lowpolyanimals · 1 year ago
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Capybara Snail from Shadowy Bliss by kattingtonn
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starsofang · 4 months ago
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in which ghost is a ghost.
tw: nsfw, mdni, fingering, p in v, monsterfucking if u squint?? kind of and also yes
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there was a ghost haunting your house.
all your friends called you crazy. they blamed it on your recent breakup, telling you that you weren’t used to living alone, that moving into a new house took getting used to. you didn’t agree.
there was no doubt in your mind that a ghost haunted your new home.
it showed in the way the floorboards creaked when nobody was there to step on them. or the icy draft that lingered in the hallways, sending chilled shivers down your spine. or the shadows that played tricks on you in the dark when you’d wake in the night to use the restroom or grab a glass of water.
you knew it wasn’t a figment of your imagination. the only explanation was a ghost. you just didn’t have solid proof.
things began to shift to something more strange the longer you lived in the house.
at night, you could feel prying eyes staring back at you from the depth of the shadows, yet when you’d look around, nothing would be there. or sometimes, the achingly familiar feeling of a fingertips caressing the skin of your ankle would coax goosebumps to rise on your skin.
whatever ghost resided in your home was increasingly growing more comfortable as time passed with you invading their space. they teetered on an edge, making careful calculations of their subtle touches as not to scare you away, while keeping you hooked with curiosity. really, you should’ve been scared, and you should’ve ran away.
that was precisely what went through your head when the touch of their hand would venture. beginning at your ankle and inching up and up every night that passed. it was a game between the two of you. they tested your limits while you threatened to further them.
it was dangerous, really. messing with a ghost who you had no clue if they were evil or not. demonic, even. none of that seemed to cross your mind when the touches soothed the agonizing ache of loneliness that squeezed your heart every waking day.
your curiosity was growing, though. you yearned to learn about the ghost who was tormenting the comfort of your home, to learn who kept you up at night with a racing heart and a lump in your throat. there was no harm in asking, right?
he didn’t speak much when you did. he told you his name was ghost, but that he remembered being called simon. how fitting ghost was, but how humanizing simon could be.
he remained a shadow when he appeared to you, masking his identity, one that you were unsure if it was a personal choice or he was stuck like that. regardless of it, you shouldn’t have grown attraction to it.
of course, you did. who could blame you? you had learned the name of the ghost who had been haunting you for months, touching you, teasing you. it was hopeless. there was nothing to fight, nor did you really want to.
it was the exact reason on why you ended up with your legs spread, the chill of the room and ghost sweeping over your skin as if being dunked in ice water. a ghastly hand was pumping its way inside of you, fingers curling into that spongy spot you can’t quite reach with your own, wrenching gravelly moans from you that filled the air with song.
it became a nightly routine of yours. ghost fucking you with his fingers, freezing to the touch, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you until you were a weeping mess on the bed, riddled with blissful exhaustion.
then, his fingers became his cock. it was strange, fucking a shadowy ghost that had muddied features you couldn’t make out. you didn’t know what he truly looked like, but you imagined he was as rugged as his voice in the most handsome way.
his cock was much more intoxicating than his fingers. he fucked you with a goal in mind, and that was to take and take from you until your energy had transferred to him. he was sucking away bits of your soul with every long night of coming with him buried inside of you, making up for it with ghostly kisses on your skin once you were burnt out.
things were evolving into dangerous territory. having sex was already dangerous, but now, he was becoming possessive.
if you had a guest who was a male, he’d cause a poltergeist like a pouty child. throwing books off the shelves, knocking over glasses and shattering them on the floor, whispering taunting threats in the ears of your guest. his aim was to have them running out the door and never come back, and it always worked.
what did you think this was? you let him claim you. ghost or not, you were his, and you’d be confined to this house just as much as he was.
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terry-perry · 7 months ago
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Hey, I see you're looking for Alastor request to write him better.
Could I get Alastor x F! Reader where they're constantly flirting with each other until someone shouts just kiss already which takes Alastor off guard enough for the reader to sweep in and kiss him, then as he kisses back she gets dragged off to is room. The rest from there is up to you :)
Inspired by the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald
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"Do you think I ought to bob my hair, Alastor?" Y/N asked the distinguished demon by her side as they shared a few drinks at the hotel's bar. Husk busied himself by wiping some glasses, refraining from rolling his eyes as the pair continued with this back-and-forth.
"I'd look rather darling with such a hairstyle, don't you think?"
"An absolute dream, my dear," Alastor responded, regarding her more intently than usual.
He wasn't sure what it was, but something about her was especially vivacious that night. Perhaps it was the way she seemed to make a bit of effort to be on his level for the dinner-dance the hotel was hosting to celebrate its grand re-opening. Like with many of the antics that go on in the place, Alastor stood passively by, subtly scaring those who came close to him.
Then he spotted her.
He liked how becoming the dark red dress she wore was and how It set off her unnaturally shadowy eyes. Let's not forget about the way her hair glistened so! It was almost like the stars were woven into it.
"You know, back when I was alive, having such a hairstyle would be considered immoral, sinful," Alastor remarked, shamelessly reaching out to twirl a few strands of her hair around his sharp nails. "It was a sure and easy way to attract certain attention."
She took in the way his eyes floated towards hers, but not before making their way up slowly from her legs. Had he been anyone else, she would've disregarded his remark with a brutal slap (perhaps with something worse if she were in the mood). But this was the Radio Demon she was speaking with.
She knew she had him right where she wanted him the moment she stepped in. If her attire hadn't drawn him in, then it was definitely all the attention she gathered from the other party guests who would offer to dance with her. Each one that would head her way with enthusiastic determination would have Alastor's eye twitch before he finally decided it was his turn to cut in.
After that, she was his and no one else's. After all no one would dare be stupid enough to steal the Radio Demon's dance partner.
"Well, it's a good thing we're in Hell then," Y/N said, going as far as laying a hand on the normally touch-aversed Alastor's knee. In this case, however, a glow settled almost imperceptibly over him.
Their eyes met completely, and they stopped talking entirely as they stared at each other. It wasn't until an irritated voice intruded on their space and made the glow fade away.
"For fuck's sake, will you two just get it on already?!" Angel Dust screeched from the Y/N's other side. "This was amusing for a while, but you've been dancing around each other all night. The party ended hours ago, and you still haven't even kissed yet."
An awkward silence followed this. Alastor looked at Angel, eye twitching once more. He wouldn't understand that a classy lady like Y/N deserved to be wooed properly. She's, no doubt, heard every practiced line known in this side of the Pentagram. And she certainly wouldn't react well to such bold actions like hot kisses and heavy petting.
Alastor opened his mouth to explain as much when Y/N grabbed a hold of his face and placed a big kiss on his lips. He would've been more shocked had it not felt like such blissful oblivion. It was better than any glass of rye he had ever drank. He kept a stronghold of her, his claws piercing the small of her back while his other hand took hold of her hair.
They eventually released one another, going back to looking at each other.
"Forgive me," she managed to say between heavy breaths. She kept her bold smile on as well as a tight grip on his lapel. "You've got an awfully kissable mouth."
And with that, the glow returned along with a desire to finish this upstairs.
"About fucking time," Husk uttered, watching with Angel the way Alastor dragged a giddy Y/N to his room.
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juuuulez · 24 days ago
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🔥 | kinktober #8: hate fuck + semi-public sex, steve harrington.
oh this was just 😍😍😍 gotta be my fav piece of this month so far……lots of sub steve 😍
-> prompt/kinktober masterlist <-
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you’ve never heard steve so pathetic than now, where you’ve got him in the palm of your hand.
quite literally, too.
the storage closet in family video is suffocating, especially combined with your shared heat, those stuttered gasps and pants. one wrong move and a shelf will rattle, a broom could fall, so you’d been very firm when instructing steve to stay still.
sans his hips, of course, which pathetically rut into your hand, his bulge aching for any proper stimulation: but this would have to do for now. you can practically feel the outline of his dick in those tight jeans, your palm unrelenting, the heel of it pressing firmly into his crotch.
his face finds your neck, trying to hide. you let him, at least until steve’s teeth brush against your skin, his tongue wet and hot. it feels good. but that’s not the point, it isn’t about what feels good.
“stop. teeth away,” you grunt, using your spare hand to grip his jaw, pulling his face up and keeping it firm against the wall. “what’re you, a fuckin’ dog?”
it makes his face flush red, barely noticeable in the low light. he doesn’t have any sort of quip, either, which makes you grin, grinding your hand firmer into his clothed cock. it has steve breathing heavier, his eyes lidded.
to pacify the noise, you slip your fingers into his mouth, his teeth scraping against delicate skin. but you know he’d never bite down. steve isn’t that much of a brat.
there are shadowy footsteps outside the room, only just visible through the crack under the door. you hold your breath, but thankfully they pass, and you’re sure to lower your voice a few octaves.
“can’t keep it in your pants,” you mutter, staring right into his eyes. they’re blown wide with arousal, so you continue, knowing he’s into this. “creeping out every customer, at this point. why’ve you gotta be such a slut, huh?”
steve’s hand reaches out, clasping tightly at your wrist, holding you in place. it makes satisfaction burn in your chest, knowing that he’s getting off on this, nearing his peak and all you had to do was call him a few names.
not that he can really say that, not with your fingers in his mouth, pressing down against his tongue. it causes spit to dribble past his plush lips, soaking his chin, your wrist. so perfect.
you relent, pressing your own lips to his cheek, voice so dangerously close to his ear. “c’mon, stevie. if you’re gonna be a slut, gotta at least do it right, hm? cum for me, hurry up. don’t wanna get caught.”
and it works, for steve’s eyes practically roll back in his head, working himself down against your open palm. his cock twitches under you, spilling into his underwear, likely making it all sticky and wet for the rest of the shift. something about that is appealing to you.
you continue to apply pressure until he squirms, making a voice of protest that’s muffled by your fingers, to which you finally pull your hand away. it’s slick with saliva that drips down your wrist and forearm. pretty gross.
steve’s head drops down onto your shoulder again, a long breath leaving his body. he feels lax against you, causing you to grunt slightly under his weight, carding your hand (the clean one) through his hair.
“c’mon, lover boy. too heavy.” you mumble, pressing a much kinder kiss to the side of his face.
it elicits a grumble from steve, who’s still trying to regain his bearings. “that felt so good.” he sighs, and the sound is almost blissful, which makes you smile.
“i know,” you whisper, pulling his face up to smatter the side in kisses. “such a freak, harrington. now let’s get outta here before robin finds out. she’ll kill us.”
and steve relents, his hand snaking into your own, shuffling out of the closet close behind. you suppress a grin: he gets clingy after sex. well, not really sex, but whatever that was.
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Datura
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Summary: This was supposed to be a Rhysand x Reader Calanmai One Shot and boy oh boy did it spiral into a whole, multi chapter AU fic 🤷🏼‍♀️ It’s now a what if Rhys’s mate was someone other than Feyre and they both end up Under the Mountain together fic
Content Warnings: Eventual Smut, Some Suggestiveness because Rhys is here, I mean look at him everyone wants that male; canon typical violence, UTM. Each chapter will have listed content warnings.
Part Two is here
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“Stay inside, away from the windows. Make sure the doors are locked.” It’s the same speech every year, the same frantic, worried rant about staying away from those types of parties and the trouble they could bring. Never mind that you’re an adult, have been for awhile, and are perfectly capable of making the decision on your own and had decided years ago that Calanmai wasn’t really your scene. A party in a library sure, but an outdoor orgy in what was basically the High Lord of Spring’s backyard was about as opposite of you as you could get.
“I’ll be in the attic, organizing my books,” you swear and your uncle’s graying head bobs with a heavy sigh of relief as he shuts the door. Some of the livestock have gone missing--most likely the result of several visiting fae whose scene definitely is Calanmai--but he couldn’t make complaints to the High Lord until he was sure they hadn’t simply wandered out of the padlock on their own. He’s taking all three of the farmhands with him, leaving you alone in the house.
It would be a blissful couple of days. The house quiet. You plan to make tea and practice the new bread recipe you’d found tucked into one of your carefully preserved books from two centuries before. You’ve accumulated quite a collection of things in the years of your uncle’s ceaseless wandering. He’s never stayed anywhere long.
If you could focus on it, that is.
Calanmai might have never been your scene, but it did something to you every year you couldn’t explain. It had started a couple years ago; a strange whispering on the wind at first, a voice begging you to “Come. Come and see.”  The next year, after being ignored the voice had come with phantom drum beats, an echo of the ones that would sometimes crest the hill between your farmhouse and the High Lord’s estate; the voice more urgent, the drum beats like a pulse in your skull. The following year the visions started. You’d go to sleep and find yourself drifting through the air, wings beating above you, shadowy hands holding you as you flew over the bonfires and beating drums, bodies writhing and merging beneath you, before depositing you in the darkness of what you could only describe as some sort of ancient cave. When you’d woken up you found yourself half way up the hill in your sleep clothes, unsure of how you’d even gotten out of the house. You’d never mentioned it to your uncle, he was prone to worry, but it was becoming clearer and clearer every year that there was something out there that wanted you out on Calanmai. True to form, you’d started hearing the drum beats upon waking this morning, their beat a steady pulse in your temples.
Still, whatever beckons, you're not interested in meeting. You’d seen a couple priestesses and gotten a sleeping tonic that would knock you out for the night, all you needed to do was pass the time until nightfall, take the tonic, and in the morning, all would be right again. Never mind the ache in your chest you’d feel in the morning, the blaring loss a living thing in your soul, as if your decision to stay away had torn something apart in you. It was a manageable wound, for your family’s sake. Memories of your parents had been hazy at best, it had always just been you and your mother’s brother. He’d said something had happened in your home court, that he’d had no other choice but to take you and run, never any other details. Your powers were a strange, unmanageable thing that prowled beneath your skin, a restless beast you couldn’t tie to any court to try and figure out where you’d come from. They weren’t seasonal, not ice or flame or wind; you’d imagined as a kid you’d gotten them in the Night Court, the darkness that sometimes sparked from your fingertips unruly enough to make it plausible, but there was nothing definitive. And your parents, for all the good things your uncle said about his sister, had never tried to find you, leaving all questions unanswered. Left you alone with your uncle and your constant moving with his job. He worked hard to make a life for the two of you, you owed it to him to not cause any trouble, to stay inside and cook and read and help him with his trading business as best you could. Whatever it was out there that beckoned, it was not worth seeing the pain on your uncle’s face. He’d escaped something, that much was clear, you would not damn him to something else, even for your own peace of mind.
This year feels different though, and you can’t deny it. The voice more urgent, the drum beats louder. You find yourself rubbing your temples, a headache building, as you try and fail to read the recipe in your hands. The words blur, a swirl of indistinguishable colors and shapes. You pinch you eyes closed, shake your head as if to clear the voice, trying again and again to make the words make sense, but the drums won’t stop beating.
You hurl the book across the room, knocking a picture off the wall, glass shattering on impact.
“Leave me alone!” You hiss at no one, teeth bared. Talons form at your fingertips, dark shadows whispering over your skin.
“Come. Come and see,” begs the voice.
You draw a breath, then another, and another until the shadows disappear and the talons retract. If you blow the roof off the house, like last time, you’ll have to move again. Beyond your uncle’s disappointment there’s the issue of… her. The war bands, the bogge, the Attor, always a threat looming over your travels, pushing you further and further away from busy cities, all enough on their own, but the Blight adds another layer. Your Uncle said the war she helped wage against the humans was devastating, but the one she could bring here? Sometimes you wonder if she’s the reason you move so much, as if your uncle has been trying in vain all these years to escape the war path closing in on Prythian. He’d never dare delve into the Human Lands, but Spring is one of the few places she has yet to ravish. You can’t risk another move.
You focus on controlling your breathing as you sweep up the glass, and leave the picture of you and your uncle on the table. You’ll find a new frame tomorrow, for today, it’s best if you take that sleeping tonic and avoid any further outbursts.
You make quick work of double checking the locks before changing into your sleep clothes and climbing into bed. It’s only just starting to get dark, the last few rays of sunlight fighting to break through your worn curtains. The priestesses didn’t mention how long it would take to work, or how long it would last, but the drums are still so loud, and the voice won’t stop pleading. It’s a nice voice, if your honest, but you can’t go out there. You won’t.
The vial in your hand is cold, the glass pitted like it’s been used before, it’s contents a bright blue color that glitters even in the darkness. You down it in one gulp, the taste like bursting, overripe fruit. The effects are immediate, you’re asleep before your head even hits the pillows.
  The house is strange, twisted; the wooden walls thorny, gnarled like old tree trunks, the wind howling through the gaps of what used to be the windows. Fire light flickers through the gaps, casting shadows across the space as you stumble from the bed, bare legs caught in sheets suddenly made of vines.
It’s wrong, all wrong.
You stumble on legs that don’t quite work right down the stairs, slashing yours hands open on the thorns that had sprouted out of the railing alongside dark, night blooming flowers.
“Come. Come and see.”
The flowers bloom at the sound of the voice, the violets petals glowing in the darkness, leading you like wisps out the front door, now covered in vines and leaves. Disoriented, you follow the flowers out into the night, the stars dazzlingly bright overhead.
The world outside is not the one you know, the rolling hills now scorched and burned, the trees gnarled and twisted. Dark shapes with glowing eyes sit on the dying branches, starring only at you, some growling, others hissing.
There’s a single line of flowers, twisting away from the leering eyes and you race after them.
“Come. Come and see.”
You’re running before you know it, scooping up flowers as you go.
Something behind you still growls, it’s footsteps rattling the ground behind you. No matter where you look, you can’t see it, like it’s wholly veiled in the darkness. It has your heart pounding in your chest, the beat steady like drums. You push yourself faster, following the flowers over the ruined hills.
The flowers lead you into another wooded area, the trees still barely clinging to life here, their fallen leaves crunching under your bare feet. Branches tug at your shift, tearing the thin materiel, clawing at your exposed legs. Still, the thing behind you prowls closer, it’s breath hot as flame as it chases you.
The flowers wind around trees, deeper, deeper, into the dark, the only light the stars and the flowers; it’s your only chance at escaping. You push, going as fast as your legs can carry you, the drum beats of your heart still echoing in your ears. Soon enough the flowers direct you in a straight line, directly into the mouth of a cave. It feels wrong, going into a cave with some sort of beast snapping on your heels but what other choice do you have?
You reach the mouth of the cave, hand brushing the rough rock, gasping for breath. The darkness beyond beckons, “Come. Come and see,” but there are no flowers here. No stars to light the way, only the darkness of night and shadows.
The thing beyond you roars in challenge as you set one foot in…
You jerk awake like your soul is coming back into your body.
Maybe it is, because you’re not in your bed. There’s half a dozen cuts across your bare legs, staining the bottom of your torn shift, mud splattered across your legs. It feels like you’re wading through soup as you assess yourself, your mind muddled, unable to process where you got the glowing, violet flower in your hands. When you finally have the presence of mind to look up, you are in fact starring at the cavernous mouth of a cave you’ve never seen before.
Somewhere in the distance, the drums pound. Firelight dances among the treeline behind you. You’d gotten outside. On Calanmai. The tonic not only failed, it had left you so horribly vulnerable and queasy you were shaking. You need to get back home, back inside where it’s safe.
From somewhere in the shadows of the trees not far from you, a voice says, “I’m pretty sure I saw her go this way!”
Ice shoots through your veins, feet freezing in place.
The flower seems to warm in your hands, as if reminding you it was there, of the dream that had brought you here. You glance at the cave, the darkness beckoning. It might be a safe place to hide, if those voices are in fact looking for you. They are clearly male, and a few of them at that, and alone in a shift on Calanmai…
The cave might be a terrible spot, you’re pretty sure you had heard something about High Lords and caves, specifically on Calanmai, but the drowsy effect of the tonic has not entirely worn off, and with the voice drawing closer you don’t have time to try and remember what it was.
You step into the darkness, praying it isn’t the worst mistake of your life, and the darkness envelopes you like a caress. It’s almost as if it… moves, shadows and night itself twining around your legs, your arms, brushing along your spine with feather light touches. As if darkness is acquainting itself with the feel of you. You shiver, nervous, but the touch is not unwelcome.
Voices sound outside, but they are muffled, veiled.
Another step, then another, the flower still clutched in your hand blooms, glowing a little brighter. The scent of jasmine and citrus flows from it, fills all your senses.
The cave descends, the ground sloping a bit, and then you have to duck to follow the worn path. There should be loose rock along the path, but it is smooth, like sand beneath your bare feet, like someone had come along and swept out the debris. There’s nothing there to hinder your progress towards what you can only assume is the heart of the cave.
Perhaps this is all a part of your strange dream, that would certainly explain the flower, but what other choice do you have no but to keep going? From behind you, those voices from the woods sound again, as if they have stepped into the cave too.
“You’re sure she came in here?”
“Where else would she go out here?”
“Do you think Mistress will let us have a little fun before she gets her hands on her?”
Its that that makes you freeze, all thought eddying from your head.
The flower shrinks in your hand, the light dimming, even as the darkness of the cave twines itself around you, the caress like a cat rubbing against your legs, as if it’s trying to soothe you, calm you. You can’t move.
The sudden shift in the air of the cave is palpable. Goosebumps raise on your arms as the temperature drops, as the darkness deepens.
“What the fuck?” One of the men hisses.
And then the screaming starts, the blood curdling cries rattling the walls.
Still you can’t move, can’t see, can only stand there in the company of the shadow still rubbing soothing circles into your back while the earth trembles and dust rains down from the cave roof.
Just as quickly as the screaming starts, it stops, the only sound know the subtle drip of something wet hitting the floor. Your senses are sharp enough for you to scent the cooper tint of blood in the air, but even your keen senses can’t pick up what caused it. You can’t hear anything either, no footsteps, no fighting. It’s over.
You exhale a shaky breath, hands still trembling around the flower. Until it suddenly dies, the petals falling from your cupped hands. You’re strangely attached to it now, hands scrambling to catch the petals in the dark when that same glow appears around the bend in the cave.
Another flower, a way out!
You step towards it, not stopping to ask yourself why this one is smaller, so far away from the ground. Its not until you’re nearly upon it, nearly slamming into it, that you realize it’s not a flower at all. It doesn’t truly click into place until a firm set of hands grabs hold of you, stopping you from slamming right into the owner of that glowing set of violet eyes.
You might have screamed, were it not for the voice that says, “There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”
The world tilts before you as it clicks into place that you know that voice. It’s the one that called you out here.
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zorosdimples · 6 months ago
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“Thank you.”
The words are gentle—soft as a lullaby—a lyrical utterance that doesn’t disturb the moon’s lonely watch over the velvet sky. But the stars don’t reach you; your bedroom is a haven cocooned in darkness, your body wrapped in the embrace of your love. No tragedy can tear at the silk of this blissful moment or cut the threads of your fate, helplessly interwoven. His chilly lips graze your forehead.
“Thank you,” Choso repeats, even quieter.
You can’t see his face: the ripened plum of his gaze, the striking gash across the bridge of his nose, and the plump curve of his lower lip are lost in the pitch. But his visage is embroidered in the fabric of your heart. You know his eyes are closed, his hair a shadowy halo against the pillow. He presses a kiss to your head, lingering. It’s another thank you—silent, this time. And sweeter. You can almost taste it.
A chuckle tumbles from your lips and you crane your head upward as though you can see him. “Why are you thanking me?”
His strong arms tighten around you; he pulls you closer, nearly on top of himself, then dips down to speak into your ear. “I want to say ‘for everything’ even though it sounds…silly,” he admits. His breath is hot—alive—and it makes you tremble. “But mostly, I want to thank you for loving me.”
“Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” you murmur. You nestle against his chest, umber hair tickling your cheek. Choso tangles his legs with yours and runs a cool palm up and down your back.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The shroud of midnight is ephemeral, but your love stretches it out, makes it burst at the seams.
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jeewrites · 23 days ago
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🌈 Sunshine & Rainbows 🌈
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Pairing: Dave York x f!reader Equalizer 2 AU: What if Dave survives the fall from the watchtower?
WC: 10.1k (whoopsies) Rated: Explicit, minors do not interact
Content/Warnings: Dave is divorced from Carol (no kids), reference to previous smut, Dave gets a few nicknames, reader is also an assassin but sassy, reader has a nickname and hair that can be pulled, mention of traumatic injuries to Dave, medical jargon, discussion of physical therapy, stalking/murder/torture not described, please remember I had to google “How to preserve an eyeball” for this fic, is murder a love language?, arson, treadmill hate, use of daddy just once, no y/n
A/N: My first Dave fic and my first fic challenge! I got ‘amnesia’ to pair with Dave for @burntheedges's Roll-A-Trope Challenge! I had so much fun trying to wrap my head around Dave as someone who leans towards fluff and feels, so I hope you enjoy my take on our favorite murder daddy. Thank you to @bloviating-vy for being the best beta-reader and encouraging me to write fics in the first place. Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Roll a Trope Masterlist
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It’s the pain that wakes him. Every part of his body screams. The tight stretch of skin, itchy and hot. Bruises to the bone. Bones shattered. The sun shines too bright despite the curtains. The increasing beep of the monitor is too loud. How is it possible to hurt like this?
He hears the shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of voices just above the screaming of his body before a shadowy figure appears. He can sense them to his left, but not see them. Is this how he dies? Drowsiness steamrolls him and he slips back to a blissful drug-induced unconsciousness.
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It’s been 48 and a half hours and no check-in from Dave. You stare at the burner phone, willing it to beep or ring. Anything. But there is no text. No call. Just the flick and snap as you flip the phone open and close.
Dave has never, ever missed a check-in. Has he come close to the 48-hour deadline after an op? Sure. But never late. And never this late.
You’re not exactly in panic mode yet because it’s Dave, one of the most ruthless and effective killers you know. But you can’t help the anxiety starting to build in your belly and another feeling you can’t quite pin down. It’s not like you love him. But god isn’t he a good fuck, perfect for blowing off steam between covert ops. 
And he understands what you do. He understands you and you understand him. Plus, he was the only one who ever almost got a jump on you when a client hired both of you without telling one about the other. That was almost a clusterfuck that ended up being the best fuck of your life.
The burner phone stares back at you, silent. Fuck it. Now it’s time for you to do what you do best. Find people. Find Dave. 
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The doctor keeps calling him John — as in John Doe. While he can’t for the life of him recall his name, he knows definitively, John is not his fucking name. He’s also tired of talking. He doesn’t have any answers, just more questions piling on top of the questions the doc, a psychiatrist, keeps lobbing at him. Everything still hurts, a dull, perpetual throb throughout his brain and body punctuated by acute pain if he happens to breathe wrong.
He’s in a different building since the last time he awoke in crippling pain. This place seems like a public-run long-term health care facility out in the boonies instead of the large hospital downtown he was in before. The doctors and other health care professionals seem harried and perpetually understaffed. While his room is relatively clean, the decor is dated, all the walls a sickly yellow or green. And everything smells strongly of disinfectant. It could be worse, he supposes, at least it’s clean here. 
The psychiatrist leans forward towards him, “Let’s call it a day and let you rest. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
He grunts in response.
Something in his gut tells him to be wary of this doctor, of sharing too much if he ever remembers a goddamn thing. He knows he can trust his gut when it comes to reading people. Watching a steady flow of doctors, nurses, aides, social workers, and janitorial staff in his room, he doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows when someone is trustworthy or a threat. He can read body language at the most minute level with startling clarity.
The head nurse Kathleen is no nonsense and won’t tolerate any bullshit. Nurse Sally does the bare minimum and has sticky fingers. Gotta keep an eye on that one. He likes the neurologist who doesn’t sugar coat things. He’s pretty sure his physical therapist, Ryan, is secretly a sadist.
The night nurse, Brian, is a steadying comfort, always checking on him, “Doing all right, boss?” in the quiet loneliness of the evening. Brian alleviates the pressing annoyance of not knowing his own name by constantly switching up nicknames for him. Calling him buddy, champ, or hot stuff much to his amusement. 
He also knows someone tried their damndest to kill him and make it hurt in the process. Gouged out left eye, stabbed between the ribs, sliced tendons, broken bones, internal bleeding, wrapped in a myriad of bruises and tossed from a significant height. He’s been told repeatedly what a miracle it is that he survived at all, washed up on the beach on the brink of death before being found.
For now he bides his time, giving his body the opportunity to heal and recover. He knows he won’t get far in the current condition he’s in after the multiple surgeries and months and months in the ICU. In physical therapy he can barely manage to walk a few steps without assistance, and he’s still adjusting to the eye patch and the use of his remaining eye. He’s relatively safe for now, he thinks, identity a mystery and off the beaten path. Although a small part of him wonders why no one has come to find him. Did he not have family, friends, or anyone who missed him? 
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Dave doesn’t make it easy on you to find him. Of course he doesn’t. Before he went private, or over to the dark side he liked to say, he made sure to replace all of his biometrics in various government databases with false ones. You have to go old school and retrace his steps from the sparest details he did share with you. Brant Rock the text message had read.
You find Resnik, Ari, and Kovac in the local morgue shortly after the hurricane blew through. Kovac and Ari are identifiable easily enough, but Resnik takes a moment, having most of his face blown off. It’s a shame about Kovac and Ari, they were good enough guys and you didn’t mind working with them on occasion.
But that bastard Resnik had once joked, thinking you were out of earshot, what a good fuck you’d be and you were so vulnerable with only the four of them around for miles and miles. You had slid the safety off your weapon at the same time you heard Dave threaten to rip his balls off through his throat if Resnick dared to try anything with you. You were planning to do worse, but hey, it was the thought that counts, right? That was when you knew you could really trust Dave. Resnik, not so much. 
As you approach the next cold locker, for a moment you can’t breathe, suffocating in the thought that the next body you pull is going to be Dave. But to your immense relief, it’s not Dave. Dave isn’t in any of them. It’s not until you slip out of the morgue into your car a few blocks away that you realize you’ve been holding your breath. You allow yourself to sob, forehead against your steering wheel. Crying, such an unfamiliar sensation. Where was he?
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It takes you nearly two weeks to find Dave. Listed as a John Doe at the big trauma center downtown, you disguise yourself as a nurse and sneak into his ICU hospital room late one night. Nothing prepared you for his condition. 
“Did Mac do this to you, Yorkie?” you whisper as you trace your fingertips along the ashen skin of his forearm. It seems like the only part of him that is uninjured. The only sound in the room is the hiss of the ventilator and soft beeping of the heart rate monitor reminding you he’s actually alive. Barely. He’s unnaturally still for a man always on the move. You gasp softly when you take in his face, his beautiful face marred with wounds and a patch covering his left eye. Your chest tightens as you turn away to collect yourself.
Refocusing, you pull up his chart. The more you scroll, the more your rage builds at Mac or whoever did this to Dave. Your Dave. Severed tendons and ligaments, shattered ribs, crushed vertebra, multiple stab wounds, ruptured spleen, so much internal bleeding it’s a miracle he’s even alive. What the fuck happened?
He is in no condition to be moved. No matter, you think. While he heals, you are going to hunt down who did this to him and exact revenge. Excruciating revenge. Before logging out of the system you program it to send you any alerts to changes in his condition or if he’s moved to another facility.
Before you leave, you take one last look at Dave, gently run your fingers through his soft brown hair, marveling at how peaceful he looks despite the myriad of tubes plugged into him. You almost make it out of the room without shedding a tear until you really see his nose. Broken, shattered, scarred. Even if you don’t love Dave, you love his beautiful, strong aquiline nose. The way he’d nuzzle it into your neck in rare, soft moments. Press it against your mound when he pulled pleasure from you over and over. The quiet moments after you were both sated and sleepy, and he’d let you trace his brow, the strong curve of his nose, his plush lips, as he anchored you against him.
You are going to fucking destroy whoever did this to him.
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The doorbell footage at Dave’s apartment confirms that Mac is the culprit behind Dave’s injuries. 
The Robert McCall visit. The tense conversation outside with Dave and his guys and Robert. The false cheerfulness, the underlying tension bubbling underneath in the clench of Dave’s jaw, the threat from McCall to Dave and the guys, “The only disappointment in it for me is that I only get to kill you each once.” You bristle with barely contained rage at his words.
Good thing you know enough about the human body to resuscitate it. Looks like you’ll just have to give Mac a lesson on how to kill someone over and over. How unfortunate for him.
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The most popular bets to his previous profession are linguistics professor or foreign service.
He discovered his fluency in Farsi when he overheard family members of another patient speaking it in the hallway outside of his room. It took him a moment to realize he understood what they were saying. Shortly after, he overheard several nurses conversing in Spanish and realized to his amazement he understood them too.
“Wonder what else you can speak, professor,” Brian the night nurse muses as he pulls out an assortment of chocolates in a gift tin. That’s a new nickname. “Here, have some French chocolate. Someone gifted them to me when they were discharged.”
He reaches for one gingerly, focusing on the pincer grip to pick a chocolate up. It has been a struggle learn how to use his entire body again once it healed enough to be subjected to OT, PT, talk therapy, and other forms of torture.
He frowns at the sweetness of the truffle as he takes a bite. 
“No good?” Bri asks.
“Too sweet,” he mumbles. “But thanks.”
Belgian is better, he thinks to himself before pausing. How does he know that?
Brian grins at him before setting down the tin and checking his chart, “That just means more for me, champ.”
Glancing at the tin, Dave stifles a sharp inhale when he realizes he can read the French printed across the lid.
Discovering or rediscovering who he is has been… interesting. Some of the discoveries raised his spirits, like discovering his impressive ability to guess who was walking into his room based on the sound of their gait or how much a person weighed within a few pounds. Some discoveries though left him questioning what kind of person he really was. An emotional rollercoaster he’s ready to get off of immediately. If only he could just fucking remember!
Aside from being able to read people insanely well, he’s put together that he’s a bit of a control freak and likes things neat and orderly. The bullseye tattoo on his left hand had one nurse guessing that he was an olympic sharpshooter, but no olympian in recent memory remotely looked like him. He knew he had been found in a camo pullover and cargo pants, or what remained of it. Another nurse guessed that perhaps he liked hunting for sport. After all the speculation around the bullseye tattoo, Brian started only referring to him as killer. Curiously, he didn’t seem to mind that nickname. The wedding band tanline made him wonder if he is recently divorced or actually married, but took his ring off for more nefarious reasons. Was he a cheater? Did he have kids? What kind of man was he? 
The strangest discovery came the first time orange slices appeared on his lunch tray. He found himself comforted by the smell of citrus as he ate them. Relaxed even, for the first time since he woke up. And also inexplicably aroused. His body had been so broken it had been months since he felt any tingle or whisp of desire, the feeling so unfamiliar it shocks him. What kind of kinky shit was he into?
That night he dreams of rain forests and citrus, relaxing in a familiar embrace he can not name. He wakes up the most refreshed he’s felt since he woke up in the ICU, body screaming in pain. And yet still he can’t explain why.
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Sweat pours off of him as he grips the side rails of the treadmill. The PT room is absurdly bright and cheerful for the types of torture it routinely sees.
“You did great, man,” Ryan, his favorite physical therapist, praises. “Going to be running marathons in no time.”
He just grunts in response. He hates running. This he knows in his bones. Hates it. But he has come a long way from barely managing a step with assistance to walking on the treadmill for the first time. A stupid long painful way.
A sudden frustrated yell across the room jerks his attention to one of the newer patients across the room just as an exercise ball is flung in his direction. He reacts before can think, ducking and moving, assessing in a split second the source of the danger and prioritizing three different options in subduing the threat. He misjudges the distance of a table corner, bruising his hip as he dashes by. Damn his depth perception issues, he thinks. Just another thing to work on.
He surprises himself when he finds himself expertly pulling the patient off balance into a chokehold until security arrives. His body knows exactly how much pressure to put to neutralize the threat without killing him. Why does his body know this? Christ.
“Holy shit, man!” Ryan exclaims, helping to pull him up from the ground. “Where’d you learn to do that!”
“Can’t remember,” he groans as he feels his body protest the sudden intense movement. “Think I set myself back with that stunt.” He slumps over in a chair as sharp pain shoots up both his arms. He allows Ryan to fuss over him before one of the aides brings him back up to his room in a wheelchair. One step forward, three steps back it feels like.
It’s not until he’s settled into the privacy of his own room with a healthy dose of painkillers does he start to tally all of his mysterious abilities. He rubs the itchy scruff growing on his face with irritation. He hasn’t had a proper shave since he got here. And he probably won’t, at least not until his fine motor skills get better to do it himself. The staff are just too overworked here. He huffs to himself. He’s probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else right now. 
With all his language skills, keen sense of observation, and now apparently mad jiu jitsu skills, what did it add up to? Who the fuck was he?
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In the weeks following your visit to see your Dave in the ICU, knowing he has a long road to recovery gives you the time and space to track and hunt Mac. In true Dave fashion, he didn’t give you much to work with, just one single conversation about Robert McCall, but that is all you need.
Shortly before Dave missed his check in, he let you wrap yourself around him as the big spoon after having his way with you. He was uncharacteristically spooked, he told you, after running into his former team leader while out on a run. Robert McCall, Mac, was presumed dead. Dave swore he saw him die that day over seven years ago, setting off a chain of events leading to Dave going private with his guys. The impact of Mac’s death, the grief and the disillusionment that followed after leaving the service. 
You knew about the job in Brussels—Susan—and the difficulty Dave was having tying up loose ends. Especially now with Mac resurrected from the dead and digging into Susan’s murder. He briefly mentioned Mac showing up at his apartment and confronting him and the guys a few days after the unexpected reunion. The doorbell footage you found confirmed this conversation.
You asked him if Mac was now a loose end.
Turning to face you, his eyes darkened with affirmation, “But I have a bad feeling about it, Sunshine.” 
Mentally you beat yourself up for not pressing Dave more about this bad feeling at the time because you were too busy preening at the pet name. It marked the first time Dave ever met you at your place, raising an eyebrow at your maximalist design choices. It’s like a rainbow and unicorn threw up in here, he had grumbled. Too bright, so sunshine-y. You’re just jealous your place looks like it was decorated by someone allergic to color, you had quipped before he hauled you over his shoulders into the bedroom with a growled I’ll show you jealous, Sunshine.
You tried to smooth the furrows between his eyes. “Can I help?” you whispered before pressing a kiss to the curve of his nose.
He tensed before pulling back to look at you, “No. Don’t want you anywhere near him, baby. Mac’s a killer. He — he taught me everything I know.”
You protested but the look he leveled you with ended the discussion even if you wanted to push back and insist. 
“You’re helping right now,” Dave consoled you, laying you back and slotting himself between your legs. “Reminding me I have this to come home to.”
The brief realization he had referred to you as home, quickly disintegrated at the pace he set, burying himself in you, sliding deep into the place only he could reach— the place you think of as his. He left early the next morning, pulling a black beanie over his head before kissing you goodbye. “See you in 48, Sunshine.” 
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You believe Dave when he said Mac was a killer, the best he knew. So you are meticulous in your tracking. In rare form, you make sure your contingency plans have contingency plans, even if you prefer flying by the seat of your pants. You only allow yourself to feel the quiet thrill of the hunt in order to keep the raging fury that threatens to make you slip up at bay. You summon patience you didn’t know you possessed as you slowly lay your trap and draw Mac in. 
Robert McCall has a weakness for damsels in distress. And for extracting his own sense of justice in situations he came across, serving as sole judge, jury, and executioner. It rankles you to see him decide the fate of others, to right a wrong according to him and him alone. 
But who are you to judge him when you decided to be his judge, jury, and executioner? So you lure him in and give him exactly what he always looked for. In the end, he is just like any other man really. A talented man, a ruthless killer sure, but he could never match your cunning combined with your wrath, your fury at what he did to Dave. 
You keep the feelings at bay as you set the trap in motion until he is soundly in your snare. And even then, you don’t let the rage get out of control because you know your weakness in close combat. You won’t give him an opening to escape or kill you because you can’t stay cool and collected.
By the time you’d laid your trap for Mac, you got a ping from the hospital notifying you of Dave’s transfer to a long-term rehab facility. You pat yourself on the back for the perfect timing. Execute the target and then go check on Dave.
In the end, Mac isn’t that much different from any other kill you executed on the job. Just more satisfying in the end. You did it for Dave, afterall. Your Dave.
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He decides that even if he doesn’t like the colorful scrubs the new nurse aide wears, she seems trustworthy enough, even if he struggles to get a more accurate read on her. It’s the first time he’s had trouble reading anyone since he woke up. So he sets aside the puzzlement as Brian introduces him to her. Maybe it’s because of how pretty she is, beautiful really, and how attracted he is to her, a pull that takes him off guard.
“Hey Killer, want to introduce you to our new nurse aide,” Brian says, gesturing to her as she stands a bit shyly next to him. “She’s gonna be helping me out so I don’t feel like a vampire all the time with these night shifts.”
“Killer?” she blurts out making an incomprehensible face before hiding behind a small smile.
“Gives me a reputation. I don’t mind.” He shrugs, smirking at the nickname. “At least until I figure out my real name, no one’s going mess with me. Nice to meet you…?”
The aide makes a funny noise in her throat as he extends his hand to shake hers. She recovers quickly as she takes his hand in hers. Something flickers behind her eyes, something warm, familiar before it fades away as she murmurs her name, Sunny, and tells him to let her know if he needs anything. The pull towards her strengthens as soon as his hands envelope hers, so soft and warm, that he doesn’t want to let go. Something feels so right at her touch. He murmurs her name before she pulls away to make the rounds with Brian.
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You aren’t prepared to see Dave. You thought you were. You mentally talked yourself through it before you made your way up to his room with your new supervisor, Nurse Brian. You memorized everything from his chart, and know that he still has severe amnesia, still struggling with remembering anything at all, but nothing prepares you to be in the same room as him and not have a flicker of recognition across his face. His remaining deep brown eye levels a coolness at you that you haven’t seen since the first time you met and tried to kill each other. 
This is bad. After everything, the missed check-in, the frantic searching, the revenge-ing to avenge him, the utter lack of recognition across his beautiful face cracks something in you. You barely recover enough to shake his hand and leave his room upright, telling Brian you have to go to the restroom before meeting any other patients.
Tears prick your eyes and you try to calm your breathing, not wanting to face the tsunami of feelings crashing down on you. When did these feelings for Dave get so out of hand? 
You haven’t needed anyone since you cut off your abusive family and left home to find your way in the world. You learned to be alone, thrived at working alone in a corner you carved out for yourself. You filled your home with art and color and brightness after you realized you had the power to make your own sunshine. Who else would? Definitely not your shitty family. 
And plants. So many plants, your bedroom painted a shade of deep, lush green. Filled with plants. It was like your own personal rainforest. So what if you worked in the dark, creeping in the shadows, a killer for hire? It didn’t mean you had to make it your whole damn personality.
Oh, but Dave. He was the unexpected cherry on top, a force of nature who brought more exciting ops to your life, along with mind-numbing pleasure. Intermittently at first, then regularly. You liked the control you’d cede to him after months of dancing around each other, building trust, moving from fucking in seedy motels after ops to his place or yours. The way he could fuck your worries and stress straight out of your pretty head. Apparently something had shifted without you realizing. Pesky feelings.
Fuck. You care. More than you were willing to admit before Dave almost died. You were too full of rage to feel anything else. You convinced yourself that the revenge you sought when you hunted down Mac was exactly that. Revenge. But now that the rage and fury had ebbed, you face down the why behind your need for revenge, realizing you did what you did because you cared. About Dave. Maybe you lo — lov — Fuck. What if he never remembers what you had together? What exactly did you have with him before, anyway?
He looks good though, even with the patchy scruff and fading scars across his face. The slightly lost expression on his face. Even if you can sense his discomfort in his body, in the way he sits by the window pretending to read a book. He looks so different, skin warm and golden, so alive, from the last time you saw him in the ICU. And his nose, the nose you love healed after all, healing back into its original strong curve.
As much as you want to run back into his room, yelling his name and shaking him until he recognizes you, telling him everything, you know you have to steel yourself for this next part, to allow him to heal and remember at his own pace. Wasn’t that what the doctor had written in his chart? Pushing him too hard will have less-than-ideal outcomes. 
You sigh as you wash your face and take a deep breath. This part of the journey is going to be infinitely harder than finding Dave and killing Mac. But at least now he has you to help him jog his memory and watch his back. You lift your head up to walk out of the restroom, refusing to acknowledge the question prickling down your spine. What if he never remembers you’re his Sunshine?
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It storms the first night of your shift, winds howling as you make your rounds and tend to the patients assigned to you. You do most of your menial work with one eye watching Dave, learning his routine and keeping tabs on him. It comforts you to know that he has a genuine rapport with nurse Brian, and has been making significant progress in his physical therapy. You get a sense he doesn’t trust the psych doc very much and has been frustrated at recovering his fine motor skills from the nerve damage in his arms. Must be why he doesn’t shave much, you think to yourself. The facility he’s in is fine for a publicly funded place, but you can tell the staff is overworked and underpaid. Your hourly wage is laughable. And everything is painted in this drab yellow that is an insult to the color. You’d read in his chart that the local precinct had put out feelers trying to identify the resident John Doe without much luck. You hope the luck holds out long enough for Dave to heal sufficiently so you can break him out of here before someone who shouldn’t find him does.
The bright flashes of lightning and roaring thunder keep you awake in the wee hours of your shift, strong winds whipping tree branches against the building, even as the patter of rain threatens to lull you to sleep. As you walk the sterile corridors, passing by Dave’s room you hear him yell out in panic, in fear.
It’s all you can do to stop yourself from sprinting into his room, ready to take out whoever is attacking him. You realize in the darkness of his room, illuminated only by a small night light, Dave is alone in his room, still asleep.
You realize he’s having a nightmare as you watch his eye work beneath his eyelid as he mutters, “Show yourself. Show — Show yourself Mac…” before trailing off. His face winces in pain as he jerks under the covers, panting to catch his breath before flinging his arms around like he’s trying to throw a punch.
For a moment you’re frozen, unsure of what to do as you realize he’s likely reliving his last encounter with Mac in real time. Careful not to use his real name, you put a firm hand on his arm to calm him, hey hey hey, to wake him up before he strangles himself in his sheets. As you make shushing noises he jerks the arm out from your grip, grabbing a hold of your throat before gasping awake, right eye wide in terror.
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He apologizes profusely once he really wakes up and gets his bearings. It’s the same dream that haunts him every time it storms outside. Bubbling up from his subconscious every time it storms. He’s up high on a tower or lighthouse by some body of water. Rain whips across his face as the waves crash against the shore. He’s impatient, livid, but also… scared? Somehow he knows the before version of him would never admit the last thing.
He’s waiting for someone who is a danger, a threat. What’s taking so long? He remembers yelling, calling a name, Mac, — who is Mac?— before the dream shifts and he’s in indescribable pain. The most pain his body has ever felt slashes through him, punches into his ribs before he’s falling, falling, falling. It’s the icy cold that wakes him every time, shocking him back to consciousness. But this time he wakes up looking into the eyes of the pretty new aide with one of his hands clutched around her throat.
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Well, this isn't the first time he’s had his hands around your throat. The dirty thought skitters across your mind, although that situation is preferable to this one. The thought amuses you, even as you start to feel the oxygen deprivation. It is a nice memory though, you think, being bent over your sink while Dave took you from behind. Arching you up with the tug of your hair to watch him in the mirror. It was after the one time you were almost late for a check-in and he was punishing you for it. For making him worry. If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late, Sunshine. Simpler times, you think. 
You inwardly sigh and try to figure out how to get out of his chokehold without hurting either one of you. You settle for anchoring one hand to the one on your throat and twisting out of his grip while leveraging his elbow as gently as you can manage to avoid setting him back in his recovery. 
He’s still gasping for breath as you try to soothe him with your voice, now scratchy from his grip. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” you comfort as you pat his back.
He starts apologizing immediately, a litany of shit, I’m so sorrys, until you level him with your best stare and quip, “I see where you get your nickname from, Killer.”
He stops long enough to bark out a laugh, before asking again if you really are okay. 
“I should be asking you that,” you respond. “Seems like a hell of a dream.” You see him retreat back into himself, at whatever horrors had surfaced in his mind.
“Do you want to talk about it?” you venture, sliding a hand over his. It’s clammy and cold. You feel him start to pull away before stopping.
“I think it’s what happened… before,” he finally answers with a thick swallow, looking away. “No one needs to hear that shit.”
You squeeze his hand for encouragement. “Try me.”
To your surprise he does. After Dave recaps his nightmare as best he can, his hand still in yours, you begin to think that you let Mac off way too easily. Shoulda tortured him more before pulling the plug, you frown internally. Because holy shit, that man really put Dave through the ringer. 
“Thanks for — for listening, I think it helped,” Dave squeezes your hand and looks at you with a surprisingly soft expression. Soft Dave, you never thought you’d see the day.
“Of course, Killer,” you squeeze his hand back before offering to get him some water. He accepts and hesitates as if he wanted to ask you something else. You stand but linger by his bedside giving him a moment.
“Will you — will you stay? Just for a bit, until I fall asleep?” 
After you get him some water, you stay — your hand in his — until he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.
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He decides he likes Sunny, not just because she’s pretty, but because she keeps him on his toes with her quick wit and dark sense of humor — to match his own he learns — that makes the days go by faster. Just another thing he learns about himself that just brings more questions than answers.
He can’t help smiling as she checks in with him for the day, wanting to know if he needs anything. “Brought you a present,” she smiles at him so brightly it leaves his brain stuttering to respond. “Your room is so boring, figured you could use a plant.”
She places it by the window before turning with a look to see if he approves. He does. He doesn’t know why but the little green thing feels familiar, a comfort like home. He scratches at the irritating scruff on his cheek before finding his words to thank her. 
“I have some extra time today, do you need a shave?” she asks, like she can read his mind. “Looks itchy.”
“Yes. Please.” The look of relief on his face must be palpable because she immediately leaves to grab a razor and shaving cream. 
The thought that she could read him so well, as if his mind is an open book screams to the front of his mind. His stomach twists at the thought. A creeping suspicion fills him as she approaches with the razor. What if she actually knows who he is, but he just doesn’t remember her? It would explain the inexplicable familiarity that came whenever she visited his room. What if the sunny personality is all an act and she’s actually a cold blooded killer sent to finish him off? Perhaps he should be more suspicious of her. He’d only known her for a week and she is the only person he couldn’t get an accurate read on. 
His chest constricts at the recurring fear that someone had wanted him to hurt badly before trying to kill him. It really was only a miracle he survived. And now he was willingly allowing this stranger into his personal space with a sharp object. Could you kill someone with a disposable razor? Not ideal, he thinks, but possible.
“Everything okay?” she asks him as she sets up the side table with shaving accessories. 
He hesitates, conflicted with his most recent revelations as she moves closer to him.
“Look, if I was going to sever your jugular a disposable razor wouldn’t be my first choice,” she dramatically rolls her eyes at him before looking at him for consent to start.
He lets out a nervous giggle, a sound he’s pretty sure he’s never made in his entire life.
“Not my second, third, or fourth choice either, okay?” she continues. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m not the one with the nickname ‘Killer.’” 
She has a point. And she did just bring him a plant. And comfort him after one of his ridiculous nightmares the very first night she was here. If there was a moment when he was most vulnerable, that was her chance. He pushes away the feelings of suspicion and nods, allowing her to get started.
He couldn’t help leaning into her touch as she gently washes his face and smoothes on the shaving cream. The way the fading light from the window caught the flecks of colors in her eyes as she focused on the task at hand. He couldn’t help but think how cute she looks with her furrowed brows, all her attention on him. He decides the odds are low she was there to kill him considering how careful and gentle she is. He closes his good eye and allows himself to enjoy himself. Who knew getting a shave was such an intimate experience? He could feel himself relaxing under the warmth of her touch and the delicate scent of her citrus-y shampoo wafting across his nose at this close proximity. Something tugs on his mind at the scent, but she interrupts the thought.
“So what do you think, Killer?” she asks.
As he cracks open his eye, he realizes she’s holding up a small mirror. Time slows down at the same time his heart rate speeds up as he takes in his clean-shaven reflection. It’s like he suddenly remembered why he walked into a room after forgetting all this time.
His name is Dave. Dave motherfucking York.
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When he says his name out loud, you let out an audible gasp you tried to cover as true surprise.
“This is huge! Dave, do you — do you remember anything else? Last Name?” You blurt out. 
His lips briefly purse before his face flickers just for a moment, his tell, before he shakes his head no. 
Liar. You immediately know he’s lying to you. He fucking remembers. You can see the cogs whirring in his brain, assembling all of the new information he unlocked when he looked at his reflection.You busy yourself tidying up the shaving accessories, watching him from the corner of your eye, hoping that he recognizes you.
It’s coming back to him, you can just tell from the way he’s holding himself up now, even just sitting in the chair, his posture is different. The lost expression is gone. The calculated, commanding presence of the Dave York you know is emerging right before your eyes. 
Dave York is remembering.
He startles you when he speaks to you again, low and almost menacing, “Don’t tell anyone else. I’m not… ready to share yet.” His expression flashes dark at you.
Ah yes, the patented Dave I’m-telling-you-not-asking-you York.
“Of— of course. Take all the time you need,” you respond.
The next time you glance at him, he has that expression on his face where he’s assessing someone, assessing you, deciding if they are a threat or not. Great, the last thing you need is Dave trying to off you before he remembers who the fuck you are. 
“I promise. I’m not going to say a word,” you try and reassure him. 
He offers a nod, a dismissal really, before turning to look out the window, back to whatever memories may be emerging from the abyss of his mind.
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You’d think that Dave remembering would be a good thing, but unfortunately the feds figure out who he is at the same time. You’re on shift, loitering by the nurses’ station when you see two nearly identical government looking guys turn the corner into the wing of the facility just after dinner. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, you think. And they reek of federal agents. FBI, specifically. Shit.
Dave has been more withdrawn since remembering his name. Brooding by the window. Typical Dave. You keep up your act, checking on him and chatting with him, hoping really for any glimpse of recognition, but still none so far. You can tell he’s still assessing you, trying to decide if you really are just a peppy aide or dangerous foe waiting to strike.
You busy yourself nearby as the feds chat with Brian, eavesdropping on the conversation.
“Wait, that guy’s wanted for murder AND treason??” Brian exclaims. “But he’s so… docile.” You quietly snort to yourself at that word being used to describe Dave York.
“And a whole list of other things, but those are the big ‘uns,” one of the feds responds.
They continue to chat with Brian, trying to determine how much Dave remembers and what condition he’s in in order to transport him.
“Psych notes still say he doesn’t remember very much. But physically he’s actually almost ready for out-patient rehab,” Brian scans the electronic chart.
“Gotta put in the transfer ’n get him to our medical facility,” Tweedle Dee nods to Tweedle Dum. “We’re going to post someone on the floor to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”
Shit, shit, shit.
“Well, as long as they’re discreet,” Brian warns. “Don’t want to disturb the other patients on the floor.”
“Roger that,” Tweedle Dum responds before pulling out his phone to make a call.
The agents nod at Brian before walking back down the hallway. You see them briefly stop outside of Dave’s room before continuing on their way. 
Well, it looks like you’re breaking Dave out of here whether he remembers you or not. This should be fun. Hopefully he doesn’t try to kill you in the process.
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Dave senses something is off before he even sees the two feds walk by his room on the way to the nurses station. He knows they’re there for him. By their gait and posture, they don’t seem like they’re in a particular rush to storm his room, so he bides his time, even as he slips a scalpel up his sleeve. He can’t run. All he can manage is a quick walk with a limp. There’s no way he can run fast enough or long enough to evade two federal agents, even if they look like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Fuck, he thinks. He should have pushed harder in PT. 
He resumes sitting by the window, angling himself into a better position to attack if they decide to take him in today and waits. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. 
He holds his breath when the agents walk by his door again, pausing for just a moment. He makes sure to observe them so he’ll be able to identify them again if, when, they return. Fuck, he needs to come up with an escape plan. 
He lets out a sigh of relief as they walk away. What the fuck is he going to do? Where is he even going to go? He’s sure he doesn’t have much time, a day at most. Of everything that has returned to him, he still cannot remember any of the safe houses or stashes of money/fake IDs he’s sure he has… somewhere. 
Remembering has been… more bitter than sweet. His rough childhood and divorced parents both deceased, his own divorce from Carol, the stint in the military, black ops, the DIA, before going private. Then it all gets hazy. Were the dreams about Mac real? But how could they be if Mac was dead? Was Mac actually still alive? Remembering all of the heavy stuff was like grieving it all over again, all at once. It was fucking depressing.
As he shuffles to the bathroom to splash water on his face to help him think more clearly, he hears someone walk into his room. By the sound of the light stride, it’s the pretty aide that still talks to him even if he almost strangled her in his sleep. What if she’s making the move to kill him now, after all this time, because she saw the feds coming to take him away? As she rounds the corner, he moves out of instinct, pinning her against the wall with a forearm to her neck, scalpel out and ready. 
She lets out a squeak as he expects, before he cuts off her airway. What he doesn’t expect is her to roll her eyes at him as he presses a scalpel to her jugular.
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You aren’t sure when Dave got a hold of a freaking scalpel, but it doesn’t surprise you in the least. Of course he found something sharp to play with.
“Why the fuck aren’t you scared?” he demands. “You got a death wish or something??” 
He eases his forearm off of your throat, but still holds you pinned against the wall. You inwardly sigh. In another time and place, this would just be foreplay, but right now the scalpel is still just a little too close to comfort. Probably shouldn’t push it with him, not too much anyway.
“That’s what you want to ask me, Yorkie?” you croak. You decide on no sudden movements though, in case it spooks his hand to twitch in the wrong direction.
He frowns at the pet name. Right, he never told you he remembered his last name. Oopsies. 
“You’d never hurt me,” you whisper. “At least, the Dave I remember wouldn’t. Not — not unless I liked it.”
Your eyes search his brown one, for anything, any recognition, but still none comes. Why are you tearing up? It’s not like he’s crushing your windpipe anymore. 
“How do I know you’re not the one trying to kill me?” he growls. Well, at least he sounds like the Dave you love. Love? Wait, what??
“Don’t you think if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it the first night?” You roll your eyes again. You’re getting impatient now, if anything just to have the pointy blade removed from the vicinity of your neck. Maybe you could have done without the eye roll though.
His brows are still furrowed and you are so tempted to raise your hand and smooth the double crease away with your thumbs. You miss the way he’d melt under your touch, even if he’d never admit to liking it. He stares you down for a handful of breaths before you see the moment he makes a decision that reflects across his face. 
The moment he shifts the blade an inch away, you pounce, leveraging the blade away from him and reversing your positions. Shoving him up against the wall, you flinch when you hear his head smack the wall a little harder than you prefer, even if you know you’re not strong enough to hold him there very long. You press the dull side of the blade against his inner thigh, right at his femoral artery.
“This bring back any memories, Yorkie?”
He blinks hard a few times, as if he is surprised to find himself pinned against the wall by you. He glances down at where you have the scalpel pressed against his inner thigh before looking back up again and you brace yourself because you think he’s about to fight you off. Then you realize he’s looking at the plant you left on his window sill and then back at you, really looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
His eye widens as he softly inhaless, “Sunshine?”
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The citrus bodywash, the plants, all the fucking plants, the too colorful scrubs. His Sunshine. Unlike all his other memories that came back gradually in waves, with you it was like a switch was flipped and he went from not knowing you to now remembering everything. He feels a surge of emotion — relief, excitement, desire — but the most prominent is trust. He has someone he can truly trust, who knows him, again. 
All it took was a scalpel to his femoral artery. Figures. How he met you is a core memory after all. 
He feels you lessen your hold on him, tucking the scalpel away, eyes wide as you pull away from him in disbelief. But he doesn’t want you to be further away from him, he wants to keep you close. And so he tugs you flush against him.
“Say my name again,” you ask, eyes still wide.
He brushes a thumb across your soft cheek and takes in your bright, discerning eyes. “My Sunshine.”
“You really remember,” you whisper, pressing your face into his chest for a deep inhale, before looking back up at him. “I missed you so much, Yorkie.”
He just looks at you, takes you in, tracing the outline of your lips before pressing his mouth to yours.
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You and Dave don’t get much of a reunion, a single kiss, before you hear footsteps approaching. By the sound of the gait heavily favoring the right side, it’s your supervisor Nurse Brian. You immediately move, pretending to prop Dave up over one of your shoulders like you’re helping him to walk before Brian turns the corner.
“Everything okay here, Sunny?” Brian calls out as he approaches.
“Yep, all good. Just helping Killer here back from the bathroom. Looks like he… tweaked his knee pretty bad in PT,” you respond, trying to hide how breathless you are from one kiss. Dave gives you the most dubious expression before you elbow him in the side and give him a look that says just go with it okay?
Dave has never been a fan of improvisation like you, preferring his contingency plans having contingency plans, all neatly laid out in his cute little spreadsheets. Which… you can appreciate. You love a good spreadsheet, but sometimes flying by the seat of your pants is just so much more… fun and exciting. Maybe this is why the two of you make such a good team, a bit of intense control and structure and, well, a lot of whatever it is you feel like doing in the moment.
You can tell the moment Dave decides to play along when he drops a chunk of his weight on you and you nearly stumble trying to keep the both of you upright. You keep up a rambling monologue at Brian as you settle Dave back into his bed while Brian shuffles awkwardly around the room, obviously trying to herd you out of the room. Your spidey senses tingle — something is about to happen. Before you leave the room, you surreptitiously slip the scalpel back to Dave and give him the most reassuring look you can manage. 
Just outside Dave’s room Brian finally spills the news that the feds got approval to transfer him later tonight. Perfect, you think. Just enough time for a bit more improvisation to break Dave out of this place. And get you out of here too. If you have to give another sponge bath or assist with another bowel evacuation you might start killing people.
“Turns out Killer is actually a killer,” Brian whispers, shaking his head. “I’ll be damned. Just make sure you don’t go into his room by yourself anymore.”
Boy, do you have news for your supervisor. 
During your next break, you comb the facility looking for something to create a distraction. A big one. As you pass by the PT room, the small row of treadmills call to you and a burst of inspiration hits you. Yorkie will be so pleased. He hates running.
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The fire is a lot bigger than you expected. Apparently all the foam roller things in the PT room are also highly, highly flammable. Piled together by the treadmills you rigged to spark, you didn’t expect it to make quite the towering inferno it did. But you know what? Mission accomplished. 
In the chaos of the fire alarm and subsequent evacuation, you sneak Dave off in a wheelchair (and the plant you brought him, gotta save the little guy too!) and into a car you had borrowed before you started your very brief career in healthcare. Parked in an alleyway cleared of cameras, you almost giggle at the getaway going so well. The only person you had to kill was the fed left to watch Dave’s floor. Yorkie, on the other hand, is still tense with apprehension apparently.
“We’re not clear yet,” he growls as you flip on the radio and peel out of the alleyway.  
“Don’t make me tranq you,” you threaten with a smile. “Raining on my brilliant plan.”
He grumbles something unintelligible while pinching the bridge of his nose, but keeps quiet as he looks out the window as Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car comes on over the radio. As the miles roll by, it occurs to you that it’s the first time he’s been outside of a hospital or facility in almost a year and the uncertainty of the future, now on the run, sobers you up a bit for the rest of the drive. 
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It takes a subway, a bus, and a boat, and another borrowed car, before you make it back to your place. You didn’t want to give the feds a chance at tracking either of you, so you took the extra long, long way home. You’re both quiet most of the journey, only communicating when necessary when switching modes of transportation. 
The only time he asks you anything is when it starts to rain, water streaming along the wide windows of the bus. He whole body jerks when he remembers something he wanted to ask you, “Mac. Was he the one who… Is he — is he alive? Or dead?” You can hear the absolute terror in his whispered confusion.
You slide a hand over his to calm him, “He was alive. He didn’t die all those years ago.” You can feel his entire body tense even more. “He’s gone now though, Yorkie. Can’t come after you anymore.”
He stares at you, stiff as a corpse.
“I took care of him for you, baby.” You pat his hand, willing him to take a breath and relax. 
He continues to look at you, wanting an explanation, but you’re not about to confess to murder and torture on a bus, even if it is mostly empty. 
“Later, Yorkie,” you murmur as you snuggle up next to him, hoping he will finally relax. There’s still a way to go before you both get home.
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He crashes immediately after getting to your place. You can tell he’s overexerted himself and is likely in more pain than he’s letting on. Still too wired from being on high alert and making sure Dave was okay on the long trek home, you curl up in an armchair by the bed and just watch him sleep. Perhaps you’re afraid if you take your eyes off of him for a moment, he’ll vanish again. 
There’s a warm shaft of light emanating from the bathroom, casting soft shadows around the room, highlighting the outline of his form, those broad fucking shoulders and soft brown hair. He’s so still you’d rush to check for a pulse save for the slow steady rise and fall of his chest.  
Even with all the progress he’d made in physical therapy, he still has a ways to go. You push aside the concern and anxieties of tomorrow to appreciate that he’s warm and safe in your bed right now. Your eyes trace his face, those plush lips you’ve only gotten to kiss once since he remembered you. Following the arch of that nose you love to the two deep furrows between his brows. How does someone look so grumpy even in their sleep? It delights you.
When you can’t take the distance, however short, from Dave, you slide into bed as slowly as you can. He’s usually such a light sleeper, but he doesn’t move an inch. You gently smooth a thumb between his brows until you feel him melt. You close your eyes and allow his steady breathing to lull you to sleep.
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“You’re going to cook? Breakfast?” you almost fall out of bed as you try and untangle yourself from the sheets, still half asleep. Who is this man and what has he done with Dave York?
He grumbles something before raising his voice, “I miss real eggs. That place only ever made the powdered shit.”
You shrug and gesture at him to knock himself out, while you busy yourself with making coffee. Coffee always first. Then food. This is the correct order of things. As you hear the fridge door swing open, you feel Dave freeze, standing stock still while letting all the cold air out. Ugh, Dave.
“Sunshine…” he seems to be at a loss for words. “Why the fuck do you have an eyeball in your fridge?”
“Oh, I forgot!” you exclaim. “It’s your welcome home present, Yorkie.” 
His head pokes out from behind the door and he frowns, “You know it can’t replace the eye I lost right?” 
“Oh, I know. It’s what’s left of Mac,” you explain as you slide by him to grab the oatmilk for your coffee. The eyeball stares down at you, suspended in formalin, from its clear jar on the top fridge shelf. “Eye for an eye right?” 
He just looks at you and then at the jarred eyeball in the fridge, and then back at you, speechless.
“Well, except he’s dead and you’re not.” You smile and shrug as you finish stirring the milk into your coffee and take the first blessed sip, extra pleased with yourself. “You’re welcome, Yorkie.”
“Fuck baby, sometimes you scare me you know that?” 
You just smile at him, looking so at home in your colorful kitchen with his tousled hair and grumpy expression before you go to sit on one of the kitchen island stools. “I think that’s exactly why you love me.”
He rounds the island counter and cages you in with his arms. You take in his handsome face, so handsome it’s sometimes hard to breathe, as he just takes you in. He finally rumbles, “Yeah, I guess that’s why I do.” 
“Yeah?” you look at the floor at the admission, swiveling back and forth on the stool, not quite ready to look at him again.
He tilts your chin up with one hand, “You really take care of Mac for me? All by yourself?”
You consider reminding him that you offered to help in the first place, but somehow an I told you so felt like it would ruin the moment. You just bite your lower lip instead.
“Mmh hmm.”
“Why, baby? I — I almost died,” he presses. “He coulda killed you! You didn’t know then if I was even going to make it or not.”
You frown at this. Did he not understand?
“And I’m still so — so broken. Never going to fully recover and be who I was. Not worth anything to anyone anymore.”
He definitely does not understand. And you haven’t had enough coffee for this conversation. You quell the urge to roll your eyes as you grasp the front of his shirt and pull his face down level with yours.
“Yorkie, that’s exactly why I killed him.” Your words are firm even if you feel yourself shaking at what you’re about to admit. “He doesn’t get to try to kill the person I love and get away with it.”
His eyebrows shoot up at your disclosure, that pesky L-word. Should it really be a surprise at this point though? After everything? Even if it terrifies you to admit out loud. You did all of this because you love him. Your Dave.
“After I — I saw you in the hospital, everything Mac did, there wasn’t another option,” you murmur. “You mean everything to me, Yorkie.”
Dave forgets about the stupid eggs as he drags you back to bed and reminds you exactly why you love his nose so much. Fuck, you missed this. 
You suppose from one assassin to another, there’s no declaration of love like getting all murder-y and revenge-y for them. It might as well have been a proposal of marriage. Even with so much uncertainty about your futures and how much rehab Dave still has to go, you figure as long as he doesn’t start trying to back seat assassinate, you’ll both be fine. You’ll take care of your Yorkie until he can be Murdah Daddy again.
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cece693 · 9 months ago
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Pain (Lestat de Lioncourt x Male Vamp. Reader)
This small fic came to me while looking through Pinterest. You know those little 'aesthetic' quotes? Well, it came from this one specifically: 'I loved you even when it hurt.' This fic includes things from both the movie and TV show, so no specific Lestat was used for inspiration. Enjoy.
Summary: On the anniversary of his transformation, m/r can't help but remember his past: one that includes his ex-lover and sire, Lestat de Lioncourt.
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M/n was tired. Though his outward appearance betrayed no signs of aging—no wrinkles, no gray hair, no creaking bones—the weight of centuries bore down on him. As he gazed at the midnight sun, a harbinger of his impending retreat to his coffin, m/n decided to indulge himself and spend more time out in the open. After all, this was the only time he could enjoy the new wonders of the world, yet this was not just any ordinary day. Tonight marked the anniversary of m/n's transformation into one of the undead.
Reflecting on the past, m/n reminisced about the persuasive allure of Lestat, the vampire who had sweet-talked his way around rationality, promising a life brimming with pleasure and abundance. In the initial decades, it was a splendid existence.
Lestat had a way of making m/n feel truly special. The once mundane aspects of mortal life were now elevated to extraordinary heights in the vampiric realm, and Lestat made sure m/n felt the full extent of his newfound powers.
There were moonlit strolls through shadowy alleyways, where Lestat shared the secrets of their immortal world. He spoke of the intoxicating thrill of the hunt, the taste of forbidden blood, and the freedom that came with transcending the limitations of mortality. Lestat created a world where every moment felt like an eternity of bliss. However, m/n should've known his novelty would wear off.
Lestat was a man driven by desire and ambition, wanting to taste the newest and finest things in life. What would m/n offer to such a monster who had already taken everything? So when Lestat's attention was redirected to another human named Louis, m/n felt pain.
He was angry at Lestat for casting him aside, yet the blame couldn't be placed on him alone—m/n should've known that a creature such as Lestat could never be tied down, despite how much he proclaimed to love you. So, when the ethereally beautiful vampire introduced Louis as his newest creation, a realization dawned on m/n. Lestat wasn't his anymore.
And Louis, the unwitting figure in their love triangle, bore no blame for his and Lestat's fallout. M/n grappled with conflicting emotions, attempting to cultivate hatred towards the vampire who seemed to have stolen Lestat away. Yet, against his own efforts, all he could muster was pity. For as much as Louis and Lestat showcased their 'love' through tender kisses and clandestine touches, m/n saw through the facade.
In the quiet moments when Lestat thought no one was watching, m/n observed the flickers of longing and boredom in the vampire's blue eyes. It became evident that the passion between Louis and him, while palpable, was also marred by perpetual restlessness. Not even months into Louis' stay did the cracks in their relationship begin to manifest themselves.
"Out with Antoinette?" Louis would hiss, the accusatory tone hanging heavy in the air, ensuing another argument between the two. As the discord between Louis and Lestat escalated, M/n found himself unwittingly becoming a refuge for Lestat. The vampire, seeking solace in the familiar, turned to M/n whenever the storms of conflict raged with Louis. In those moments of anger, Lestat was M/n's again, yet it also drove him to the brink of madness and unhappiness.
He had days, if lucky, where things would go back to how they were—a semblance of the love they once shared. But whenever the storms settled between Louis and Lestat, m/n would be relegated to loneliness once more. One day, unable to bear the emotional rollercoaster any longer, he confronted Lestat. The air was thick with tension as they stood facing each other, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavily between them.
"You can't keep doing this, Lestat." M/n pleaded, the frustration and anguish evident in his voice. "Keep me here when you clearly love Louis. How would you like it if I were to do the same?"
M/n regretted saying anything as Lestat's eyes darkened, and a snarl emerged on the vampire's lips. In a sudden, swift motion, Lestat pinned m/n to the wall, his grip firm and possessive. The room seemed to close in as Lestat hissed, "You belong to me."
"I don't belong to anyone." M/n retorted, anger engulfing his body.
Lestat laughed coldly in his face, grip tightening, he smirked. "That's where you're wrong, love," he taunted, his voice dripping with both amusement and cruelty. "I own you…"
The possessive declaration sent a chill down m/n's spine, his anger giving way to a growing sense of unease. Lestat's dark laughter reverberated in the confined space, echoing the shifting power dynamics between them. Trapped against the wall, m/n felt the weight of Lestat's control, a dominance that left him conflicted and vulnerable.
Lestat's smirk widened, his gaze predatory as he continued, "You're mine to protect, mine to control. I've tasted your blood, felt your heartbeat sync with mine. You're bound to me in ways you can't comprehend."
M/n, trapped against the wall, felt a cold chill run down his spine at Lestat's words. The once cherished intimacy between them now felt like chains, binding M/n to a fate he hadn't fully understood.
In a moment of intense emotion, Lestat, fueled by the strange dance of power and desire, leaned in, capturing m/n's lips in a possessive kiss. The meeting of their mouths was both a declaration of dominance and a desperate attempt of Lestat's to re-establish his control over m/n.
Perhaps, in his pursuit of novelty and excitement, he had unknowingly neglected his first creation in favor of the alluring Louis. However, what neither m/n nor Louis knew was that, hidden beneath the layers of Lestat's charismatic exterior, there existed a capacity for love.
As Lestat's lips sought dominance in the heated kiss, there was an intricate play of emotions beneath the surface.
The neglect that m/n had felt wasn't an absence of love but rather a reflection of Lestat's internal struggle to navigate the complexities of immortal relationships. Lestat, a vampire with a history of numerous lovers, had reveled in the pleasures of passion without feeling a deep emotional connection—until m/n entered the picture. Even his intense relationship with Louis didn't compare to the profound connection he shared with m/n.
As the intensity of their heated kiss began to wane, Lestat pulled away, his eyes fixed on m/n with a mixture of possessiveness and intensity. "If you dare to run away," Lestat whispered, "Know that I'll drag you back to my side. And that's a promise."
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deancasbigbang · 1 month ago
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Title: You Are Moonlight
Author: Maxine
Artist: onowey
Rating: Mature
Pairings: Past Dean/Lee Webb (one scene), Minor Sam/Eileen, Past Sam/Brady (mentioned), Past Sam/Jess (mentioned).
Length: 50000
Warnings: Minor character death, temporary character death, mentions of torture and brainwashing, descriptions of panic attacks, scenes involving alcohol intoxication
Tags: Reimagining of seasons 1-5, angst with a happy ending, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, betrayal, heartbreak, fake!student Dean
Posting Date: October 24, 2024
Summary: On November 2nd, 1983, the fire that killed Mary also took Sam, leaving John to raise Dean to be a hunter. Thirty-two years later, following a violent encounter with some demons, a dying John reveals to Dean that he recently discovered that Sam and Mary are still alive. He also tells Dean that he must kill Sam if he can’t save him. Grieving, confused, and with no educational background other than a GED, Dean manages to find a way to go “undercover” as a student at Stanford Law School where his brother is currently studying. What he discovers is that there’s something big brewing; an Apocalypse waiting to happen, and that he needs to find a way to stop it. It also doesn’t help that Dean is falling for one of his professors and a fellow hunter — Castiel Novak, who may or may not really be who he says he is.
Excerpt: Dean had been stabbed. Oh, dammit. He fell to his knees, pain taking over everything, the dim street lights forming halos as his vision doubled. His attacker stood there and watched, and Dean wanted to say something — yell, ask her what she wanted, but… the pain. The pain was excruciating.  Blackness crept along the edges of his vision. He fell backwards, body hitting the ground. This was not how he’d planned on going. He needed… there was so much work to do. He couldn’t die. Not now. Dean’s vision wavered and he knew he was about to lose his battle soon. His attacker was still there, unmoving like a marble statue, and he wondered if she was having her fun.  Moments later, she finally opened her mouth. “Goodbye, Dean Winchester,” she said, while starting to walk away from his misery. Her suit-clad form trembled in the blurriness of his diminishing vision. He listened to her footsteps recede, and wondered if anyone from the bar might help him. Maybe if someone came out of there… A fluttering sound, like the flapping of giant wings. Footsteps, and a gravelly voice that spoke. “You are not supposed to be here, Sister.” A sigh, and Dean’s assailant replied. “And are you?” “Yes.” There was a scuffle — blows being exchanged with the answering grunts of bodies being hit, but Dean didn’t care anymore. The lights flickered some more and Dean’s vision blurred in and out as he let go, eternal bliss finally taking over his body. Maybe this is where Dad was… maybe Dean would finally find him now. More footsteps. Dean flinched, consciousness whittling away. He could see the shadow of someone bending over him as his eyes closed and made way to the inky blackness.  Suddenly, there were warm hands on him, his shoulders. “Dean?” It was that gravelly voice again. The same strange pair of hands also cupped his face, gentle but firm, a light behind Dean’s eyelids. Maybe the demon would have enough mercy to kill him now. He could hear a high-pitched ringing. This was it. This was it. The pain vanished as suddenly as it had started. Wait, what?  Dean was just barely able to open his eyes in time to see a shadowy figure over him, electric blue eyes glowing in the moonlight. He tried to sit up but his saviour held Dean’s left shoulder in a firm grip, coaxing him to lie down again.  “Rest, Dean,” he said, his voice so strong that it almost reverberated. Then he stood up and started to leave. Dean’s eyes fluttered as he saw his saviour walk away with his cape billowing behind him — was that really a cape? Clearly, he had lost a lot of blood, because he had to be imagining this. He had to be dreaming of how the street lights burst along the man’s path, showering him in sparks until he was gone, eventually vanishing into the night.
DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule
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lowpolyanimals · 1 year ago
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Axolotl Wolf from Shadowy Bliss
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sunofpandora · 3 months ago
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 V I R A G O                   
Chapter 4
Neteyam x fem!omaticaya!reader
Nice Going, Romeo
𝓭𝓮𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓼/𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼/𝓼𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼/
»»———–➤»»———–➤»»———–
Chapter four synopsis: After years of tension, Y/n and Neteyam have finally made up and have agreed to re-establish their friendship. Because of the chaotic events of the last few days, Y/n hits her breaking point due to all the stress and has an argument with Spider. Meanwhile, Neteyam basks in his lovesick haze.  »»———–➤»»———–➤»»———–➤»»———–➤»»
WARNINGS:
Mentions of a stroke??? (its a joke)/Lo’ak and Y/n being platonic soulmates/ mentions of cutting hair/ mentions of anxiety and grief/ I think that’s it??
Author’s Note
My beautiful readers! Goodness, it's been a  minute hasn't it?? I actually had a lot of fun writing this chapter. D0 you like my new dividers?? I thought the arrows were on theme hehe. Also, they really help space out the details, warnings and synopsis area a lot more so everything up here isn’t so chunky. Comments and reposts are much appreciated as usual.  
☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺𖦹₊⋆⁺☀︎₊
The room is dimly lit, no thanks to the shitty lamp that emanated a sickly shade of yellow on the small bedside table next to Spider’s bunk. 
High camp was silent. The rest of the clan had retired to their homes for sleep. The atmosphere tonight is cinematically melancholy. Thick shadowy mist, like the kind that falls just before a thunderstorm. 
Spider has been sleeping for the last few hours. Water and food kept close by on a tray on the floor. 
So much has happened since the accident. Your intervention with Neteyam, your new appointed position as a teacher, the weight of it all still heavy on your chest.
Neteyam and you had a complicated history to say the least. Your love for him has grown with you. From a child's softly sewed heart, patchwork pieces of moonlight and magic and sweet things. Chasing each other across shin-deep streams and unmeasured mindgames. Innocence unrestrained by a child’s imagination. 
You were a wild child. Unafraid of unruly sensations that snap and scratch at the scarred skin stretched on your bones. You were taller than Neteyam until you were 11, despite him being older. You remember him looking up at you with all the wonder in the world
And then you grew older, shamefully throwing yourself into his arms. 
Within the depths of your bliss, you found a sanctuary with him. Newfound effervescence, two souls choking on their words to describe eachothers beauty. You remember chasing eachother through the forest after sundown, catching the colors caught in the sky,  hues of red and orange bargaining for dominance as the sky stretched into indefinite lengths. 
Liquid glass visions and sweet tasting sunlight, bright orange arrows greedily repel the monochrome traces that perturbed from the daylight hours, 
He swore to you. 
He looked you in your eyes and he swore to you.
He would protect you. No matter what. 
Thoughts of you were sanctified.
He told you he would take you anywhere you desired. 
The disparity in it all was hollow promises.
 You sit up, your ears catching the sound of the blanket that draped across Spider’s body slipping off to the floor.
“You’re awake.”
You wasted no time. You stood up from your sitting spot in the corner to kneel next to the cot he laid on.
He sat up with a groan, his eyes lazily blinking to adjust to the light.
“Hey.”
He whispered, patting your leg.
You cracked a smile, buty it faded when your gaze drifted to his bandages.
“Does it hurt?” You whispered. 
He shakes his head.
“Nah. I think Norm and Max gave me something for pain.”
You nodded, slowly. Shifting to rest on your knees.
He allocated steps of silence for you to rest your words. But for some reason, you couldn’t find them.
It confined itself in your throat. The feverent sting of tears and bronze and venom gathered in dark corners of your heart.
“What?”
You whispered, waiting for him to explain why he was staring so intently.
“I don’t know. You’re quiet. You're shaking. And you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I almost did. Because of your stupid ass.”
He let a rough breath out, glowering in annoyance.
“Y/n. Everything was fine. I fell. You’ve never fallen?”
“Because I had my ass half-hanging out of a broken aircraft? No, actually.”
Your voice textured itself with all the harshness that rewired into carcass of throned fear. The heaviness in your chest is still embedded, sacred and silent but not senseless. 
His gaze tremors in a pattern between you and the floor.
You leaned back, a choked breath leaving your lips.
“Spider, tonight I thought was the last time I’d ever see you breathing.”
He shook his head, trying to reassure you.
“I’m fine. Look at me-
It’s just a few bruises.”
“That’s not the point, dumbass! It could have been worse.”
Spider had nothing to say to that. He reveled in the silence that thickened the air.
“I’m not a little kid anymore. I don’t need you to come to my rescue.”
Those words wound you even more when in his eyes you see he’s debating whether he regrets them or not.
Spider was older than you. And you were always told stories of how your mother saw a child alone in a great big world regardless of whether he was a human or not. It broke her heart.
Growing up, you always threw yourself into fights for Spider.
Refusing to play games with other children that called him names. Learning at the ripe age of 8 how to make sure he had a spare pack whenever he left the shack, and how to hook it up to his mask, thanks to Max and Norm.
You and Lo’ak running through the forest to collect new fruits to use as dye to paint his skin, hoping the  azure streaks and stripes would stain his skin.
It was funny, really. How he was protective of you despite you being the one that was taller, stronger, faster.
You knew spider was grateful for your parents. He loved them like his own. Mourned them so heavily when they left this world and moved on to the next. But you also knew it wasn’t easy.
It wasn’t easy being a human in a clan that was still healing. It wasn’t easy being the son of Miles Quaritch. 
When the world around him seemed like a sword, you became a shield.
A habit you had picked up since childhood. You pride yourself on never mistaking any part of his for weakness.
But how could you not feel solicitous?
When you and your world felt too big, and he looked too small, when even the air denied him to breathe freely?
The ache in your chest is almost firstful, palpable in immediacy of the realization that he had become the sword in this moment.
Your tone clawed and mangled with the pain that was morphing into anger.
“If you don’t want me to rescue you, don’t almost kill yourself.”
You hissed, your mind snatching the sense of guilt from his earlier remark.
He scoffs.
“Oh of course. As usual, you’re the hero and I’m just the human you’re in charge of keeping on a leash.”
“I wouldn’t have to keep you on a fucking leash if you used your brain once in a while.
And what the fuck does that mean?”
Spider sits up a little more, glaring at you.
“You’ve always been perfect. Put a bow and arrow in your hand and the clan thinks you’re some deity from the heavens sent to protect everything that breathes.”
That was unnecessary. And really fucking immature.
“Don’t glorify me. And don’t ever hold my dedication to protect my people against me.”
“No one asked you too! It was all the sudden you were training with Jake. Next thing you know your Lucy the fucking Lutientent or some shit. Would it kill you for once; to not be the hero? Would it kill you to-“
Before he could finish, you snatched the picture on the bulletin board next to some photos Norm and Max had hung up in the shack where spider slept. 
It was a picture of a spider had taped up on the wall when he was a child.
A picture of your mother holding him on her hip, smiling for max behind a camera as he insisted on taking a picture of them. 
The picture hurt you to look at. How young your mother looked. Your mother had always been beautiful. But something about the her glow, evident of her early years of motherhood and healing after the war.
You shoved it into his chest, watching his eyes widen as he scrambled to hold it.
“Would it kill me? It won’t kill me, but this war killed her. So my apologies if I refuse to let it kill you, or anyone else I care about.”
Spider was stunned. He stared at you, his eyes shadowed with regret.
You stood to your feet, mocking his glare from a few seconds ago.
“I know you didn’t ask for this. But guess what? I didn’t either.”
“Y-“
You didn’t even want to hear him speak, much less listen to him berate you about apologizing for a mess you were only trying to fix.
You turned for the door, ducking under the top frame, minding that it was not made for Na’vi to enter and go as they please.
You felt like the floor was being torn open with each step as the feeling of cool wooden metal tiles turned into the grassy patches outside the shack.
You jumped down the steps, grounding yourself both mentally and physically  on the familiar air of the high camp, the night’s scent thick with high emotions and heartache.
The meds Norm and Max gave Spider must have some kind of mind altering drug side effects because he knew better than to raise his tone with you.
You and spider never fought.
Well, that wasn’t true. But when you did, it never got to a point of either of you leaving without resolving it.
You ran your hands through your braids, tugging lightly at the ends.
You wished the night would just swallow you hole, you paced around in a circle, cursing under your breath.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fucking-
Fuck!”
You rasped, reaching for the natural stone wall that encaved high camp. Steadying yourself with deep breaths.
You finally manage to soothe yourself just enough to imagine that entire encounter went much smoother.
Eywa, how you yearned for nothingness at this moment. 
You loved Spider, but sometimes he opens his mouth and suddenly you're one step closer to considering alcoholism.
“Y/n?”
You spin around on your heel, hand instinctively resting on your knife handle, prepared to defend yourself, your stance stiffened, your tail curling protectively around your leg.
“Easy kiddo. It’s just me.”
Jake arands with a hand resting on his waist as he peers down at you. 
You let out a breath you weren’t sure how long you were holding.
“What is it with your family and sneaking up on me!?”
You whisper-yelled, trying not to wake the whole clan.
Jake rubs the back of his neck, his tail swaying awkwardly.
The night air takes a tenor of star-strung sounds that harmonize with the of the imbricating symphonies of pandora’s nocturnal life. 
Jake gestured back to the shack.
“Are you all done there?”
“How long were you standing there?”
You couldn’t help but sound slightly accusatory. You hoped he wasn’t eavesdropping on you and Spider. 
You don’t really want Jake pushing himself where he didn’t belong.
He shrugs.
“About 30 seconds.”
You let out a sigh, running a hand down your neck, the motion an attempted anodyne to calm your nerves.
“What are you even doing here? It’s late?”
You query, tilting your head.
He paused before answering.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay, Y/n. You had one hell of a day.”
You scoffed, crossing your arms.
Were you the happiest with Jake right now?
No. Not really.
Why? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he has been planning on setting you up to train either Makeyo or Neteyam for weeks without informing you. You thought he valued you as a warrior. For your skill. For your courage. For your vigor and vigilance. To be tossed into a position without as much as a warning? Has he lost respect for you? Maybe Spider was right. You were a sword. Forged from fire and bloodshed and grief.
Eywa had to be fucking with you. Why is that when one argument with a sully ends, another one comes from around the corner.
“I’m fine Jake. Neve better.”
Jake sighs, running a hand down his face.
“Y/n, sweetheart, I know I should have told you sooner. I know. But this was my best option.”
“Not even a warning?? Not even a heads up?? the fact that you had already decided I was going to become someone’s teacher before deciding who I was going to teach! You just kept running in between Makeyo or Neteyam.”
Jake looked down for a moment, he had no excuse for why he did it, allowing the regret to inchoate into him.
Your voice was a whisper now. Hoarse and exhausted, contrast to your usual pragmatic approach to speaking with Jake.
He was your superior. The Olo’eyktan of your clan. A leader.
“Do you think I’m not strong enough anymore?”
 Jake shook his head, placing a hand on your shoulder, leaning down slightly.
“Y/n. Listen to me. You are one of the strongest warriors this clan has ever seen. You fight with honor. But you can’t keep throwing yourself into fire over and over again. And if you have to, you’re not doing it alone. If I can get someone with half your skill to support you while you’re in the sky, I’m gonna do it.”
You glared. “So you’re going to assign your son to hover behind me while I fight?”
“Short answer? Yes.”
You let out a huff, feeling yourself getting worked up again.
“I don’t need Neteyam to chaperone me.”
Jake threw his arms up, followed by an over exaggerated sigh.
“It’s less about you being ‘chaperoned’ and more about keeping you alive, Y/n!”
In response? You had nothing to say. All you knew is that you were tired. So, so tired.
Tired of arguing. Tired of the cold glares you had distributed throughout the day. 
Jake sighed, wrapping an arm around you supportively. 
“Sweetheart you look dead on your feet. You need some rest.”
You were silent as Jake walked you across highcamp to Mo’ats tent. 
He pulled back the flap, the smells of grinded herbs and salves, the fresh smell of the wood wafting through the air.
You ducked inside, plopping yourself on the ground.
“Jesus Christ, when’s the last time you slept?”
He crouched down, pressing his palm to your cheek, making you look up at him, 
“I don’t need sleep”, 
you mumbled hissing at him weakly. You collapsed onto the pile of woven blankets that rested in the corner.
He closed the flap behind him, moving some of Mo’at’s supplies out of the way so you could sprawl out.
“You can rest here for tonight. Take some time for yourself. Meditate or something.”
You raised a brow, your ears flicking upwards.
“Meditate?”
“I don’t know, kid. Just do something to calm yourself down.”
Jake walked over to you, tossing a blanket over you and handing you a parcel, wrapped carefully by leaves.
“What’s this?” You murmur, staring down at it.
“Dinner. Don’t think I didn’t notice you skipping tonight’s meal.”
You frowned, not even remembering you were so rushed to meet Spider after your chat with Neteyam, that you completely forgot to eat.
“Well shit…Thank you.”
You held it up, nodding towards him.
He stood up, waving you off.
“Just make sure you eat all of it. You’re not an old lady, and i’m too young to force-feed you like you are one.”
You cracked a smile. You really were grateful for Jake.
“Thank you.” You whispered.
He sat on his knees next to you, adjusting the blanket to drape over your shoulders, patting your back a few times for good measure.
“Are you okay, Y/n? Really, be honest with me, kiddo.”
His voice was softer thai time, laced with concern and honesty. 
You sighed.
“I had an argument with Spider.”
Jake sighed, as if he were relieved.
“Thank god..”
You sat up, confused tp say the least.
“Why is that a good thing?”
“Well I'm just happy it’s that and someone’s not messing with you. I wouldn’t want to have to throw punches.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Please. You know I’d fold anyone anyday.”
Jake gave you a hearty smile, running a hand down your back.
“Damn straight. My money’s on you.”
You chuckled weakly, feeling the tiredness wash over you.
Jake rose to his feet, looking at you one more time before leaving.
“Get some sleep, sweetheart. And eat your damn food.”
☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺ ‏𖦹  ₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ 
The next morning…Neteyam’s POV
Have you ever woken up feeling like you could pull the moon out of the sky with your bare hands and gift it to the most beautiful person you had ever seen??? Have you ever woken up feeling like even the smallest of shifts in the wind sang someone’s name?? Have you ever woken up feeling like one singular soul could somehow hold my existence in her palm with such ease?? Have you ever woken up feeling like the air is a bit lighter? Like the sky is a bit brighter?
Maybe it’s just me. But ever since last night..Ever since iv’e earned her trust back, I’ve felt as if I could brivet around the forest like a brainless fool, just basking in the absurdity of this amorevolous haze.
Did I mention she hugged me-??? Just wrapped her arms around me mid of my sentence. Eywa, if she was an ocean I'd drown in her. 
When I woke up this morning, I blinked slowly, allowing the early morning sunrays that filtered through the small open spaces in the woven material to leak it’s light onto me. I stretched my arms above my head, feeling its warmth encompass me.
There was a stupid smile on my face that I wasn’t aware of.
I stare up at the ceiling for a moment. Letting my thoughts drift to the farther corners of my mind. All my burdens and worries slowly follow suit.
“Psst! Teyam! Are you awake??”
I roll over to my side, sitting up a bit, and as I angle myself to rest on my elbows, i’m faced with big golden eyes that could only belong to Tuk.
“Hi Tuk.”
I yawn, trying to clear the hoarseness out of my voice. 
She blinks at me, her tail flicking behind her. The echo of her laughter embodied the lightheaded ecstasy that already embedded its energy into my brain this morning. She yanks the blanket that was covering my legs off of me, tugging at my arm.
“Come on! Mama said it’s time to eat!”
I groan dramatically, humoring her.
“Tuktirey, I don’t think my legs are working-
Oh no, there I go. Gravity’s increasing on me.”
She squeals as I lean forward, letting half my upper body weight hang on her as she holds my limp figure up with her much smaller arms.
“Neteyam! You’re too heavy!”
She whines playfully, attempting poorly tp push me upright again.
I let up after a moment, watching as she squeals with laughter before running to Kiri’s hammock, quickly yanking her blanket away before scurrying to jump on top of a snoring Lo’ak.
I chuckle to myself, folding up my own blanket and leaving it in my now empty hammock as I duck under the divider flap in the tent to distinguish areas with a barrier of sorts. I guess when you’ve had as many kids as my parents have, its better to try and break down a large marui into different quarters.
“Ma’itan, did you sleep alright?” I look  downward to see my mother glancing in between me and the fruit she was cutting up, the juices leaving slight stains on the tips of her fingers.
I sigh, the breath leaving my lips in an accidental dreamily manner. As if i’m caught in a mirage, my steps almost stumble over each other, it’s intractable. As if the light of the morning has transferred into the weight in my movements.
I sit down next to her on my knees. “I'm a great mother, perfect, even.”
She smiles at me, but there's confusion in her gaze.
I don’t think my stupid smile has faded because of the way my father pauses from sneaking his fingers into the bowl of pitcher plant nectar to stare at me. 
We lock gazes and I wave at him, as if it's been days since I've seen him.
“Father, good morning.” I raise two fingers to my forehead, dipping them downwards to form the ‘I see you’ sign. He hesitates to return the gesture, sharing confused glances with my mother.
“Uhm, Good morning. Are you feeling alright, bud?”
My mother and him exchange glances, and with a subtle gesture with a nod of her head, he understands she wants him to check on me. He places a hand on my shoulder, crouching down next to me, switching places with my mother per her silent request.
I shake my head, not being able to suppress the laugh that leaves my chest.
“I’m fine. Really, I feel– amazing. Like…really, really good-”
I paused for a moment as my dad pressed the back of his hand to my forehead.
“You don’t have a fever..do you know where we are right now? Could you tell me our exact location?”
“Ma’jake. He is not ill.”
“Baby, I gotta make sure he’s not stroking out-”
“Oh Jake enough. He is fine.”
My mother swats him away as she sits next to me, taking his place. She hands me a few fruits.
“Ma’itan, will you cut these up for me?”
“Of course mother.” I unsheathe my knife to start my task. I feel sleepless nights and dreams of kissing until I can’t breathe come spilling out of me in wavelengths of sunrays and gold-plaited glimpses. A woven thread that tugs on my heart weaves throughout ragged plains of regret, now lost and forgotten to what I feel now.
My father attempts to sneak more nectar, dipping his finger into the bowl just for my mother to spin around to catch him.
“Eywa help me, Jake how many times have i told you to save some for the children?”
“Not my fault this stuff is so sweet, baby, I could drink this stuff.”
My father throws his hands up in a mock surrender, fighting back a smile.
She throws her head back, a groan leaving her.
“You are infuriating. I cannot turn my back for 2 seconds.”
She stands to her feet to wash off her knife, only for my father to sneak up behind her, snaking his hands around her waist.
“Awh, don’t worry honey, It’s not as sweet as you.” He presses kisses to her cheek, tugging at her tail lightly, a soft gasp leaves my mother’s lips followed my soft laughter,
“Jake- stop, you are sticky.”
Since when was watching my mother and father flirt so heartwarming? 
“Gross. I didn’t know we were having PDA for breakfast.”
The familiar grumble causes me to turn to its source. Kiri trudges through the tent flap, her hair messy and her strides slow and exhausted. She rubs her eyes, clutching a waterskin in her other hand. It was a herbal tea that grandmother made for her frequent headaches. She carried it almost everywhere, especially in the morning.
She practically collapses into a cross-crossed position across from me, staring unamused as my parents pull apart from each other, my dad slowly maneuvering my mothers knife out of her grip.
“I’ll go wash this for ya, hon.” He whispers, giving her one last kiss before he slips out behind Kiri and ducks under the divider, letting the curtain fall behind him as you can hear him faintly telling Lo’ak and Tuk to stop wrestling around and get to breakfast.
My mother clears her throat, trying to suppress her own stupid smile now, victim of my father’s charm.
“Kiri, how did you sleep?”
 Kiri yawns, rebraiding one of the braids that fell on the side of her messily layered hair to frame her face.’
“Well, Y/n wasn’t here so there was no one I could rant to at midnight about the hypocrisy in our culture surrounding our misanthropic beliefs as a clan and the refusal to collate and unwillingness to adapt.”
She takes another sipt out of her waterskin, speaking as if she was explaining how to count to 3.
My mother smiles, clearly pretending to understand her.
“So….you slept well?”
Kiri sighs defeatedly, tying off the braid with the small band in her hand.
“Yes mother, I slept like a baby.”
I find myself snickering at the exchange, I look up to see my father return, Tuk and Lo’ak not far behind him. Tuk was doubled over, trying to support a limp-limbed Lo’ak with her smaller body, he’s mimicking my earlier joke with Tuk,
Noises of annoyance and in need of aid leave her as she struggles under Lo’ak’s weight.
“Lo’ak! You’re too heavy! Neteyam is funny when he does it!” She whines, attempting to push him off of her’
Lo’ak clutches his chest, as if he’s having a heart attack. “Oh eywa! I see the light!” He raises both arms up towards the sky, as if some divine presence was going to scoop him up into it’s arms and take him away.
“Take me, great mother!”
Tuk lets out a scream as Lo’ak tumbles atop her.
“That’s enough, you two. Lo’ak, get offa’ your sister.”
My dad tugs on Lo’ak’s tail, and he hisses in pain.
“Ow! Dad-”
“Sit.”
 My dad gives him a final glare and he sighs, cracking his knuckles before taking a seat next to me. Tuk scrambles next to my dad, nuzzling into his side, sticking her tongue out at lo’ak in a victorious manner.
Lo’ak points his two fingers to his own eyes before pointing them back at Tuk, and a clear ‘this isn’t over’ message is received.
Maybe it’s just my weird sense of peace I've felt all morning, but I attempt to park up a conversation with Lo’ak.
“Good morning baby bro.”
I swing my arm around him, ruffling at his braids. He stills his motion of munching into his slice of fruit, glancing up at me with a confused, cautious stare. As if my odd demeanor was an active minefield.
“Uhm. Hi..”
He side-eyed me curiously. Like my happiness was disgustingly contagious. 
His tail thumped against the floor. His eyebrow raised curiously at my stupid smile.
“What’s got you so bright and cheery?”
He glances over at Kiri, hoping for some kind of backup, only to see her silently praying to eywa before eating her food.
“Nothing. I just woke up feeling good.”
I shrug, snatching a slice of fruit from his little leaf he had arranged his stack of food on. The moment my teeth sink in, I'm slapped with the taste of sugared honey mixed with sunshine and sweet nectars. The flavor is resplendent. An unexpected soft groan leaves me as the juices trickle down my lips, I wipe them with my forearm. Why did everything today taste so much sweeter than usual?
Lo’ak stares at me as if he’s abhorred with my behavior.
“Dude..what the hell.”
My ears flick upwards as I turn to face the rest of the family, who’s now looking at me like I’m the epitome of bizarreness.  
My father snickers, helping Tuk peel her small fruit.
“Neteyam, should we give you and your fruit a moment alone.”
Lo’ak shivers, clearly uncomfortable. “Bro. could you not moan into your food in front of my breakfast.”
I shake my head, some of my braids falling over my shoulders. “Sorry, baby brother.” I laugh, but i’m not really sure why. I feel my face flush as i lean back into my spot.
“Dad, I think Neteyam is stroking out.”
Lo’ak snaps his fingers, trying to gather my father’s attention as he points to me.
My father shakes his head. “I already checked. It’s not a stroke.”
Mother hisses at both of them, passing a cut open fruit to Kiri, who as usual seems unbothered with our family’s shenanigans. 
“Both of you, leave him be. He is happy.”
I can always count on mama. 
Lo’ak shoots me a look.
“Why?”
I shrug.
“Why not? We have food, a family, a roof over our heads, we’re safe and happy, a strong clan and a lovely home.”
The woman I would die for no longer hates my guts. Hey, life is pretty good.
My mother smiles at me.
“See? You are not ill. One who takes time to appreciate all the great mother has given us is not sick.”
Lo’ak doesn’t seem convinced. He takes a big bite of his fruit, slowly eyeing me up and down.
My father clears his throat, sitting up a bit straighter. 
“While I have you kids here, I need you all to try and give y/n a little bit of space today.”
Kiri finally seems to engage in the current conversation now that Y/n is mentioned.
Tuk looks up, as well as my mother, Lo’ak and I.
“Is she okay? Is she sick?”
Tuk pouts, tugging on my fathers arm.
“Does she need anything? Is she hurt?”
It comes out before I can stop myself, trying not to sound too nervous.
Lo’ak groans
“Please don’t tell me she’s dead. That would really suck.”
My dad shakes his head gently reaching for Tuk’s smaller hand.
“No, guys. She’s okay. It’s just that she’s been through a ton these last few days. The poor thing’s burnt out. She needs some rest.”
Silent relief waves over me. I turn to Lo’ak as soon as I hear him speak.
“That doesn’t include me, right?”
He points at himself, a cocky smirk forming on his lips.
My dad glared at him.
“That means especially you. Ever since you could walk I had to pull you away from the poor girl kicking and screaming. And I am NOT about to do it again now that you’re this big. It’s a bad look for me.”
“That just shows we’re not supposed to be away from one another. It’s a sign from eywa. And you know I don’t play with the big lady upstairs.”
Lo’ak presses his lips on two fingers before reaching his hands up as if he’s kissing the sky.
My dad gives him a final warning look before he surrenders.
“Alright, fine. But if you get struck by lightning later it’s not my issue.
I’m gonna go on a walk.”
Lo’ak shoved his food into a small pouch before slinging it over his shoulder.
My mother frowns.
“With half of your breakfast in a pouch? You might as well just finish eating.”
Lo’ak waves her off. “Don’t worry, ma. I got a ton to do today.
I’ll just eat on the go.”
 mother gives him the leave to go, albeit reluctantly.
☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺𖦹₊⋆⁺☀︎₊
Y/n’s pov:
You woke up feeling so much better than yesterday. You and Spider haven’t spoken, but you can live with that for right now.
The only person you’ve spoken to since you’ve woken up is Mo’at. She was in nice company. And you certainly didn’t mind conversations with her.
It was a revitalizing contrast from the rush and endless chaos of of the last few days events, when the world didn’t feel to big, the air didn’t feel weighted, it was days like this you treasured.Today your hands weren’t victim to the relentless grip of your bow, your fingers free from the touch of the end of your arrows, your arms no longer aching from holding your shooting stance. No, today was a day you could drown in the acquiescence of having to do absolutely nothing.
Well, except maybe help Mo’at every now and then, but you hardly considered that physically draining.
You sat in her healing hut, grinding up some herbs as you cozied yourself up in the corner. You hummed one of your mother’s songs, the sound of the stone scratching against the bowl providing an odd backbeat.
Mo’at returned from her morning meetings with the clans healers, a long sigh dragged from her lips as she muttered complaints to herself, sitting down slowly.
You loved how she could make you laugh without effort.
“Something wrong?”
She waved off your concern, starting to gather some of the loose bowls strung around and stacking them in her arms.
“You know Menari??” She glances up at you, her tail flicking behind her.
You nod, a smile creeping up your face.
She sighed with irritation.
“Overmixed the herbs I tasked her with preparing because she was making eyes at Kalun.”
Ah yes, clan gossip. Who better to deliver such scandals than Tsahik herself?
You rolled your eyes, giggling at her exaggeration.
“They’re young, and in love. What else can you ask for?”
“I can ask for her to stop looking up at that scrawny man and do her job.”
You cackled, passing her the freshly grinding paste.
“Awh, now that's not kind.”
She scoffed.
“You know what's not kind? I've seen sticks with more build than him and he still flaunts himself like he’s the prettiest peacock.”
You shrugged, moving on to preparing the next bowl
“At least he has confidence?”
Mo’at waves you off again. 
“When I was your age, I was shut away in my family’s tent speaking with the spirit’s, asking them to guide Eytukan to court me.”
“Oh here we go-”
“I prayed every night, child. I performed rituals and burned sacred plants.”
“Ma’tsahik, you’ve told me this story quite a few–”
She raised her hand, signaling for you to be quiet.
“Hush woman, I am not done.”
You sighed, strapping in for more of her spiritual seance stories.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good, now where was I?”
“Hm…I think you were at the sacred plants.”
A voice that didn’t belong to you or Mo’at spoke, causing you both to pause.
You turned around, spotting Lo’ak standing at the entrance of the tent, a pouch in his hands and a soft smirk on his face.
He strides his way inside without invitation, plopping himself down next to you and sprawling out his legs as he leaned on you.
You groaned, noyt appreciating being used as a seat.
“Lo’ak, what are you doing here?”
He blinked up at you, like him just throwing himself onto you was the most casual thing he could possibly do.
Which, to be fair, he did so often, it probably was by now.
“Did you really think I would leave you here to endure Grandma’s stories alone?? Of course not. So I brought you food,”
He tosses you the pouch.
“And the gift of my presence.”
Mo’at crosses her arms, staring at him with an unamused manner.
“I could have sworn your father informed me this morning to let Y/n rest, and not be dragged into anymore excursions for today.”
Lo’ak shrugged, munching on a fruit from the pouch that he handed you a half of.
“Y/n doesn’t mind me, besides, you know we don’t stay separated for very long.”
It was true. Ever since you were children, you and lo’ak had practically been a package deal.
Sleeping at each other's homes, not wanting to do anything unless you both could do it together, braiding each other's hair, and swapping and sharing bracelets, necklaces, armbands on the daily.
When Lo’ak was a toddler, he’d have a meltdown every time he had to go home after a day of playing with you.
And to be honest? He was right. You didn’t mind Lo’ak hanging with you today.
He wasn’t stressful when he didn’t want to be. You felt like you could talk to him about almost everything, secrets were rare between you and lo’ak, unless you both were keeping them from other people.
If you were the moon, he was the stars. Scattered across the abyss of the night sky, assuring that the darkness wouldn't be drowned in, dwelling with you in the comfort of nocturnal notions while still providing you the subtle comforts of luminescence.
And whether you both liked to admit it or not, you needed each other.
He was there for you when you mourned your mother and father. He was there for you with a blanket and a hug and some stupid joke to calm you when you woke up in the middle of the night hyperventilating. 
And you were there for him.
You were there when he almost died during his first attempt at iknimiya, calling him stiupid and hugging him until you couldn't breathe because a part of you swore you were about to loose your twin flame. 
And he was here now. Well, he was slouched over you with his legs spread and his arms floundered out. But..he was here.
You nudged hi9m to sit up straight, taking the fruit he offered you.
He spoke between mouth-fulls of munches.
“So, what's up with Kalun? I saw him lugging around a big basket of flowers.”
Lo’ak points with his thumb behind him, gesturing to the bustling clan outside going about with their daily tasks behind the closed tent flap.
Mo’at throws her arms up in exaggeration.
“Eywa, why does he insist on distracting that poor girl from her duties!?”
You weren’t a huge romantic, but you did find it sweet how he found time to bring Menari flowers.
“I think it’s sweet.” You hummed, continuing to grind up the herbs in the bowl.
Lo’ak gagged dramatically.
“Gross. I’m never going to mate with anyone.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Uh huh. Sure you’re not.”
He raised a brow, a challenging expression streaked his face.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Mo’at cuts you both off.
“Nothing. Lo’ak you’re going to have children and a mate because I demand great-grandchildren.”
A bust of a laugh leaves you, and you shove Lo’ak, who now stares at Mo’at in disbelief.
“And who are you to demand that i have kids?”
“The tsahik of this clan.”
You smirk triumphantly, smacking the back of Lo’aks head, earning a hiss from him.
“You’re screwed, bro.”
Lo’ak leans back, sighing dramatically.
“It’s so hard being sexy…I guess everyone wants me.”
It was your turn to gag, clutching your hand lightly around your throat to sell the idea.
“Not everyone.”
Mo’at sighs, as if recalling a memory that could only be one of her fondest.
“You know who everyone wanted? Your grandfather, now that’s a story-“
You and Lo’ak both groaned in sync.
☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺𖦹₊⋆⁺☀︎₊
You and Lo’ak had hung out almost all day inside mo’ats tent. And it was probably the most fun you’ve had in a while. 
Conversations with Lo’ak were always interesting to say the least. But if one thing was for sure, it was that there was no one you could possibly think of that you spoke to the way you spoke to Lo’ak. The two of you confided in one another. That meant now that Mo’at had left for the afternoon, there was nothing stopping you both from listening to each other's ramblings.
You told him a few minutes ago about the argument you had with Spider.
He was disappointed, and hated when you both were fighting, but he agreed that you both just needed some space.
So, he did what he did best.
Cher you up.
He was currently retelling a story that took place while you were away on a hunting trip with Neytiri a few weeks back, causing your absence during the event. Lo’ak clears his throat, continuing.
“So anyways, as she’s tying together her next row of knots, I notice that she forgot to do the loopy thing under the second layer of the armband, right?’
Lo’ak explains, making hand motions to try and create some sort of visual of the weaving motion Tuk was practicing.
You nodded, taking a sip of the tea Mo’at had made you, the smooth wood pressed against the inner of your lips for a moment.
“Uh huh.”
“So, I, being the good brother I am, decide stupidly to help the kid out.”
“Right. I mean, who wouldn't?”
“Exactly! So I tell her, ‘Tuk, that row is crooked’, and she has the AUDACITY to respond with ‘crooked like your haircut?’”
Your laughter vibrates down your body, and apparently it’s contagious because Lo’ak can’t help but cackle as well.
“Don’t fucking laugh you asshole. You’re the one who gave me this half shaved side shit, fuck you.”
He manages the last few words through his heavy breaths in between bouts of laughter.
“For the last time!”
You shriek, shoving him playfully.
“You don’t give an 12 year old a knife and expect them to perfectly cut someone’s hair!”
It seems like almost yesterday you and Lo’ak were hiding in a cave you found in the forest, not far from the clearing your clan resided in before high camp came into play.
You remember it perfectly, your mothers sharpest hunting knife she kept in a basket next to the entrance of your family’s marui along with various other weapons your parents kept out of reach from you and spider. He was sat infront of you on his knees, the backs of this thighs touching his shins while you kept yourself elevated behind him to provide you some sort of extra inches of height to better see Lo’aks head, as if that was going to make you know what the hell you were doing.
It didn’t. You remember him telling you to stop hesitating and just do it. He had been asking you for weeks to help him cut his hair since Jake wasn’t aloud to braid much less cut his children’s hair out of lack of confidence, and how Neteyam thought It was an insecurity thing and only responded with “You look great! There’s no need to cut it, baby bro.”
Neytiri didn’t like the idea of her 12 year old son wearing a style most adult warriors garb themselves with,and kiri just laughed when he asked her. 
You were his best option. You remember you and Lo’ak jumping up and down and squealing with excitement at the sight of a few of his braids falling to the ground, forming a circle around the two of you, and how that excitement slowly faded into fear when you both realized those few braids seemed much chunkier than at first glance. You fondly recall running back into the village with a giant leaf over Lo’ak’s head, making a bee-line straight for your family’s tent because going home to tell jake and neytiri was equivalent to walking into a thantors den after rubbing yourself in fragrant spices ready to be cooked and devoured. 
You could never forget your mothers face as she tried to comfort a frantic lo’ak, using her own tools to smoothe down the shaved plain.
To cut a long story short, that’s how Lo’ak got his side shaved. But it appeared Tuk had taken after your habit of never letting him live it down.
You both were out of breath from laughing once you both finished recalling the memory. It’s the terrible experiences that made you two stronger together.
 Lo’ak sighed, leaning back.
“Tuk’s spending too much time with you. You’re a shitty influence.”
You swatted at the back of his head, snickering softly.
A few beats of comfortable silence falls between you both, enjoying  just the feeling of moments like these.
“So, I’m not sure if I told you, but Neteyam was acting weird this morning.”
Your ears flick upwards at the mention of Neteteyam.
You carefully calculate your next words, attempting to make your curiosity seem as causal as a commodity, inconsequential and free of attribution relating to the feelings exchanged the night before. 
“Oh…was he okay?”
Real discreet, Y/n. Nice work.
Lo’ak paused to look up at you, his gaze cynically, clumsily trying to catch your heavily concealed sense of concern
“He was fine…I guess. I still think he was having a stroke.”
You rolled your eyes.
“He wasn’t having a stroke.”
“You weren’t there Y/n. The man acted like he Ingested 80 tons of helium and practically pranced around the marui. He was moaning into his fruit, and sighing every 2 seconds like he was in a dream or something.”
You scrunched up your nose at the visual of anyone being aroused by a fruit. 
“I’m sure he wasn’t ‘moaning’ into his fruit.”
You waved off the idea, Lo’ak scoffed.
“Uh huh. And the smiling-
Holy shit Y/n. This man would. Not. Stop. Smiling. It was insane.”
Come on, was he serious? Neteyam was fine…there’s no way this could be related to your conversation last night..right?
You gasped dramatically, widening your eyes as if you had the most sagacious epiphany, feigning stupidity for sarcasm. 
“Maybe he was..I don’t know..happy? Is that even possible for neteyam?”
Lo’ak was not amused.
“I’m telling you, something’s up with him.”
You sighed, shaking your head.
“Why would you think that? He’s probably just happy about something personal, maybe he set a goal for himself. Maybe he’s training differently or maybe he finally has that angled dive he’s always wanted to do on his ikran. The move your mom does with her bow? He’s always wanted to do that-“
Lo’ak looks at you like you’ve grown 6 extra tails. Maybe it was because you were rambling about Neteyam too personally. Nah. Maybe you really did grow 6 tails. 
Check just in case.
You cleared your throat, fidgeting with your bracelets. Acting like you weren’t just talking about something  Neteyam told you in private 3 years ago while you too were on a ‘date’ no one knew about. Because you were.
“..or something like that.”
Eywa must have been personally trying to provide you some amorality at that moment when Lo’ak shrugs you off.
“I don’t know. But I feel like if it was really something huge, he would have told his family about it. Right? Like, he doesn’t just keep that stuff from us…”
Point taken.
You placed a hand on his back.
“Look, Lo’ak, I’m sure Neteyam is fine. We all have..weird days, we can’t always be perfect.”
Lo’ak sighed, leaning back, letting his eyes flutter closed.
“You’re right. I mean, at least it’s not about you or some other girl.”
It slowly stings a little bit more each time it plays over and over in your head.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Lo’ak opened one eye.
“What?”
“You said ‘at least it’s not about you’. What does that mean, Lo’ak?”
Lo’ak, (somewhat stupidly, I must admit,) seemed surprised with your offended tone.
“I mean, at least it’s not about you. You know? Like you two aren’t dancing around eachother again.”
“What do you mean, ‘dancing around’ eachother?”
He sighed, rubbing his temple.
“Look, you don’t have to get upset-“
“I’ll decide whether or not I’ll get upset when you explain what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, Lo’ak.”
Lo’ak gulped, silently regretting ever opening his mouth.
“You and him are just…weird?-
No, weird is not the right word.”
You agreed, coldly.
“Clearly.”
He groaned.
“Stop putting me in a bad corner here, Y/n, you know what I mean.”
He was right. You didn’t have to be so harsh with him. You knew Lo’ak had a tough time articulating himself. And you getting angry probably wasn’t going to make that any better.
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just..you’re so confusing when it comes to what I used to have with your brother.”
You and Lo’ak are both a bit uncomfortable when you say it aloud. It wasn’t very often you confessed to being romantic with Neteyam in the past, even if it was just to yourself. It was hard to face.
“Y/n we don’t have to talk about this, really.”
“No, i think we do.
You don’t like it when Neteyam used to bring me flowers, or take me out to go ride ikrans, or spend time with me, but you were there for me when he started to distance himself from me. All of this shit about ‘oh you can’t court my brother’ but when it finally falls, like any normal person who speaks like that would want it to, all the sudden you’re in the heartbreak hot seat with me. What is going on, Lo?”
Lo’ak was quiet for a Minute. And it’s actually kinda funny how he conducted himself in a similar manner to Jake when things like this happened.
“Because I care.”
“About what!?”
“About you!”
You were quiet for a moment.
“Because I should care when you start to love, or like or feel for someone! Because you’re like a sister to me. Because you’re the one I can come to when I fuck up with my dad or feel like I’m screwing everything up. You’re the one I can come to when the others are giving me a bunch of shit about being Neteyam’s perfect little brother, or whatever.
And yes, it’s so fucking weird to see my brother staring at you like you’re the most important thing on this entire planet. But you know what? It makes you happy. Am I gonna give you and Neteyam shit about it? Of course I am! It’s fucking disgusting. But you know what? It makes you both happy. So I can’t do a damn thing, and I don’t want to.
Am I gonna wanna kick his ass when he screws up? Of course I am. Am I gonna sit next to you and listen to you cry and scream and do all that angry relationship stuff that people do? Abso-fucking-lutely I am.
But you’re both still disgusting and full of love diseases.”
And now it all made sense. Lo’ak was your person. Half your heart in the form of a living soul.
To feel someone in such truth it aches.
And it wasn’t romance. It wasn’t sex or lust. It was a different kind of love.
The kind that meant that you could share a hammock with him and fight every urge not to kick him off when he starts to snore. The kind that meant you were the only one who trusted to braid his hair because neytiri wasn’t gentle enough and Jake was out of the question. The kind that meant that you had his back, and he had yours. 
You were his and he was yours. Sentiments are sensitive and romance is rigged but this went beyond fairytale endings.  Because you knew he would always stand next to you, tangled at the roots. And when the world seemed to be made out of nothing but unkept promises and sterling stained heartbreak, rusting off to a sickly shade of green that once shimmered gold, you found him.
And he was stupid and you loved him and his stupid stupidity that often led him to do stupid things, and of course you would always do them right along with him because he always said he didn’t want to die looking dumber than you. 
And if he asked you to loose your fucking mind with him you’d agree in a heartbeat with an extra pouch of food because he was always hungry. 
You smiled, the intangibility of this beautiful mess of a thing that only you two could create echoed through the air pulsing undercurrent that inhabited the stars that now turned a thousand shades of blue.
“Oh Lo’ak.”
You whispered, the endnotes query themselves upon pity.
“I know you care. But I can protect myself.
I thought that you’d know that better than anyone.”
He nodded, fidgeting with the bracelet that matched you’re own
“You’re right. I know. I’m just not ready to be..I dunno. It’s sounds stupid as shit but, alone?? That’s weird, right?”
“No, of course not. You’re not alone. You’ll always have me. But you don’t have to take every shot for me. That’s a job for my mouth and my fists.”
You smiled, mocking the boxing stance Jake had taught you and punching the air.
Lo’ak looked nauseous. “Y/n. Can we stop talking about your relationships and jobs you do with your hands and your mouth?”
You snickered shoving him.
“You’re so stupid.”
“I get it from you.”
A comfortable silence settled as he leaned his head on you’re shoulder. But there was something drumming at the back of your mind. An unfinished note that would
complete the song.
You sighed.
“Lo’ak, you know how we don’t keep secrets?”
He nodded, not bothering to lift his head.
“Yuh huh.”
“Well..I uh.”
You took a breath, gathering your words and placing them in the right order.
“I talked with Neteyam last night. And I hugged him-
I don’t know why I hugged him. There’s nothing going on but we’re all good now with what happened all those years ago. The past is in the past and I just thought you would know.”
Lo’ak was quiet for a moment.
“Aight.”
‘Aight’? That’s all you get?
“Really? That’s it?”
“Well, it’s disgusting, but as long as you two aren’t canoodling-“
“Trust me. I’m his teacher now. There will be no canoodling. I swear it.”
Lo’ak shrugged, his expression neutral. 
“Then my final verdict is in place. No getting pregnant and nothing below the waist.”
You snorted.
“You’re the boss.”
Another beat of silence settled.
Then, you got an idea.
“You wanna go race ikrans?”
A hint of mischief in your voice, he sighed.
“I’m off flight privileges for 2 more days for that stunt I pulled at the raid.”
You frowned, but it didn’t last long.
“You wanna go on a ride on Kailo? I’ll let you take shotgun.”
“Fuck yeah.”
☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺𖦹₊⋆⁺☀︎₊
Memes from this chapter
And some Lo’ak and y/n memes bc they’re besties
Authors note:
*in Backstreet Boys voice* ohmahgod we’re back againnn. 
First things first, I owe you all a huge apology. This chapter is way overdue, since I decided to re-write it halfway through like an idiot. But I’m fairly happy with how this turned out, which is rare for me. I’ve been a surf trip for the last few weeks and this summer I’m going on a lot more so that’s been kinda tough to find time to write on a laptop coming home from the beach all sandy and wet. 
But we’re back and the next few chapters will be written in close proximity to this time wise. I’m leaving the country on July 27 so I’m gonna try to get at least one more long chapter out before then. 
This is getting kinda long. But guys I have so much fun writing from Neteyam’s pov. The first time I wrote for neteyam was like 2 chapters ago and I was so so nervous about posting it bc I thought it sounded so cringe but you guys loved it so much, I’ve decided from now on there’s gonna be a neteyam pov in every chapter.
For these of you who know, Lo’ak is my son, my baby, my child, my pride and joy so obviously writing for him is also super fun. 
Okay this is getting so much longer than I planned. But I’ll see you lovelies next time!!
-Solana
Taglist 🪐🌑🪻 
@mntx666
@isnt-itstrange @thebestrouge
@bay7let
@fairuzwhat
@jackiehollanderr
@6423btw
@satesatesate2009
@OstargirlO
@heavenlysstuff
@dayyzlol
@iheartamajiki
@fluorynn
@bakugouswaif
@eljaynosine-triphosphate
(I just realized how long this taglist is getting guys…it’s actually getting me all teary eyed. Tysm for the support!)
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noctivague · 8 months ago
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PAC: What do you bring to the world?
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Today I wanted to make an uplifting personality reading focusing on the positive things you personally bring to the world as well as your strengths and qualities.
I will also finish with an advice on how to share it or share it better with the world, depending on the pile.
Note: I always write down the cards I draw. a "+" indicates that these cards go together; a "/" shows as change of row/question.
Focus on the 4 pictures, pick the one that draws you in the most and go to your pile. It's possible that more than one pile resonates. This is a general reading meant for multiple people so not everything will resonates.
Always open to feedback :)
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PILE 1
Cards: The Shadow + the Temple + 9 of Pentacles / The Great Goddess + Truth + Acceptance / Navigating by the Stars: Follow your bliss + Growing Pains
You are someone with a great understanding of the shadowier aspects of the mind, which doesn't only stop to an understanding of your own, but extend to the human psyche as well. You are not only in-tune with what most people don't want to see or accept, which requires courage and resilience, but you are also able to make flowers blossom from the dirt, so to speak.
You are in tune with your inner voice and live in abundance of all the lessons you've learned on your path. I see all these events you've been through and all the effort you've put into learning from them and growing as a human. They are like little pockets of truth you've collected throughout the years, little nuggets of gold that make your soul rich.
You anchor that into reality, making a temple out of what you've learned through pain about yourself and the world, and draw a lot of strength that others can feel without even knowing your past.
It's like, by going through your own personal hell, you've managed to shine bright and light up those around you.
Perhaps some of you are advisors or speaker of some kind who actively help others, and for some of you, it shows up in conversations with people you meet.
And your strengths and qualities reflect that! You are someone who is able to transcend whatever struggle they are going through in order to find some type of divine beauty from it. You can see both good and evil in yourself and in what is around you, and you can see the importance of both ends of the spectrum, letting yourself dance with those cycles and finding harmony in what most see as only chaos.
You also didn't let your heart close from what you've endured and instead gained a lot of empathy for other people's suffering.
You are also someone to whom authenticity is not only important, but a major part of their personality. You despise lying to yourself. Not saying that never happens, but you always end up correcting the trajectory at some point. You have strong core values that you've spent a long time modeling like a beautiful and ever changing work of art, born from your own work. You honor this quality in yourself and you encourage it in others.
You also embody the quality of acceptance. You know being in touch with your shadow means you're going to find things that are ugly, scary or violent, and you've learnt to see that without judging it. You are able to accept and release whatever comes to the surface, surrendering to the flow of life. As a result you are not someone who judges people harshly for their humanly flaws. Again not saying you don't condemn anyone ever, but you understand the shortcomings and the shortsightedness everyone has to deal with, because you went through it so many times yourself.
And as to what you can do to share that better with the world, well, first I feel like most of you are already doing that by just existing, but the advice I got was to listen to your spiritual guidance, whatever that means to you. There is this idea that you are guided on your path and that, perhaps, it is time to not simply look under, but look above. Trust that your effort are seen and that you will be shown the way to make your qualities of use for others beyond what is already happening.
The last card I drew says to keep walking on that self-healing path you are on, which is a life-long process as there are always layers and layers to dig and dig through. And by that I mean that you can go way beyond yourself, into the generational, the mythical. And I think that's the main takeaway. You are a Healer of Yourself, and by doing that, you're also healing others.
I'm still getting that some of you will be able sooner or later to share that wisdom in a more tangible way, perhaps as a writer or a counselor, a speaker or a carer, but, again, you don't need a specific job or activity to share your gifts because they radiate from you and can be received by the people in you touch in your daily life.
That it's for Pile 1! I just wanted to say that your energy is awesome and I feel very touched!! I wish you good luck on your path and I'm sending you a lot of love.
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PILE 2
Cards: The Medallion + The Hunter + Ace of Wands / The Mystic + Spirit of the Tree + Magic / The One + The Shaman + Rebirth
As for what you embody in what you bring to the world, I see you someone who heavily involved with magic and/or the spiritual realms. Like, heads up but, I'm actually a bit floored because it is powerful but I'm not surprised knowing the type of people who follow me.
So yeah, the magical and the spiritual. But more precisely, you are upholding traditions from the past, working with something you've inherited (not necessarily by blood although it may be the case for some of you) from those who came before you. By practicing and taking action with these practices, you are keeping them alive, honoring them, and even perhaps working on transmitting them to those who will follow.
I see you one some type of mission (in an humble way) as in, you're focused on your path and moving fast toward that shining light you sense in the distance, like a glowing target that pushes you forward whether you are fully aware of what it is exactly or not. You are answering some type of call.
As for your strengths and qualities, you are someone who is really in tune with your dreams, and beyond that, the other realms. You feel the pulsation of both life and death in all things, can read the signs the world sends you, and can peek behind the veil. You may be a mystic, a seer, or a medium, or have strong affinities for this.
You are also no stranger to the mysteries of Nature and are able to gather knowledge from what is so different and alien from you. Again there is an idea of ancient wisdom that you are tapping into powerfully. It comes naturally to you because it's part of who you are. You are able to step back from the noise of the modern world to touch the wisdom that lies beneath the busy surface of the world. Most people don't even know it's here, but it is, and you see it.
Again, there is this idea that you see beyond human knowledge, and you are able to remember it because somehow, you understand that, and even though it is strange and alien, it's part of us, too.
You are also able to cultivate your own magic. You understand that you can't just receive without doing the work on yourself and cultivating your own power. You are not an empty vessel but a being full of stars in your own right. I have this image of someone who one day opened their eyes and saw the sunrise seemingly for the first time. As if those eyes themselves where born anew. You are able to dance between earth and the sky, embracing transformation and initiation.
As for the advice you received on sharing your strengths with the world, I was sort of expecting it but it's not so much about really sharing your knowledge with the world rather than being your own individual on your path and doing the things that are required by it. Idk if that makes sense it's quite abstract to understand so bear with me.
I got the Shaman. As you probably know it's a word that is mostly wrongly used and that can mean a bunch of things, like healer, sorcerer, oracle, warden of Nature, medium, spiritual advisor or religious leader. What I'm getting is that it's going to vary for all of you depending on the path you are on, but one thing is for sure, you are a very important link between the other-world and the human world and you can serve your community.
Perhaps because you can/will/are meant to embrace one of the roles I just mentioned, or because you are doing some type of work for the other-realms, again it will vary greatly depending on the person.
There is an inherent loneliness to this path. You may feel othered, marginalized, even crazy at times, because you exist in some type of hazy in-between, with one foot in our world and one foot in the Other.
The advice is to learn to accept and lean into that, and understand that you are not as alone as you think you are, even to your fellow humans.
We are all one, in some way. Made of so many buried facets, so many fallen stars. What you are experiencing is present in all of us, you are just able to anchor it in this world, which is not only important in and of itself, but also helps people around you help themselves, is what I'm getting.
As a final advice, because I felt like drawing one last card, I got Rebirth.
I'm going to keep this super open because this pile is made of various people, but there is something that needs to be reborn within you. Some type of transformation you need to go through to go further. You will need to leave something behind. Know that what you are right now is meant to shed and change because there is so much more to learn. Lean into what you know to see the next step, but be open to the unknown and its gifts.
That's it for this reading, very different from Pile 1 but I'm equally floored and a bit spooked because it was super powerful! Thank you for reading me, I hope this was useful to you and I send you a lot of love and wish you good luck on your journey!
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PILE 3
Cards: 4 of Swords Rx + 10 of Pentacles + The Pilgrim + The Castle + The Threshold / 5 of Cups Rx + 8 of Wands Rx + Space, Time and Self + The Gifted Guide / Overwhelmed + Sorrow + the Moon (oracle) + Queen of Swords + 7 of Pentacles + The Forbidden Forest Rx
Driven is the most important word I'm getting from this reading.
It seems you are a builder and a pioneer of sorts, someone with the power to materialize your goals into the material plane, with the potential to establish long term material wealth and stable structures in the world. I'm also getting the word legacy, it's something that's important to you and you wish to accomplish in this lifetime. You might be an entrepreneur of some sorts or work in an area of Sciences, so legacy could be either about a business or wealth or advancing human knowledge in some way shape or form.
You don't sit around and wait, your are someone who don't remain stagnant but is always rising above and beyond to work towards your goals. You understand that your goals won't materialize without effort and you are committed to the task.
The way you go about life is focused on outside achievements, but that's the way you grow inside as well. The world is your laboratory where you explore ideas and see what can be birthed into the world.
You are someone who is not afraid to step into the unknown, to go towards uncharted territory, where others don't dare to go. It may seem like a lonely path for some, but for you, it is immensely fulfilling and is how you free yourself. You have your eyes set on the top of the mountain and nothing will stop you from reaching it.
You have no regard for the concept of fate and wish to keep your destiny into your own hands.
Your strengths and qualities are that you are aware of your faults and failures, of what you've lost in the past, and have learnt that no matter the setbacks, a new opportunity or idea can always arise and you can learn from your mistakes. You are full of energy and desire to move forward in a sort of restless way. It's like your burning with the energy of your will and the only way to master that fire is to remain as active as possible. Where others would have given up, you keep pushing, even if it hurts.
There is a strong message about knowing you are guided but not in a spiritual sense, and for two reasons:
One, you have trust in your own instinct and are guided by your interests and what pulls you in. You go with the flow and are able to follow effortlessly the dance of the cosmos, flowing from one cycle to the next, understanding that sometimes things can take more or less time (the idea of timing to be respected), or that you can zoom in and out your perspective on things (sometimes you need to see the big picture but sometimes you need to look into the details).
Second, you also understand the parts of unknown of your path, you don't feel like you need everything figured out and have trust that things will unveil when they need to. You listen to your environment and see patterns in the chaos that remain invisible to others and that's what guide your steps.
The advice on how to bring that more effectively into the world is pointing back to the reversed 5 of Cups and 8 of Wands, with Overwhelmed and Sorrow. It's very interesting because your strengths and quality are also sometimes reverted and things you struggle with, which is normal since we all have bad days and the very things that makes us ourselves can be our most violent pains.
In your low points, you have a tendency to bottle up your feelings, so focused that you are on your tasks, you ignore them until they spill. You don't really know how to handle your emotions and wait until they explode in your face to confront and feel them. It leaves you feeling lost and frustrated.
You have a highly individualistic mindset, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but in excess it makes you too tyrannical toward yourself. You may feel alone against the world at times, a lone star in a black sky, because you are so cut off from receptivity and external guidance.
Don't discard the parts of you that feel alien and strange as they have much to teach you. It's okay to stop for a moment on your path, you don't have to rush all the time. You need to be patient with your goals, like a gardener watching them grow in their own time. You can't go against the rhythms of Nature and the Universe, some things take time, and that include respecting your own rhythms.
You need to learn to set up boundaries within yourself. It can be hard to feel when you're going overboard so you need to carve out some time to deal with your inner struggles and let yourself time to rest. Perhaps these low points have a lot to do with exhaustion and lack of mental and emotional space, so be mindful of that and keep some time for nurturing yourself, not just your goals.
That's it for Pile 3! I hope this was useful to you and brought you interesting messages. I wish you good luck on your path.
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PILE 4
Cards: The Orphan + The Animal + 3 of Swords Rx + Ace of Wands Rx + Bottled Up + Gloom / The Mirror + Energy + Space, Time and Self + Dark Night of the Soul / 9 of Pentacles Rx + The Empress + Gratitude + Let Go + Yin and Yang + Truth
You are someone who came into this world full of childlike wonder but something broke, making you carry a deep wound. May be mental or physical trauma, an accident or a disability. As a result, you gained a ferocious thirst for life, a wild energy, similar to the primal instinct of survival. It was either giving up or pushing through, life or death.
It seems your ability to act in this world got restrained and that you had to learn your way around that. Like your potential was bottled up which made you think that all was over. Complete loss of hope. You felt cut off from the world, cut off from life and society. Rendered unable to connect with the bustling world. It seemed like it wasn't a choice you wanted to make but had to.
When I started drawing your cards for strengths and qualities, I felt an immense wave of fatigue washing over me, and one of the cards I drew was about calling back your energy. So I think you are very well aware of your limitations and you had to learn to live with that, manage your limited resources to make something blossom regardless. If you're not already aware of it, it's something you're currently learning.
I feel called to describe the energy card to you: a woman is sitting in a back full of stars, from her left palm flow a stream of water filled with stars with a flower blossoming from it and her whole body. I really think that whatever you went through and are still dealing with, despite limiting you in some ways, cannot stop you from bringing something beautiful to the world. It will feed from your very pains, like flowers feeding off dirt. There is so much potential for Life and growth.
Also, you had to learn to reflect on yourself a lot and that brought you a admirable understanding of the human nature, a precious wisdom that could not have been yours had you not have the life you had. It sucks to write because fuck that, I'm angry with you and I don't get why it has to be that way sometimes for some people, but it's true. I'm also getting that some of you are writers or have a great ability to spell out your thoughts. Really, this wisdom you gained through pain gave you a greater understanding of life, one that most people cannot touch, and that can be a great treasure to share with the world.
You have a strong ability to bring a deeper understanding of the human experience to others, transcending the mundane to allow them to touch what is meaningful and precious about life, understanding themselves and the world more. From the simple moments to the greatest revenge taken against fate.
By experiencing extreme loss, you found hope and a desire to survive and overcome, and are able to share it with others. This card also has a book in it so idk if you're a writer or not but you should definitely consider it if that's not the case. I think you have a lot to share with the world which could help others. Your words are worthier than gold, because you know how hard it is to face monstrous events but you know that it's worth pushing through. We all face difficult times in our lives, some more than others, but it's not about who suffered the most, and you understand that. You can really make a difference, pile 4. Light the way for others with your words.
The advice cards are really beautiful and supporting.
I see you being encouraged to learn to find balance within yourself and aiming for success and abundance. Because you can and you will be able to bring gifts to this world. You heart is a fertile soil, and it is so strong. From dead matters, pain and wastes, we can sow seeds and harvest golden crops, feeding many. You can embody that.
Really, you can be a beacon of light to other, crowned in stars, adorned with roses. You need to let yourself hope a little further. Don't settle for the bare minimum, let go of your regrets and pessimistic mindset. You have so much to offer. Find beauty, love and pleasure in your everyday life. It might only be in some specific moments but it is still so important and will help you live with more ease. Find bliss hiding between the folds of time.
You also got a strong message about gratitude. It can be easy to look down on this word, thinking it's a way to keep yourself in your enclosure and not thrive for more, but in reality, it's very empowering. By being grateful for your gifts, you are actually recognizing them, learning to trust and value them, which will in turn give you the confidence to share it with the world. The wise know that there is so much power and grace in having a grateful mindset, it doesn't stop you in your tracks, on the contrary, it calls even more blessings in.
You hold both life and death, pain and pleasure, despair and hope within yourself. It's time to embrace it and learn that life is not one or the other but a balance of both. You have been tilting over one side too much and it's time to rectify the scale. The advice is to find power in an unexpected place within you. Something you have overlooked. Something that feels uncomfortable. Ask yourself what you are resisting. You will find great creative energy as a result of that inner work. It will bring you growth.
The final card is called Truth and is also connected to the Empress, which you got earlier. The words on the card are: " That which is true will always be enough". You had to learn some truth the hard way, don't discard it because you are afraid or in pain. Hold it tight. Honor your truth. Again you get a message of gratitude and abundance. You are on a path to wisdom and you will gain a lot from it. By liberating yourself, you will also free others. Don't be scared to share what you've learnt and will learn with integrity. You soul is so beautiful.
That's it for pile 4. I hope it was an useful reading. It definitely was insightful for me. I wish you good luck on your path and I give you a big hug!!
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oliversrarebooks · 3 months ago
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Augusnippets Day #1: Brainwashing
Masterlist
tw: brainwashing, betrayal
Well, she'd finally found Zach.
She had hoped, probably irrationally, that he hadn't been converted to their side. Maybe he was still in one of their holding pens, waiting to be processed. Maybe he was hiding, or trying to escape. Maybe he was just too strong for it. He was one of the strongest of all of them -- if they could even take Zach, then what hope was there for anyone else?
That hope was dashed to pieces when she finally spotted him. He was wearing a glowing collar and one of their uniforms, like every other of their brainwashed minions. With vacant eyes, he was tending to some of the organic machinery that bloomed on the walls and floor like fungal growths.
But maybe it wasn't too late. She had to believe that. She had to believe that the leader of the human resistance hadn't been brainwashed so easily.
Glancing around to make sure she wouldn't be seen by anyone but Zach, she emerged from her shadowy hiding place. To her relief, his eyes lit up in recognition. "Sky? Sky, is that you?"
"Oh, thank god," she said, rushing to him. "For a minute I thought they had you."
"You came to rescue me," he said with that familiar cocky grin. "You should have known that I didn't need rescuing."
"Well, what was I supposed to think, Zach? Last time I saw you, you were being dragged away, hypnotized by one of those… things! You know how few people have been able to come back from that."
Zach took her by the shoulders. "Oh, I know," he said, with a strange tone in his voice that wasn't at all reassuring. "And now I know why, too."
There was something odd in his eyes, too, something that suggested that Sky had severely miscalculated. "Zach, what…?"
"It's because of how good it feels to serve them," he said, his grip on her tightening.
"Shit!" She tried to pull away, but Zach had always been stronger than her. She was such a fool. She'd let her desperate hope get the better of her, and now --
"I told you, I don't need rescuing. And you won't, either. You're going to finally get to rest, Sky. It's amazing. Trust me."
Sky finally managed to push him off, turning away from him only to find --
Colors. Gorgeous, swirling, mesmerizing colors.
While she had been talking to Zach, one of the aliens had snuck into place behind her, displaying several of its irresistible hypnotic tentacles before her widening eyes. Each one rippled with patterns designed to activate a particular neural cascade, one which sank humans into a deep state of suggestibility and obedience.
It was all a trap, and now she'd be just another of the mindless horde, maintaining the alien ships and capturing more humans to assist the invasion.
She tried to look away, but she was surrounded by the tentacles and their fatal pattern, with Zach holding her from behind and preventing easy escape. Within seconds, she could feel the neural cascade trigger deep in her brain, just like the rescued humans had described it -- a sensation of static, a feeling like sliding into a warm bath, her thoughts being silenced, a blissful euphoria, and then --
"You will comply," said a foreign voice inside of her head, a voice that filled the empty spaces where her thoughts had been.
"I will comply," she agreed in a dull voice.
"You will rest now."
"I will rest now." The idea of getting to rest felt so good as she slumped forward right into a mass of willing tentacles, ready to process her into whatever her alien overlords required.
Masterlist
There will be more of Zach later in the month. This one kind of got away from me...
@augusnippets
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mrsrookhunt · 1 year ago
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Breaking The Fourth Wall | Yan!Lilia Vanrouge x Reader
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"Hiya, precious."
"Whoa- what the fuck!"
Lilia stands there, tee-shirt and jeans, casually taking in your freshly showered form.
"Mm.. how pretty. You should really lock your door, you know." He licks his lips suggestively.
On a near 5-second delay you stumble to the wet floor with a towel, trying to cover yourself up from the bold fae.
He laughs, hand coming up to his mouth to hide his grin.
"Nice attempt at bashfulness, by the way."
Your mouth is wide open with confusion.
"Heh. Say, those lips of yours look so pretty~"
He kneels down to your fallen form.
"Surprised to see me?"
He ghosts his hands over your cheeks, flushed and shining with dew from your shower, two fingers coming to rest under your jaw to close your dumbfounded mouth, leaving behind a shadowy trail of cold from the path of his fingertips.
You stutter, lost for words.
"Y-you aren't real, you aren't even--"
"Shh.."
He crawls closer to you, face tilted to meet your eyes a little aways from yours, eyes twinkling with mirth and sadistic elation.
"Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'be careful what you wish for'? You spent a whole lot of time wishing you were in my arms, honey. It would be oh-so cruel to keep denying you."
He pulls you to your feet, prying the towel from your loose fingertips and coming up behind you, massaging your shoulders, working his way down to your sides.
He wraps his arms around your waist, breathing you in.
"Ahh... what a dream. What a dream to hold you. I said that I'm here because of you, but you deserve the truth. You're just so tempting. If the feelings were one-sided, I could've denied myself the pleasure of holding you. But to find out... you loved me too? Bliss."
He nips at your neck.
"I couldn't deny myself a moment longer."
His hands grip your shoulders tight enough to bruise, turning your clumsy, quivering form around to face him. His smile was magnificently wide as he forced your head down to meet his in a graceful arch for the lightest echo of a kiss.
"Come to bed, darling."
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
-June 28th, 2023
-Kaori
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pastshadows · 6 months ago
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Shadows of the Past
Chapter 14: Peril
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.3K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
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Time itself moves sluggishly as the spawn descend upon the petrified, screaming miscreants that share your cell. Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, fighting your ribs like striking bolts of lightning. You steel yourself against the rising panic, wrapping yourself in unflappable poise and watch for your opening.
As soon as the wave of spawn crashes and parts, you squeeze Hecat’s hand to signal her it’s time to move and bound through the gap. The corridor is a catastrophe, the stones painted in fresh crimson, bodies of guards ripped open, with their raw innards spilling out like gruesome garlands wreathing the walls. Hecat pales at the sight, dry heaving, but you’ve long become acquainted with such nightmarish affairs.
You tug Hecat along behind you, bare feet smacking the stone with such force it sends jolts of pain charging up your legs as your bones shudder with the impact of every step. That is nothing compared to the acute, explosive pain stabbing your chest with every inhalation.
Hecat stops, acquiring a shield and sword from a fallen guard. The blood makes the stone slick, and every step must be taken carefully. You cannot afford to fall. A stumble will almost surely mean death. Spawn that have finished their meals are starting to take notice. Hecat deflects them with her shield, stabbing with her sword when she has an opening and keeping you safely behind her.
The passageways are labyrinthine, confused tangles of convoluted twists and turns that sometimes double back or arrive at dead ends unexpectedly. Tears are creeping out of the corners of your eyes, dallying down your grimy, red cheeks from the agony radiating from your ribs with every expansion of your lungs. Panic starts to crumble the blanket of calm, surging through you as you frantically dart through the shadowy, disorienting hallways. The angry army of thudding footfalls of the spawn in pursuit echoes through the corridors.
Bounding up a dim stairway, the hilt of a dagger peeks out from between the joints of armour, nestled into the corpse of a guard. You yank it out with a quick tug, but time is not on your side this night. A spawn grasps your ankle, its clawed fingers sinking into your flesh and jerks you off your feet. Your head bounces off the stone slab stair, peppering your vision with black sparks of dazing pain. The only thing you can see through your muddled sight is those glowing eyes. You lash out with the dagger and sink it deeply into the socket. As soon as you’re released, Hecat is already towing you back to your feet, pulling you up the stairs and into the next room.
The milky eyes and pallor of bloodless bodies greet you. The undead in this part of the prison seem to roam, unsure of their orders, but as soon as the thudding of your heart is heard, their heads snap in your direction. They swarm around you like enraged bees. Despite Hecat’s exhaustion, she is unwavering. Her sword slashes through the air, shield deflecting the snapping fangs and shredding claws.
You feel the pangs of irritation at your uselessness. Your magic, once your greatest weapon, is now a prison in its own right. The vampires press in closer, surrounding you like a pack of ravenous wolves, their movements orchestrated by an unseen hand, but they don’t move to attack further as they corral you.
“What are they doing?” Hecat pants with wild eyes, frantically searching for an escape.
“I don’t know.”
A red aura shifts around the spawn, the same one Cazador used to control Astarion’s sibling during their midnight visit to your camp. They part for a tall, pallid figure that appears seemingly from the shadows.
“Nice to see you again, Sorceress,” it speaks. You recognize that voice, and your heart arrests in your chest, sinking into your stomach.
Aldous.
Your mind reels, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. No. He is dead. You watched the life be abducted from his eyes yourself. Yet, he stands before you, pale as death with glowing crimson eyes. His face splits into that repellent smile, and his cackling resounds off the walls.
“That one.” He points at you, “She is to be taken alive. The Tiefling matters not.”
“What the fuck,” Hecat breathes.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sorceress,” Aldous laughs, hysterical and bone-chilling. “And your fanged friend. I cannot wait to drain you dry in front of him.”
A harrowing scream tears from your throat, a melody of rage and sorrow as Aldous disappears in a burst of red, drawn home by his unknown master. Grabbing Hecat’s hand, you eye a door and dash toward it with renewed vigour. The vampire’s claws and fangs pierce your skin as you burst through the legion. You stab and slash with reckless abandon, sinking the dagger into anything that attempts to halt you.
Hecat and you stumble into the room and try to close the door on writhing arms and legs. Hecat lashes out with her sword, severing limbs from bodies obstructing it until it slams shut and locks.
“Help me!” Hecat yells as she throws a table over. You help barricade the door with whatever is available.
“They want you?” Hecat snaps, levelling the sword at you, “Who the fuck are you, dragon girl, and why the fuck do they want you alive?”
You’re doubled over, hands on your thighs, trying to inhale as much air as your lungs can possibly take, but the splitting pain in your side hampers your ability to catch your breath.
“I don’t know,” you retort venomously, eyeing the sword and Tiefling.
“That one knows you,” she hisses, shifting her stance and getting ready to strike. “Who the fuck is he?”
“A dead man,” you sigh, pushing your hair from your eyes. “I killed him. Apparently, it didn’t stick.”
“You’re a murderer?!” She gasps, bringing the steel blade to your neck.
“Yes,” you growl, unbothered by the threat.
Hecat laughs, withdrawing her blade, “I would not have thought you possible of such a heinous crime.” She winks, “I like you even more now.”
You cannot help but choke out a pained laugh, but it’s more of a groan than anything. You look around. Waxy moonlight floods the room from a small window. It’s the first window you’ve seen, but bars in a crisscross pattern make escape impossible, and the wood door is starting to splinter and crack under the barrage rattling it on its hinges.
A sudden shift in the atmosphere makes your skin prickle as the dam of suppression is released, and the Weave returns to you in an overwhelming deluge. You don’t have time to wonder why or how, and you don’t much care. The Weave causes the air to crackle, abuzz with powerful energy, and you fill yourself with it. You grip the iron and allow the potency of your draconic fire to spill out of you with a daunting laugh you cannot stifle. The bars heat, whine and wail, glowing white-hot and oozing, and Hecat thrusts her sword into the gooey mess of molten metal to clear your path.
The moon hangs high in the sky, casting an eerie glow upon the building, and the air is brisk as you clamber onto the roof. You cast Shatter, crumbling the stone around the window to block the pursuing spawn.
“That’s some potent magic you have there,” Hecat grins. “I’ve never seen anyone melt metal with their hands before.”
Her words of praise float over you as you eye the raging war of the courtyard below. Some guards remain alive, fighting another horde of spawn descending on the grounds. From the height, you can see beyond the solid walls surrounding the compound, and your feet move unconsciously, eyes skipping over the landscape - searching, searching, searching…
There.
“We could jump,” Hecat says hesitantly, peering over the edge.
“No,” you bark with a smile. “We fly. Follow me.”
You cast Fly, taking her hand and soar into the air. Hecat yelps at the suddenness of your movement and clings to you. You cannot quite reach your target before your feet hit the soft, muddied terrain. Spawn trample the ground, careening toward you like a blight on the land. Hecat stands in front of you, but you are muzzled no longer.
“Detono!” You howl, and the wave of crackling energy bowls the spawn over.
You cast Fireball and rain blazing death, warping the fire into flames that burn blue, bending it to your will. Your fingers dance in the moonlight, under stars that envy how bright you burn. Hecat stands at the ready, prepared and reinvigorated, but with unfathomable rage, you don’t miss. With every step, every twitch of your fingers, every syllable that brushes off your tongue, you are violence, you are slaughter, you are death incarnate.
It feels magnificent. Exhilarating. You are so wonderfully, splendidly fucking alive.
Whatever spawn remain have begun to retreat, much to your displeasure, disappearing in puffs of red mist, back to whatever hole they crawled out of.
“Kamena!” Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ground, and pressing you tightly to firm, sculpted muscles. You would do anything to stay in this embrace but the pain in your ribs forces a pained cry from your lips, and Astarion jerks away from you.
Hecat screams, charging forward with her blade levelled at Astarion before you have time to explain. Astarion dodges swiftly and has one blade to Hecat’s throat and the other pressed firmly to her stomach before you can blink.
“Astarion, don’t,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “She helped me escape. Hecat, this is my friend.”
“Friend?” Hecat barks as Astarion releases her with a skeptical frown, and she reels back. “You failed to mention that your friend is also a fucking vampire.”
“Astarion is a person,” you growl. Without the adrenaline rocketing through your veins, your injuries and weariness have begun to take their toll on your body, and you stumble.
Astarion catches you, “You’re injured?”
“Her ribs are broken, I think,” Hecat replies for you. “The guards did not treat her well.”
“Shadowheart!” Astarion bellows and slightly lifts the hem of your shirt, revealing the edges of mottled blue, black and yellowing bruise expanding up your side. “Good Gods, my love.”
“I’m fine.” You bring Astarion’s eyes to yours, gazing into the scarlet sea you have longed to swim in. It almost makes it past you, but your brows furrow, “Did you just call for Shadowheart?”
A hand lays on your shoulder, and blue magic laves away the cutting pain in your side, “This was supposed to be a nice, boring vacation,” Shadowheart tuts, nose rising into the air with a snort. “I should have known better than to think you might be able to keep yourself out of trouble.”
“Shadowheart!” You pivot, wrapping your arms around her. “Gods. I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” She drawls, returning the hug gently.
“Where is the wizard?” Astarion asks, “We should get her home. She smells terrible.”
Shadowheart chuckles with Astarion as you frown at them. “She really does. If I can smell her, I can’t imagine how bad she smells to you, vampire.”
“Be glad you can’t,” Astarion wrinkles his nose at you but sweeps you off your feet and into his arms, kissing your forehead.
“Take her home,” Shadowheart instructs. “I’ll wait for Gale.”
The conversation between them starts to sound far away as lethargy drags at your mind.
“What do we do about this one?” Astarion gestures to Hecat.
“Leave her with me,” Shadowheart concludes with a tinge of threat. “She can bring me up to speed on exactly what in the Hells is going on around here while we wait for Gale.”
“She helped me,” you murmur. “Be nice, Shadowheart.”
Shadowheart smirks, “Aren’t I always nice?”
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“Wake up.”
“No,” you grumble, forcing your eyes open.
“Yes.” Astarion purrs with cold breath on the shell of your ear that sends delightful shivers down your spine. “You are not crawling into our bed smelling like a flophouse latrine.”
You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body tightly to him. He tries to tug you away half-heartedly between his grunting protests, but there’s no real force behind his playful pulling.
“Now, you smell, too!” You chime as he sets you back on your feet and starts drawing a bath.
“Naughty girl,” Astarion smirks, chuckling.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the gilded mirror. Your hair is matted and dingy with grime. Filth streaks your face, dulling your complexion. Your shirt, once a pale blue, has been rendered brown, stained with dirt and blood that’s both new and long dried.
Movement behind you catches your eyes, whisking them away from your reflection. Bottles of oils float through the air, appearing to move on their own as Astarion pours oils into the water, and notes of lavender, sandalwood, and vanilla arise with the steam. This is something you’ve never gotten used to. Objects seemingly floating, as if picked up by a breeze and carried aloft of their own free will.
“Odd, isn’t it?” Astarion says, moving your hair and bringing you back from your contemplations.
“What?”
“No reflection.” Astarion’s cool fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, allowing him to peel the disgusting garment from your body, “Objects moving on their own, a ghost underdressing you.”
“A little,” you admit. “I just don’t understand how you always look so fucking perfect all the time.”
“Oh,” he giggles, turning you around, hooking his fingers in your waistband, and crouching. “Do go on.”
You put your hands on his shoulders, leaning some of your weight into him while he strips you, lifting one leg at a time, “I missed you."
“I missed you, too. Very much.” He says, taking your hand in his, “Come. Into the bath with you before it gets cold, and you chastise me.”
Climbing into the steaming water is like climbing into a sun-soaked dream. How very odd is it you can forget how your skin feels when it’s clean. As you slough off the dirt, blood and filth, the pads of your fingers do not recognize the buttery softness of your skin without the grainy texture.
“Tilt your head back,” Astarion instructs. He pours hot water over your head, fingers gently detangling your matted hair, lathering it with soap.
The bruise extending up your side is still faintly visible, staining your skin in hues of blue and yellow, and your fingers skate up, poking and prodding.
“What happened in there?” Astarion brushes the backs of his fingers gently down the marbled skin.
“The guards had a bone to pick with me,” you shrug, trying to cover the solemnity of the conversation with a pleasant smile. “I don’t wish to talk about it right now, Astarion.”
“Kamena…” Astarion sighs with a sullen shake of his head.
You press your fingers gently under his chin, bringing his eyes to yours. Gods. When he looks at you, it is not a glance. It is a song, a message, a constellation of promises wrapped in scarlet, and you never want to look away.
“I’m not running, Astarion.” You assure him, “I will tell you all about it, but tonight, can we just be us?”
Astarion smiles, nodding his understanding, “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Astarion’s fingers massage your scalp as he washes the soap from your hair, rinsing it until the water finally runs clear.
“Do we have wine?” You ask on a whim.
“Gale does,” Astarion grins momentarily, but his lips press into a thin line. “Is this celebratory drinking or “it’s better to forget” drinking?”
You wince at the question. You know it’s not exactly the healthiest way to deal with your problems. You are tempted to lie to him but force the truth from your lips, “A little of both?”
“I can live with that, I suppose,” Astarion nods, helping you stand and wrapping a plush towel around you, patting you dry. You smile as he dotes on you, “I know where the wizard hides the good stuff. I will go raid his cellar.”
Slipping into one of Astarion’s shirts, you light the fire with naught but a thought. It feels good to have your magic back after being deprived of it for so long. You grip the Weave, pulling the mystical essence from your blood and bones, and it feels like taking a deep breath after you didn’t realize you were holding it. Fire spurts out of your palm, and you fashion it into a ring, forcing the flames to move unnaturally as they chase each other around in a never-ending loop.
You lift the flaming ring above your head, hovering between your palms like a fiery halo, and force it to expand and contract simply because you can.
“Did no one ever teach you it’s dangerous to play with fire, Sorceress?”
“Perhaps for the untrained, Rogue,” you smirk, snap your fingers, and the halo bursts like a firework, pinpricks of fire whirling around you.
You let the fire ebb and die out slowly, relinquishing your magic with a sorrowful sigh. The Weave fills you with life, comfort and peace. Without it, you’re thrust back into a stark reality. Astarion hands you a glass, and you grab the bottle and wink as you drink deeply. The wine is a crisp white wine, buttery with hints of vanilla. It sparkles on your tongue and fizzes down your throat, and you cannot help but close your eyes at the pleasure of it all after drinking brown-tinged water for a week.
“Shall we sit, or would you prefer to keep standing in the middle of the room?”
“Gods,” you smirk, handing the bottle to Astarion and trotting over to the bed. You flop onto it gracelessly. “Let’s drink in bed! I’ve been sleeping on stone for a week, and this is lovely, but it’s missing something.”
“And what’s that, my dear?” Astarion cocks his head handsomely with a boyish smile that tells you he knows exactly what you think it’s missing.
“You!”
“In that case,” Astarion giggles and removes his shirt. He thrusts the wine bottle into your hands. Your fingers fumble to catch it, senses entirely possessed by him, “We might as well get comfortable, yes?”
“Yes,” you breathe, swallowing thickly.
Astarion saunters around the bed, discarding pieces of clothing along the way. He makes it look casual, unpremeditated, but it’s maddeningly slow.
“You’re a tease,” you mutter under your breath, sipping the wine and slipping out of your shirt.
“I am not!” He chuckles, “You’re just exceptionally impatient. Good things come to do who wait, sweetheart.”
“Do they?” You quirk a brow at him, “I’m not so sure about that. Do you have proof of this notion?”
“I waited two hundred years for you.” Astarion purrs as the bed dips under his weight, and he presses his body against your back, wrapping his arms around you.
“I love you,” you murmur, craning your head to look at him, slipping your fingers into his hair.
“I love you, too. I should not have let the wizard talk to me into leaving you in there so long. I—“
“Not tonight, Astarion.” It sounds like a whimpering plea, “Please."
“Right. Apologies,” he rasps, lips against your neck.
“Have you been eating?”
“Always so worried about me,” his lips twitch into a smile. “I’m fine.”
Perhaps he is fine, but you are most certainly not. Suddenly, you’re impacted with a deep-seated need to feel that intimacy, that descent through the branches of his veins. You want to bleed into him, your soul and his, intertwined as one. The intensity of the emotion catches you off guard.
Are you chasing the bloodless daze that his feedings provide? Are you hoping it will lay a shroud over the dread sinking your stomach? Is this another way to run?
Maybe.
But you are so good at running.
“Would you like a nibble?” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the hint of anticipation from your voice.
Astarion jerks his head up, pushing your shoulder until you’re lying on your back and looking up at him with an arched brow. He regards you thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea tonight.”
“Why?”
Astarion rifles his fingers through his hair, “You are well aware of the effect you have on me when I feed on you. I cannot promise that once your blood dawns on my tongue, your skin under my fingertips, I won’t lose myself in the need to make every inch of you mine.”
You wrap an arm around Astarion’s neck carefully, kissing along his jaw. You whisper in his ear, “So make me yours.”
Astarion shudders amorously as you ghost your lips over the ridge of his ear to the tapered tip. He grabs your waist with a low, rumbling growl, pulling you into his lap to straddle him. His desire for you pressed firmly against your already slick sex. Astarion looks deeply into your eyes, holding you still as if trying to figure out if you’re in your right mind.
You’re trying to figure out the same thing.
He catches your lips in his, gentle at first but with progressively more ferocity. He groans into your mouth. It radiates down your spine, stealing your breath, and a chill rushes through you, settling in your core. Your heart flutters with desire, the increasing drumbeat of it making its way between your thighs.
Astarion’s hand grips your hips, undulating them, his cock sliding between your folds, brushing up against your swollen flesh. You have been so fundamentally deprived of his affection that every touch sends shivers over your skin, every slide of his tongue against yours makes you want to sigh, and every groan steals the air from your lungs.
His fingers tease the peaks of your nipples, and you throw your head back and gasp. Astarion kisses up the column of your throat, his free hand cradling the back of your head, fingers twisted in your hair.
There’s but a moment of clarity. You are running headfirst, barrelling into anything that might hope to make you numb - him, pleasure, alcohol, bloodlessness.
Astarion’s fingers glide between your lips and sweep over your sensitive pearl, and coherence is lost in a white-hot rush of pleasure. You melt, draping your arms over him and biting his shoulder to hush your cries. His lips trace along your neck, and you roll your head to the side. His fangs sink into your flesh, and he growls, deeply and lofty, his chest rumbling against yours as if thunder was rolling through it. Your essence trickles through his veins like a gentle rain as he draws in methodical sips, savouring every drop.
Your hips buck as he continues his ministrations. You yearn to feel that decedent stretch of your walls as they envelop his cock, and he knows it. Astarion encourages you to lift your hips, pressing the swollen, blunt head of his cock to your entrance, and you sink down his length as he rubs against all your ridges so exquisitely that it makes your vision blur.
You don’t even notice his fangs retreat from your neck as his lips mould to yours to dampen your unadulterated breathy moans. You close your eyes and fade in and out as your head spins around with pleasure so intense you cannot think straight. The woozy fog of blood loss only adds to your dwindling reason and logic. With every pump of his hips and every roll of yours, you are walking on the fine edge of paradise.
But there’s something not quite right in his movements. They are tactical, methodical, and too perfect. You drive your eyes open, blinking away that haze of ecstasy. When you look into Astarion’s eyes, he’s not looking back at you. He’s looking past you as if through you, but his body knows this dance well enough, and he continues to go through the motions even when he’s a million miles away.
You go rigid, halting all movement in a split second, and your heart seizes, bound by the flash freeze in your chest. It jolts him back to himself, and he blinks rapidly, almost confused.
“Astarion,” you purr, concealing the hurt in your voice. Why didn’t he tell you? Why didn’t he say something as he promised he would? “Let's stop.”
“No,” he protests, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”
“It’s okay, my love.” You cradle his cheek, trying very hard not to move a muscle until he tells you, “Tell me when I can move.”
“I’m sorry,” he looks away from you, brows downturned, rubbing his eyes. “I want this. You. I was there, and then I just… wasn’t. I don’t know what happened.”
“Healing is messy. Isn’t it?”
“You are a gift,” Astarion folds his arms around you, hugging you close to him, and you try to hug him back, but it’s admittedly awkward when he’s still inside you, and you’re trying your best to keep yourself still. He laughs, “You can move, Kamena. I’m not uncomfortable.”
“You’re still inside me,” you retort, almost as if to alert him to this fact.
“Yes, that’s considerably obvious, but thank you for pointing it out,” he chuckles as you relax slightly. “Do you think we could stay like this? Just for a little bit? I find it… strangely helpful.”
This is new. Not unwelcome, but definitely new, “You want to sit here with your cock inside me, and what, chat?”
“Precisely!” He chimes happily, leaning back with a grin, “I’m so glad you understand, darling. Hells. Do I have some stories for you! Do you know how hard it is to break into the government buildings here? They are locked up tighter than a patriar’s purse, but I do love a good challenge.”
You can’t help but burst laughing at his carefree attitude, the way he’s still rock hard inside you, talking about committing crimes as if you were sitting at a table sharing stories over dinner and drinks. This is not typically how you remember him reacting, but this… this is progress, and you will take it.
You groan, “Why were you breaking into the civil buildings, Astarion?”
“How do you think Gale knew where to find and nullify the device suppressing magic at the prison?” Astarion drawls, pleased with himself. “That man is terrible at stealth. Even worse than you. He complained about his knees the entire time! Gods. I am centuries older than him, and you don’t see me bellyaching.”
“How utterly annoying! I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” you giggle at how he smirks with a wily glint in his crimson eyes. He definitely considered it. “In that case, you’re going to have to take me on a date where we break into this government building that gave you a hard time. This is something I must see.”
“You cheeky little minx,” he laughs. “I would love nothing more.”
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The murmur of voices, clinking of cutlery on the tableware, and smell of what is surely Gale’s cooking drift down the hallway as you approach. Astarion follows closely behind, his hand at the small of your back. He has not stopped touching you in some fashion since you returned, as if he’s worried that you might disappear.
You stop dead in your tracks when you see the back of Hecat’s head, sitting at the table, shovelling whatever gruel Gale provided into her mouth and nodding as he recounts tales of your grand adventure in the Underdark. It takes substantial effort not to tell Gale to shut his trap. He does realize that you met this person in prison, right?
Shadowheart sees you first, leaping from her chair and dashing over, sweeping you into a tight hug, “Gods. You smell much better,” she giggles when you groan and squeeze her hard enough to expel some air from her lungs, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you nod, but you haven’t been able to take your gaze, etched with skepticism off Hecat.
Shadowheart whispers, “She had nowhere else to go. Gale invited her.”
You snort, “Of course he did.”
“I’ve been watching her closely,” Shadowheart sniffs. “And I will continue to do so.”
You suppose the woman was instrumental in your escape, and perhaps, for now, you should give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Sit,” Astarion instructs, pulling a chair out for you. “I will get you some food.”
You arch a brow at him and give him an almost imperceptible shake of your head. Although anything will be better than the stale bread and dried meat the prison served, whatever Gale has fashioned resembles wet dog food, and your stomach, as hungry as it is, flops in your belly.
Astarion kisses your temple, “Trust me.”
You sit, and Astarion gathers fresh fruit from the fridge, cutting it up in deft, precise movements. He glares at the knife spitefully, assessing the edge and rolling his eyes. You would giggle, knowing he’s judging Gale for the state of his knives, if you were not so flabbergasted that Astarion is preparing your food.
Hecat’s voice breaks you from your astoundment, “You clean up nicely! I almost forgot what colour your hair was under all that crud.”
She, too, looks substantially different without dirt smudged on her face, “I could say the same about you,” you retort a little too sourly.
Hecat smiles, not catching the venom in your voice, “Your friends are very nice.”
“Yes,” you give Gale a sideways glance, and he looks bashful. “Gale is very generous and trusting.”
Gale’s face flushes red, and he clears his throat, putting a finger in the collar of his robe, and pulling it away from his neck like the garment is restricting his breath.
Astarion places a bowl of perfectly diced fruit before you. He sits, dragging his chair close to yours so he can keep a hand resting on your thigh. You don’t miss the way Shadowheart glares at him with unspoken bitterness.
“Dear Shadowheart already gave me quite the berating,” he shimmies his shoulders as if he enjoyed it.
He actually might have.
“Not enough of one if you ask me.” Shadowheart scoffs, her eyes narrowed and blazing with acidity.
Hecat arches a brow, confused at what is going on, and you’re not about to lay out your life story for some stranger you met in prison, so you push the conversation forward.
“Aldous is a vampire,” you say far too casually and are met with looks of shock and silence.
Gale and Shadowheart eye Astarion.
Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my bloody doing. I am a mere spawn. I do not have the power to turn anyone. Gods,” he shakes his head. “I don’t believe it possible. I disposed of him. Thoroughly.”
“Did you destroy his body?” You ask. Gale almost chokes on his tea at the indifference in your voice.
Astarion nods, “Entirely. There was nothing left.”
“Is that the man who was after you?” Hecat asks, but her eyes are not on you.
They are moored to Astarion, like a shipwreck lying on the ocean floor, irretrievably bound. Astarion doesn’t seem to notice as he typically does not, but these dew-eyed ogles always make jealously flare to life. You place your hand on Astarion, stop yourself from growling “mine,” and instead, settle on scowling.
Astarion is alerted to your discontentment by the heat radiated from your palm. He makes a show of kissing each of your fingers, slow and lingering, trying very hard not to snicker. He finds your jealousy endearing but equally foolish, and perhaps it is.
Hecat does not seem to care or notice. It drives you mad, so you crawl into his lap, placing yourself between him and her gawking orange eyes. You can hear Shadowheart chuckling under her breath. She knows your protectiveness of Astarion all too well.
Astarion remains casual about it as if it’s not unusual for you to sit in his lap during breakfast. He grabs the bowl of fruit you have yet to finish and shoves it into your hands, “Eat.”
You grumble curses under your breath only he can hear, at him and his bossiness, at Hecat, and shovel fruit into your mouth.
Astarion chuckles, kissing your cheek, and purrs reassuringly, “I only have eyes for you, thiramin.”
You know this, but it’s not his eyes you’re concerned about.
A knock on the door breaks you from your brewing hostility, and you nearly answer it as a reflex, but he holds you and shakes his head, “No. Not this time.”
“I’ll get it,” Shadowheart chimes.
Gale accompanies Shadowheart. All three of you are holding the Weave, ready to cast at a moment’s notice. There is an undertone of mumbling, and Astarion’s face transforms into a formidable scowl. His grip on you tightens, and he brandishes a dagger.
“Blackwell,” he growls.
Flames immediately jump to life across your skin, licking up your forearms and through your hair. Hecat is on her feet, her fists balled, stirred by your unease.
Gale returns, looking contrite, wracking his hand over his face, “I’m sorry, my friend, but we must hear him out.”
Astarion is the first to answer, his voice rough and grated in warning, “Absolutely fucking not! I don’t care what information he has or what he has to say, Gale. If you let him into this house, I will kill him. I promise you that. You would not want to get blood all over these lovely floors. Would you?”
“Information?” You ask, placing a hand on Astarion’s as he grips the dagger so tightly his fist shakes.
“Don’t be an idiot, Kamena,” Astarion snarls.
“My son,” you hear Mr. Blackwell’s voice as he sidles up behind Gale as if using him as a shield. Shadowheart has a tight clutch on his shoulder, bristling with fury, “I’ve made a grave mistake. I know I have no right to ask, but I don’t know where else to turn. I... I need your help.”
“Help?” You seethe, fingernails digging into the table to keep yourself from burning him where he stands, shoulders slumped, wringing his hat in his hands. “You want our help?! That’s laughable.”
“You killed him.” Mr. Blackwell mewls, “Didn’t you?”
You do not answer. No one does. Instead, you level him with a glower sharp enough to cut through mountains.
It is answer enough.
“I made a deal,” he continues. “No one would listen to me. No one cared. I was out of options, and then I was approached by a woman while I was at a tavern. She told me she could bring him back. She told me there was a spell that would return him to me. She said the only payment she would ask was that he would be in her service. I... I did not ask questions. I did not know what she was!”
“You godsdamned idiot,” you hiss, clenching your teeth so hard the nerves trill. “You made a deal with a vampire?”
“Nobles,” Hecat scoffs with a disgusted twist of her lips. “All wealth, zero intelligence.”
“I didn’t know!” Mr. Blackwell cries, slipping to the floor into a puddle of sorrow. “She said he would return to me the next night, and he did, but he was not the same. His mother let him in. She was so happy to see him she did not notice or care. She hugged him. He… He bit her! I could not get him to stop. He looks like you,” Mr. Blackwell says sullenly, nodding toward Astarion. “Red eyes, pale as a sheet.”
“I am sure he does,” Astarion beams a fanged, threatening grin at him, making Mr. Blackwell squeak like a mouse caught in a trap.
Questions are whirling through your mind. Why would a Vampire Lord take notice of you? Why would they waste resources – spawn, scrolls or otherwise? Why bother having you imprisoned, beaten, and weakened? There is always a purpose to their madness, but what could you have that they want?
“What could a Vampire Lord possibly want with you?” Gale echos your thoughts, fingers on his chin. “And why bring Aldous back? How did they bring him back?”
“Aldous is easy. Most likely a scroll of True Resurrection. I imagine they turned him because they knew his thirst for revenge would make him easy to manipulate. Vengeance is a powerful motivator.” Your brows furrow, tapping the table with your finger rapidly, “What I don’t understand is what use they would have for any of us. I can’t think of a single relic in our possession that would do a Vampire Lord any good.”
Hecat looks between all of you with a puzzled look. She knows too much now, adding yet another complication.
“Astarion,” Shadowheart prompts him, “You’re the resident expert on vampires. Care to speculate as to why they would go through all this trouble?”
Astarion’s brows furrow and he shrugs, “I don’t have the slightest clue. Vampires are territorial beasts, but I do not think they would go to such lengths when they could have simply attacked me while I was hunting if their concern was territory.”
You give the worn noble on the floor a once over, and you feel nothing but hatred for the pathetically snivelling man. Should you feel merciful? Gods. When did you become so callous? “Did Aldous say anything else?”
“He muttered things here and there.” Mr. Blackwell sighs letting his head drop into his hands, “Something about ruins being the key and a contract, but none of it made any sense. He seemed like he was in a haze, drunk-like.”
Ruins being a key and a contract? It's not much to go on at this point, but you suppose, it’s a start.
“Whoever this Vampire Lord is,” Shadowheart crosses her arms, “They will know exactly who we are. They will not underestimate us.”
“Indeed,” Gale agrees with a curt nod. “We must take precautions, prepare and plan for the worst.”
“Who the fuck are you people?” Hecat asks, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“Adventurers,” you trample over Gale who is about to spill your entire story, looking him in the eyes with a warning. His mouth snaps shut. “Nothing more.”
It seems your adventure in Waterdeep is just beginning.  
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Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
Shadowheart ❤️
I'm dying to hear all your theories on why a Vampire Lord has taken an interest! 😁
Are we trusting Hecat?
Fucking Aldous 🤬 Hopefully we get the chance to kill him... again.
101 notes · View notes
noforkingclue · 1 year ago
Text
The Attic (dark!Thomas Shelby x reader)
Summary: you were told to avoid the attic because it was dangerous. But what happens when you finally stop resisting the pull towards it and ignore the warnings of your husband?
Author's Note: This was written for @zablife 2K celebration! I chose to write something for the attic! I made references to some of my other reader inserts but don't worry, you don't have to have read them to understand this fic.
(alternative title- Thomas Shelby and the Multi-Verse of Fucking Up You Life)
Hope you like the fic :)
Warnings: dark fic, reference forced married, murder
Peaky Blinders tag list: @stylesofloki, @ohshitisfenharel, @lenaskyler02, @elenavampire21, @swordofawriter, @zablife, @cillmequick, @polishcrazyone
Thomas Shelby tag list: @alreadybroken-ts, @darlingdevil, @lyrxbz, @watercolorskyy, @notyour-valentine
Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee
You loved the colour of Tommy’s eyes. So blue they reminded you of the sky on a warm summer’s day. You frequently found yourself getting lost in them as the two of you spent a blissful time in Paris.
Ah, Paris.
It was such a wonderful honeymoon but, as all good things, it came to an end far too quickly. Soon you found yourself back in Arrow House. Grand, beautiful, hauntingly lonely Arrow House. You knew that there were servants. Your bed was always made in the morning, food always hot and waiting for you, yet you never saw them.  You heard the sounds of people moving around and yet whenever you entered a room you never saw them. Tommy said that his family lived with him, he had such a large house that it made sense. However, you had yet to meet any of them. Hushed whispers, the sound of rustling clothes, hurriedly retreating footsteps was the most you ever got to see of them.
You were allowed free rein of the house. After all, it was your home now as well. However, the only room you weren’t allowed in was the attic. When you questioned why Tommy wrapped an arm around your waist, pulled you against him and said,
“Floor boards aren’t stable, love. In the process of getting them fixed but I don’t want you to fall through. So just stay away from there alright?”
“Alright Tommy.”
“Good girl.”
And with a soft kiss pressed against your forehead the deal was done.
At least for now.
*
Despite your faith in your husband, part of you suspected he was lying. There were nights were you laid awake looking up at the ceiling. Sometimes you heard a creek, the sound of a footstep and you’d sit bolt upright in bed. It was strange, whenever this happen Tommy always seemed to be awake. A comforting arm was wrapped around you ready to pull you back down to his comforting embrace. Tommy would mutter something about a nightmare and for you to get back to sleep and somehow you always found yourself drifting off to a dreamless sleep.
Then there was the sleep paralysis. You had never experienced it before you had moved into Arrow House. Now it had become a semi regular occurrence. The shadowy figure that seemed to melt out of the wall and slowly approach you and your husband. However, it never seemed that interested in you. The focus of the creature was purely on Tommy and you could feel the hatred seep from it. It was enough to peel the wallpaper from the wall, crack the wood in the headboard and rot the floorboards. When you woke up everything was back to normal and Tommy hadn’t seen a thing.
And yet you found yourself drawn to the attic. If you closed your eyes and concentrated hard enough you could hear the hushed whispers high above your head. You long to be a part of them. To be accepted into the Shelby family.
Which was how you found yourself at the foot of the staircase.
You knew where it lead even though it was your first time seeing it and it terrified you. The staircase was shrouded in darkness but your goal was lit up. White light shone through the crack under the attic door, lighting your way into the knowledge you so desperately craved. You knew that you shouldn’t climb it. It wasn’t safe, you could fall and injure yourself. And yet you were pulled towards it like a magnet. You were helpless as you were dragged into the inky darkness which sealed you fate.
At first you couldn’t understand why Tommy was so adamant that you avoided the attic. Sure it was bit dusty and could do with a lick of paint but the floor looked sturdy enough. You ventured in, your anxiety disappearing with each step until you were in the middle of the room. You breathed in a deeply and immediately regretted it as a cloud of dust was drawn into your nose and triggered your allergies. You coughed and spluttered and then you heard it.
A soft voice.
Soft familiar and yet so strange.
A voice you thought you had heard a thousand times before and yet not at all.
‘Leave.’
Then another.
‘Run.’
And another.
‘Escape.’
And then they all came at once. Like a flock of angry, blood thirsty birds. Like a wave determined to drag you under and drown you.
‘Leave this place.’
‘Don’t come back.’
‘He’ll kill you.’
‘He’ll destroy you.’
‘Murderer.’ / ‘Murderer.’ / ‘Murderer.’ / ‘Murderer.’
That word. Repeated over and over and over again until it didn’t sound like a word at all. You crouched to the ground, hands covering your face, as hot tears pour down your face. You should’ve listened to Tommy. You never should’ve come here.
‘You never should’ve come to Arrow House. Leave. Run. While you still can.’
It was the longest one of these voices had ever spoken to you. You peaked through your fingers and wished that you hadn’t. A figure stood in front of you. Swirling dark mist coiled around it and other things moved in the background. The voices were now just a hushed whisper but they seemed to dominate your senses.
“W… what are you?” you asked shakily
‘A warning of what will be if you don’t run.’
“Run? From who? The Shelby’s?”
‘Tommy.’
“He’s my husband. I love him.”
This caused the mist to swirl angrily and the figure melted away. Another appeared in view. Its face was a dark swirl but its body was still recognisable. It wore a white blouse, well, a blouse that was once white. Red seeped into the fabric and it leant closer.
‘He said he loved me,’ it said, ‘until he tore my throat out.’
‘He said he loved me until he took away my son from his safe life.’
‘He said he loved me until he forced me to marry him.’
‘He said he love me until he killed my Oliver.’
‘He’s a murderer.’/‘Murderer.’/‘Murderer.’
“No,” you closed your eyes tightly, “No. I know him. We’re married.”
‘So were we.’
A thousands voices all at once. They sounded like leaves rustling in a storm. Like millions of pages being rapidly turned all at once. You gripped your hair in your hands and shook your head.
“This isn’t real,” you said, “You’re not real. It’s just a hallucination brought on by too little sleep.”
‘We are real.’
‘Because you are real.’
“That doesn’t make any sense. What are you?”
‘Incorrect question.’
‘Stupid question.’
‘They always ask that question.’
‘Always.’ / ’Always.’ / ’Always.’
‘Doesn’t make it stupid.’
‘An insult to them-‘
‘-is an insult to us.’
“What does that mean?”
The creatures seemed amused at your question. They swirled closer around you, a suffocating mass of something you weren’t sure was real or not. They dominated your senses and curled around your neck as they whispered,
‘You know.’
‘Because we know.’
‘You are we-‘
‘-and we are you.’
“Wh…what?”
‘Shouldn’t stutter.’
‘She’s confused.’
‘We all were when we were her.’
‘We are her.’
‘You know what I mean.’
You shook your head and tangled your fingers in your hair. You pulled your legs up to your chest and pressed your forehead against your knees.
“This isn’t real.”
‘It is.’
‘Run.’/’Stay.’/’Run.’/’Stay.’
“This is all in my head. All in my head. All in my head.”
‘Stay we’ll die again.’
‘Run we’ll die again.’
“Maybe it’ll be different this time. He loves me.”
‘He loved all of us.’
‘And he killed all of us.’
‘And those we cared about.’
‘My parents.’
‘My sibling.’
‘My Oliver.’
“Why should I believe you?”
‘Because we’re you-‘
‘-and you’re us.’
‘We’re the same.’
‘You should kill him’
‘Kill him.’/’Kill him.’/’Kill him.’
‘I tried to kill him.’
This caused the mist to swirl around violently.
‘But you failed.’
‘We failed.’
‘You failed.’
‘He manipulated you.’
‘Us.’
You shook your head before standing up on shaking legs. You swallowed thickly and turned around and tried to walk towards the door. However, the mist blocked your escape. You didn’t know if you could walk through it or what would happen if you did.
‘Kill him.’
‘Kill him and be free.’
‘Kill him before he kills us.’
“He won’t kill us,” you shook your head and gritted your teeth, “me. He’s my husband. He loves me.”
‘And me.’/’And me.’/’And me.’
‘He loved all of us.’
‘And he killed all of us.’
‘All of us.’
‘You know we’re telling the truth.’
‘Because you are us-‘
‘-and we’
You closed your eyes and shook your head violently. The attic creaked around you and your eyes flew open at the unnatural sound. Darkness surrounded you. Suffocating inky darkness that made it impossible to breath. You took half a step forward and the voices all spoke at once again,
‘You know what you need to do. Kill him and be free of him. Be free of this family. Free us. End the cycle. Kill Thomas-‘
“Love? Are you alright?”
You let out a cry of relief as Tommy almost seemed to glide through the darkness. You flung yourself into his arms and sobbed into his chest. Tommy rubbed comforting circles against your back as you continued to cry. You could hear the whispers of the voices in the background and it took you a moment to realise that Tommy had spoken.
“I… I…”
“Shh it’s ok,” Tommy pressed a kiss on top of your head, “it’s ok. It’s just your sleepwalking.”
“I’ve never sleepwalked before.”
“Yes you have,” Tommy pressed his cheek against yours, “yes you have. I was afraid this was going to happen. The doctor did say that your memory was going to be effected.”
“Doctor?” you pulled away, “we’ve never been to a doctor.”
‘We told you.’
‘He’s manipulating you.’
‘Run.’
‘Kill.’
“Shut up!” you hissed
“I haven’t said anything.” Said Tommy
“Not you. I wasn’t talking to you.” You hissed
“You’re hearing voices.”
“Yes. No. Yes. Maybe.”
“Love,” Tommy’s hand appeared on your shoulder, “You need help.”
‘You need to get away.’
‘Kill.’/’Kill.’/’Kill.’
“Get away from me!” you shrieked
You took several steps back, eyes wide as you looked at your husband. The man you loved so deeply that it hurt but now… now you didn’t recognise him. His eyes that once reminded you of summer had changed. Winter had taken over. Ice filled your veins and you felt like you were sinking into an icy lake, your escaped blocked off by the frozen top.
“Who are you?” you asked
“You know who I am.” Thomas took a step towards you, “I’m your husband.”
“No.”
“Love, you’re not well. The lack of sleep. The voices.”
“I know my own mind.”
“Love-“
“Stop calling me that!”
You took another stepped back and let out a cry of shock. Your foot didn’t land on the floor. Instead it swung back into open air and you felt your body drop back. Was this really how it was going to end? An argument and falling through the rotten floorboards you were warned about.
But as suddenly as you were falling, you were saved. Tommy had grabbed your hand and was holding you. You looked down and swallowed thickly at the drop below. When you looked back at Tommy you were horrified to see that winter hadn’t thawed.
“Tommy,” you said, “Please.”
“Shame,” he said, “so much work yet again wasted.”
As he let you go.
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