is here to see you.” Bob is looking at Bradley inquisitively. Bradley barely responds as he’s pushing around the powdered scrambled eggs on his plate listlessly. He’s not even sure why he came to breakfast in the chow hall in the first place — he spent the last few hours oscillating between throwing up and staring into the darkness of his room, trying to understand what he just saw. Trying to convince himself it was just a drunken dream, fuelled by guilt. Nothing more than that.

But then why did it feel so real? Why is he so sure something has happened to you?

Tiredly, he looks up at Bob, who looks annoyingly refreshed.

“Thanks Bob,” He manages, voice rough from all the acid. “Where?”

“Outside, off the ramp.”

Bradley groans in annoyance as he gets up.

“Uhm- Rooster,” Voice quiet, Bob stops Bradley. “It’s a girl, a nurse.”

Bradley appreciates that Bob is courteous enough to be discreet about this. Had it been anyone else, it would probably be announced loudly to draw a crowd. Plenty of sailors and aviators are subject to lover spats in every port they call — it’s almost a rite of passage. Bradley has had plenty of situations, but he never really cared. It wasn’t of any real consequence.

Putting his dark aviator sunglasses on, and fitting his cover on his head, he trudges down to the side ramp of the carrier. The sun is painfully bright.

At the bottom of the ramp, Jenny waits for him in her nurse’s uniform. Her face is drawn. Several sailors are leaning on the railing, smoking, waiting for the show to start. Instead, Bradley grabs Jenny by the elbow and gently but urgently leads her away from prying eyes.

They turn a corner between warehouses on the dock, and Bradley lets go off her. Putting his hands in his pockets, he waits for Jenny to start speaking. She is nervously wringing her hands, like she’s trying to summon the courage to speak.

A minute goes by.

“So, why did you come to see me?” Bradley’s voice is flat, hiding the true level of his annoyance. He is not even really mad at Jenny — he doesn’t think he could ever be so angry at anyone as he is at himself. She flinches at his tone.

“What happened last night?” She ventures carefully. “Did I do something wrong?”

Bradley hesitates. Will he come full circle on this and tell her “It’s not you but me”?

“I think it’s best we don’t see each other anymore, Jenny,” He replies, fully aware he’s not answering her question, and offering no reassurance.

“Yeah, I figured,” She replies softly. “I came to say goodbye, I guess.”

Bradley doesn’t respond. It would be the least he could do. He would owe Jenny that much, but if he’s burning all his bridges, he might as well be thorough about it. He’s acutely aware that he is an awful person, so at least Jenny would have no doubt about that anymore.

So he waits for her to turn away, but instead, she frowns, looking up at him. “I just wished you hadn’t lied to me about your wife. I really thought you were different.”

Bradley looks back impassively, thankful for how his sunglasses and cover shield his expression.

“And now you know I’m not,” Bradley shrugs, not even bothering to correct her on the

“Really?” Jenny is indignant. “I told you I wasn’t like that, Bradley -”

“Keep my name out of your mouth,” Bradley cuts her off coldly. Jenny blanches. He doesn’t want to hear her say it when he’ll never hear you say it again. He wants to preserve every bit of the dream, every bit of you. “And you’re exactly like that, if I hadn’t stopped, you would have let me fuck you in that alleyway,” He continues, voice steely. “You’re exactly like all the girls that hang around port.”

He shouldn’t be taking out his grief on her, but for a moment, it makes Bradley feel better. Just like kissing her made him feel better for a brief time. It won’t change that he is stuck in the Pacific, dodging suicidal enemies, that he hasn’t been home in years, that he left you behind and that you are now dead. It won’t bring you back.

“You would have fucked me in that alleyway, so that makes you just as bad as me.” Jenny bristles. “At least I didn’t lie.”

“Like that’s what matters,” Bradley grumbles under his breath.

“Anyway,” Jenny clears her throat, blinking heavily. “You dropped this yesterday.”

She extends her hand, holding a small square of white. Bradley snatches it out of her hand. Fuck. His heart is suddenly beating loudly.

Your handkerchief, pristine white as the day you handed it to him, neatly folded. Gone every trace of his blood, gone every trace there was of you.

Bradley thinks he’s going to be sick again.

“It fell on the ground, so I washed it for you.” Jenny’s voice sounds distant in his head. “But yeah, I figured it belonged to your wife or sweetheart… and it’s not her fault, so, there.” She trails off.

“You need to stay out of my life,” Bradley hisses out.

Bradley’s hand is shaking — whether from anger or overwhelming grief, he cannot begin to understand what he is feeling. He needs to leave. Slipping your handkerchief, which feels foreign and contaminated in his hand, into his chest pocket, Bradley starts to turn away.

“You know, I figured she’d want to know.”

Bradley’s head snaps back at Jenny so quickly it makes his vision blurry for a moment. Jenny looks livid.

“What?” He bites back, acerbically.

“This won’t be the last deployment you go on,” Jenny has tears in her eyes as she forces out the words. “Really, how hard will it be to find a Mrs. A. Bradshaw in Virginia Beach? Can’t imagine there are many.” She swallows heavily before continuing with a stronger voice. “Don’t you think she’ll be curious to hear what you get up to while she waits for you?”

Jenny pauses a moment to gauge Bradley’s reaction. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, his fist balled by his side. Good.

“Maybe I’ll drop by, and fill her in over some coffee.” She concludes cattily.

A few moments of silence pass. Jenny is getting nervous. She expected Rooster to start shouting and explode in anger. But he’s just standing there, expression unreadable, until the corner of his mouth quirks up.

Bradley starts laughing — his laughter sounds empty in cruel to his own ears. He doesn’t even think it’s funny. He feels no joy. It’s absurd. Jenny looks terrified. This is worse than any shouting could be.

“Good luck with that one,” He laughs. “Do let me know if you find her.”

He turns fully back to her. Involuntarily, Jenny takes a step back.

“Stay the fuck away from me.”

note | damn bro

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