#song: landscape below

[unnonexistence]

∞

I just bought a balloon Me and the girl, takin' a ride Float just under the moon Dumping your things, over the side

from Down Today by Jonathan Coulton

[deafsignifcantother]

if music be the food of love, chapter one

♥ chapter two! ♥ relationships: aroace Alastor x deaf female reader (queerplatonic) ♥ word count: 2.1k ♥ pinterest board ♥ warnings: reader got hurt by someone they loved before death, reader is shorter than him, bickering, reader loves tea, lonesome reader, alastor invading space ♥ my idea is that reader has a small stereo on her chest that lets out classical music based on her mood. I imagine that it comes from both her chest (softly) and the outside of her manor (loud as fuck).

Your manor is only visible to the town when the lights are on a tall hill and covered in trees. However, even if all the lights were off, people would at least know it's there.

There are two reasons: the tale and the music.

Tale, a story for the newcomers. They speak of a demon who plays music all day, doomed to play music forever. Oh, the music. The music can be heard from even miles away.

It's refined and dainty, and it reeks of misery. The classical music never seems to repeat itself; it goes on and on and on and on. The demons hear you only through your music. When you cry, the violins and cellos grow with a cruel crescendo. When you sleep, the music is soft, almost quiet. Everyone comes to an understanding, assumption, that if the music were to stop, you would be dead.

The demons who try to step closer to your manor will find themselves experiencing unfathomable sorrow and guilt. The sound of your music is the demonic ability you possess, and it's out of your control. Due to the sadness of your death, you are forced into misery in the afterlife. When you were alive, those you loved and devoted yourself to only broke your heart.

Everybody affected by your music feels that grief.

Alastor doesn't understand why people fear your manor. Your love-related pain doesn't affect him at all.

He starts up the hill, moving both on his feet and through the shadows. On his way to your manor, he focuses on the landscape. The landscape is beautiful; the forest below is so dense that the red sky disappears. Personally, he loves the music. He loves tuning in on you and hearing how you're doing. He sparsely gets to visit, so hearing the song of your heart is always so welcoming.

The worst thing to him is how long the damn walk is.

You're in your house, passing through the dining room, when the lights flicker. The people from the nearby town stutter when the usual sad music suddenly becomes upbeat.

Opening the door, you are greeted by Alastor's traditional smile. You're the one that initiates the hug. He gently wraps his hand around you, only for a short time before he pulls away and establishes his distance.

"Long time no see, my dear." He signs, his claws adding a flare to the simple signs. Truthfully, his sign for "my dear" translates directly to "sweetheart," which he's aware of, just putting faith into you understanding what he means.

"I'll start some tea." You sign, turning immediately to the kitchen.

He smiles at the jazz sneaking its way into your music. The people outside know what it means.

Alastor looks around at the new decor; the place is different every time he enters. It's all the things that you enjoyed when you were alive. That's what is most noticeable about you beyond the aura you possess and how stuck you are to the past; you refuse to acknowledge your situation, which is both a curse and a blessing.

From the kitchen counter, you look at him, seeing him behind you, his staff out of his hands.

He leans a bit forward. "I have news! Have you heard of the new buzz, the new project from the princess of hell?"

A small smile forms. "Charlie?" You remember many years ago when she appeared at your door, in tears due to your involuntary magic, begging you to teach her ASL. You politely declined, though you wrote her a long paper about Deaf Culture (often derailing to rant about your opinion on common debates/crazy events). You've never seen her again, but you're confident she's read it.

You continue, "Her projects are... sweet?"

"Sweet and quite peculiar. She believes that demons can be redeemed. How absurd!" His smile grows, his eyes squinting in interest. He knows you're devoted to being good and staying away from violence. He's here to convince you to join her cause.

"Fascinating," you can't help but show your pure astonishment. "She's on our side."

"Oh, how kind you are!"

The tea is ready. You turn entirely away from Alastor, and he lets you. Your thoughts are apparent; he has spent weeks excited about this conversation. He's absolutely fighting the urge to spill out every argument he has; he wants to mention that if you participate, you'll see each other daily. That hasn't even crossed your mind yet.

You pour the tea and take your time, a little nervous to continue the convo. Alastor's eyes remain on your frame, your casual clothing. The last time he saw you, you were dressed up despite spending your days alone.

You hand a cup to him. Neither sign; you stand still, staring at each other and drinking. Both of you already know what the other will try to say next. Your eyes are deep in thought while he is locked on you. The only reason you are doubting being involved with everything yourself is that you know your aura makes others depressed. It is not very good, isolating. On the opposite stance, Alastor always noticed how your music gets positive whenever he's around. He knows (guesses) that in the hotel, with his presence, your saddening demeanor would be no more.

He moves abruptly, you follow, and he sits on a heavily cushioned couch, dipping deeply, which makes him smile. Your soft smile grows—more piano.

"What are your thoughts?" He prompts with one hand. You take a very long sip of your tea before putting it down.

"I wouldn't make them feel comfortable," you explain. "That's all I think about."

"Ever so pessimistic, my dear. You never know unless you come to visit. What do you say?" He grabs his mic and jokingly reaches it to your face, "A simple visit?"

You put a hand to your temple. "My love," you sign without noticing how his lids droop in comfort, "do you really think I would belong?"

He puts his hand to his chin in faux thought. "Of course I do! The princess will approach you with open arms."

You let out a small, broken groan. You're not going to be winning this little debate. Alastor's going to be able to rebuttal everything you say. Knowing that, why is it still so hard to give in?

You put your hands in your lap before returning them to your temples. His smile grows, and the static radiating off him grows ever so prominent, tickling your skin. You look up at him when you notice the change in the air.

The way he looks at you gives away his intentions. He is standing tall in his usual formal way in his seat, but his eyes are ever so casual. He gazes at you more than anything. His smile is still wide and prideful.

You wiggle a finger at him. "Ah."

He squints.

You continue, "You want to see me more, don't you?"

"Who wouldn't?" He plays off, shrugging. "Your captivating presence has every demon in hell dropping their jaws agape."

"Youuuuuu," you smile mischievously, "you want to see me more."

He continues to wave his hands. "Your accusations are futile, go ahead and fill your pretty head with things such as affection," his shoulders bounce as he chuckles, "dreams about how I miss you."

A breathless laugh leaves your lips. Rather than continue the teasing, you let the positive atmosphere linger in the air. You lift your chin with confidence. "Practically admitting it."

"I know what you want me from me." He signs. You smile at how he interpreted it. You don't bother responding. Instead, you give him a sly smile and lift your cup, taking another long sip; his bottom eyelid is twitching.

The last time he saw you, he signed you many compliments and even danced with you to the rhythm of your music. He let you put your hand on his face as he leaned his forehead against yours.

Admittedly, you only started teasing him because you wanted him to tell you that he missed you. Obviously, he did. You didn't expect him to be so stubborn about it.

When you don't respond, he continues. "When I'm here, your heart sings in happiness."

You nod and sign with one hand. "Very true."

"Well, I find the sound lovely."

"Very appreciated."

You watch as he leans back and crosses his legs, lifting and finishing the teacup. You both spend a few seconds without conversation, just looking at each other. In an attempt to hide how flustered you are starting to look, you lean your head back and gulp down the tea to the point where the cup is hiding your face. But you can only keep it in that position for a short time. After finishing the drink, you place it back down, finding that Alastor is already sitting with his fingers intertwined and waiting for you. His eyes sparkle.

"My dear, I missed you very much." And as quickly as the affection comes, it disappears. "I must give the little lady what she wants. There, are you happy?"

"I missed you too, Alastor. Thank you for coming up again."

Sappy, sappy, sappy. Will you agree to return to the hotel with him now?

He straights his bowtie and stands. "My dear, I'm afraid our time here will be cut short; I have a hotel to show you, don't I?"

You stay seated, just eyeing him. Peer pressure, you sigh and try not to roll your eyes. A simple nose exhaling is enough to show him how you feel.

He leans his head to the side. "Is there anything I can do to convince you?"

You finally stand and meet his eyes. His eyes are gorgeous; you love the way he looks at you. He doesn't take his eyes off you when you step close to him. Your hands reach for his overcoat, and you adjust it fruitlessly, only wanting an excuse to touch him.

You smile. "I can cook you something for your long trip back."

"Our."

"Your."

You both lean in, smiles straining.

He tries again. "Our."

"Biscuits, I assume," you turn your heels and motion for him to follow you. The motion you make is beckoning, and when you flick your wrist, he grabs it and pulls you into him. He lets you go to see your response. Your heart is beating out of your chest. You fall for people too easily. His touch is demanding, yet his face is calm, and with how close he is, all you can do is stare up at him. Your feet stumble a bit to adjust to your new stance. He will fight tooth and nail to get you to follow him back; throughout his days, he always wonders what you're doing and your music might sound like. He'll close his eyes and try to imagine the melody in moments of silence at the hotel.

You can't find yourself stepping back. "I'm perfectly okay with where I am." A lie. "Nobody will bother me if I'm out here."

"And nobody will bother you when you're next to me, get it?" After he signs, both of his hands hold your cheeks. He tilts your head back and forth to try and lighten the mood that's getting a little serious.

You try to hold his wrists and pull his hands down, but he fights against you. He lifts your face so he can look at you head-on. The waist bends his body; he curls himself up to you. Your touch falls to his sleeves and then moves to his biceps, your fingers grazing him gently.

The music is fast-paced, like your heart. It sounds almost angelic, a new ethereal sound surrounding it.

"Okay," you fold but then immediately chew on the inside of your lip.

"Perfect!" He presses his forehead to yours quickly before pulling away. He's taking this win. He turns and eyes the room, motioning. "Packing anything?"

With a small sigh of defeat, you place your hands on your temples again. What would you even need? Like a spoiled child, you realize that if you did need something in particular, Alastor would get it for you. You smiled and shook your head to yourself. "I don't think I need anything at all."

"Spectacular!" Another dramatic sign. "Come along then." The fast twirling of his staff blows air onto you when you start to walk behind him, eyeing how his fingers twist. His head turns as he glances at you from the corner of his eye, his head dipping as his smile widens. The static in the air becomes thicker.

You take a deep breath. If you can say 'I told you so' to him, you will be bringing it up until the end of time. He knows that, so it's good that he's confident in himself and his deductions. He'll ensure you won't be leaving and isolating yourself any longer.

[joelalorian]

Fall Into Me - Epilogue

dbf!joel x f!reader | WC: 3.7k | E 18+ mdni

Series Summary: Joel is hanging on by a thread as a single father to a tenacious 10-year-old Sarah. Feeling like he's drowning, like the world is about to spit him out, he needs some help before he breaks in half. At your dad's insistence, you show up in his life and change everything.

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Explicit, under 18 take a hike. No outbreak AU. A wedding, father/daughter dance, tears, laughter, unprotected p in v (reader's on birth control and they're married now so...), Sarah calls reader Mom, mention of Ellie...

A/N: This is the end, folks! They are a real family now. I'm not crying, you're crying. As we all know by now, this fic was inspired by the song Fall Into Me. Another song dear to me inspired a particular scene in this chapter - Butterfly Kisses. Check it out if you'd like. **it always makes me cry, so beware** This story is dear to my hear and I'm grateful for all the love it has received. Thank you for joining me on this journey!

Moodboard by the lovely @mrsmando. Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

Chapter Eleven | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The autumn sun began its descent, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange and red as it approached the horizon. Joel stared out the double-paned glass, too focused on calming his nerves to enjoy the rolling landscape of the vineyard below. Palms sweaty and heart thumping heavily in his chest, he tugged at the collar of his dress shirt, popping the top two buttons open to help him breathe.

“Cold feet, son?” JB questioned from the doorway before slipping fully into the room. Tommy followed behind him, anxious to see why Joel was taking so long.

Their presence startled Joel and he grimaced. “Not me,” he grunted, still struggling to inhale deep, full breathes as his heart raced.

“You sure about that, brother?”

Joel directed a scowl in Tommy’s direction. “I don’t have cold feet, but I’m terrified she does,” he admitted gruffly. He couldn’t meet the other men’s eyes, feeling vulnerable.

“I promise you, son. Spud does not have cold feet,” JB soothed. “In fact, she has much the same worry about you.”

“A match made in heaven, I’d say,” Tommy chimed in with a grin, bumping his shoulder against Joel’s.

“Come on, now. Get your asses down to the vineyard before Maria comes looking for ya. She’s on a war path, that girl a’ yours,” JB directed with a wink to Tommy. “I gotta get back to Spud, make sure she doesn’t run off to find you before it’s time. Meet again at the altar, fellas.”

The brothers watched your dad leave. Throwing an arm around Joel’s shoulder, Tommy led him toward the door. “The ol’ bastard was telling the truth, ya know. She’s terrified of you getting cold feet. Emily and Sarah have been calming her down for an hour now, insisting that you can’t wait to marry her. That girl loves you more than anything, brother.”

Joel beamed, eyes softening at the thought of you walking towards him in a flowing white dress, wildflowers clutched in your hand, and eyes brimming with tears of absolute joy. The mental image soothed his nerves more than any words could and he finally let Tommy lead him from the room.

Fresh air with the slightest chill met them as they exited the building. The soft hum of a string quartet filled the air while guests arrived and took their seats. A charming wooden arbor adorned with colorful flowers, delicate greenery, and a white sash served as the altar at which the two of you would become husband and wife.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Joel walked down the aisle, nodding at some of the guests as he took his place in front of the arbor. He stood tall, looking undeniably handsome in a slate gray suit sans tie, the top few buttons of the ruby colored dress shirt left open offering a glimpse of his tanned chest and a sprinkle of hair. Thick curls were swept back from his face, facial hair trimmed to perfection with that little heart-shaped bare patch visible.

Stepping up to his left side, Tommy smiled broadly at the small crowd. His longer curls were tied back neatly, and he tucked a few stray locks behind his ears and sent a cheeky wink to his woman sitting in the front row. Maria rolled her eyes playfully. Tommy watched Joel’s hand flex, fingers bouncing against thigh in a nervous tick he had since childhood and braced a hand on his shoulder. “You got this, big brother.”

Before Joel could respond, the string quartet began to play Pachelbel’s Canon and he stood taller, eyes locked down the aisle in anticipation of seeing you. Tommy rushed off to the side to take his place in the processional.

Sarah appeared from behind a row of lush, thick vines, looking like an angel in a white dress with a ribbon of material matching Joel’s shirt tied around her waist. The little girl insisted that her dress match yours, not understanding that, traditionally, only the bride wore white. But you didn’t give a hoot about tradition, helping Sarah to find the perfect white dress, adding the sash as something unique. The recollection of the joy on Sarah’s face when she tried on the dress for the first time made Joel’s heart melt.

Sarah danced down the aisle; face lit up with glee as she scattered rose petals along the way from a small wicker basket clutched in one hand. When she reached the end of the aisle, she spun in a circle, allowing her dress to flutter around her, and tossed the last of the rose petals into the air, much to the delight of the guests and her father.

“Hi Daddy!” Sarah called, bouncing over to the place she was told to stand the evening before. Joel melted at the happiness on his daughter’s face, and he beamed back at her proudly. The little girl’s antics drew a soft rumble of laughter from the guests before all attention turned back down the aisle.

Tommy and Emily stepped past the vines next, looking resplendent in their formal wear, the shade of Emily’s dress reminiscent of a glass of finest pinot noir, matching the hue of Tommy’s dress shirt. Joel nodded at them as they approached, lips quirked in a half smile. His hand clenched at his side as he fought back the nerves again.

Moments later, the rest of the world fell away when you appeared, one hand clasped around your dad’s arm. The charming colors of the setting sun were no match for your beauty. Joel had never seen anyone or anything so perfect in his entire life. A crown of vibrant flower blossoms secured in your hair, the breeze rustled a few locks and the short train of your simple white gown.

Joel couldn’t take his eyes off you – not as you walked down the aisle to him, or when JB shook his hand in that ceremonial way of giving you to him, and certainly not as the officiant rambled through the ceremony. To put it simply, you mesmerized him.

He would almost regret it later, but the entire ceremony was a blur. The only parts he remembered included your face smiling broadly at him, the love in your glistening eyes as you repeated the vows you chose together, and the kiss after being declared man and wife.

“You’re stuck with me forever now, darlin’,” Joel’s gravelly voice rumbled in your ear after the sweet kiss.

Your tinkling laughter carried in air, spreading merriment throughout the vineyard. “Oh no, whatever will I do,” you whispered back.

“Can we go dance now?” Eager to get on with the fun part, Sarah interrupted your little moment.

“Of course, nugget. Let’s go dance!”

The little girl squeezed her way in between the two of you and having tossed her empty flower basket aside without care, slipping her hand in yours and the other in Joel’s to tug you both back down the aisle.

“Someone’s eager to get the party started,” Joel chuckled, lips spread in a jaw-aching grin as his little family made their way to the reception area. Your eyes sparkled back at him, full of happiness and love.

The winery boasted a lodge with an oversized deck suitable for your small celebration and enough rooms for the guest to stay the night. The path from the ceremonial area back to the lodge weaved through thickets of grape vines, plump fruit nearly ripe for the picking as the three of you ducked under and around the vines.

The vineyard was charming, a lucky find in your search for the perfect wedding venue. It was the only compromise Joel willingly made on a venue – he longed for a quiet, backyard wedding, but you insisted on something slightly grander in scale.

Maria and Tommy did a great job of recreating the ambiance of that night long ago in Joel’s backyard for the reception. Fairy lights were strung high across the deck, music playing softly as the guests mingled with cocktails and hors d'oeuvres in hand. High top tables were scattered about, centerpieces full of colorful hydrangeas.

It was perfect.

Wanting to save money, you kept the guest list to less than thirty people, mostly family and close friends, and opted for a bulk purchase of disposable cameras rather than springing for the cost of a wedding photographer. In addition, you insisted on a tier of cupcakes over an actual wedding cake, the icing matching the ruby red color of wine. Sarah and JB offered to put together an eclectic playlist for the winery to play through their sound system rather than put forth the cost of a band or DJ. All in all, it was an entirely family run affair that didn’t break the bank and you couldn’t be happier for it.

You and Joel mingled with the guests for a while before it was time for your first dance. Staying on theme, Joel had one request regarding your wedding song – it had to be Fall Into Me. You could hardly deny that one request, especially as the song meant so much to the both of you, practically telling the story of how you came together. Just like that night in his yard, Joel sang the words in a soft, quiet voice meant only for you, your bodies swaying side to side across the floor like you were the only two there.

None too soon, your dad led Sarah onto the dance floor, letting her stand on his feet as he danced around, just like he used to do when you were little. Maria and Tommy soon joined them, along with Emily and her husband. Before long, the party was in full swing.

You fought back tears during the father-daughter dance. Just as Sarah insisted on her dress matching yours, she wanted to dance with Joel during the traditional time. You were more than happy to have them join you. The battle against the tears was lost during the first chorus of Butterfly Kisses.

JB held you tighter as the first tear fell, brushing it away with a calloused thumb. “Feels like just yesterday when you would dance around on my feet like that,” he said, voice rough and quiet with the choke of tears in his throat. “Now here you are, grown up and married, with a family all your own. You’re not my little Spud anymore.”

Thank fuck for waterproof mascara, you thought as a sob escaped. “Dad,” you drew out the word in a sob, tears flooding your eyes, falling faster. You could barely get out the next words, throat aching and vision blurry. “I’ll always be your little Spud, no matter how old I am.”

Joel danced closer to you, checking in with a concerned look as you cried. “Darlin’, you alright?” His eyes darted between you and JB, the shimmer in the older man’s eyes matching his own. Dark eyes softened into molten chocolate, and he gestured to your dad to switch partners.

JB let you go after a bone crushing hug and a kiss to your forehead. “Take care of my girl, ya hear?”

Nodding solemnly, Joel shook JB’s hand. “Always.” He ushered Sarah into JB’s arms, letting them dance for the rest of the song as he pulled you close. Joel pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “I told you this song would make you cry, darlin’.  Let me wipe those tears away.”

Sniffling, your lips tilted up in a watery smile as he dabbed gently at your face. “I know, it always does. But it’s so beautiful, I had to include it.”

“Almost as beautiful as you,” Joel murmured, head nuzzled against yours. “Sarah already told me she’ll have this song at her wedding, too. I just know I’ll be crying like a god damned baby during the dance.”

That earned a laugh from you, the tears finally easing as the song ended. “Has she started planning her dream wedding already?” Joel nodded, a chuckle rumbling softly in your ear.

The evening carried on, dancing and drinking and laughing with everyone in celebration of you and Joel. You never really imagined your wedding as a kid, more concerned with being a tomboy and other, more important things. But you think now that if you had it likely would have imagined something exactly like this.

“Come on, Mrs. Miller,” Joel said when the lights finally dimmed, and the notes of the final song faded into the night. “It’s time to say goodnight to our guests.”

“Congrats, brother!” Tommy called cheerfully when you and Joel approached. His eyes large and glassy, a slight slur to his words providing evidence of a thoroughly enjoyable evening. “You two throw a great party. Do you need us to watch Sarah for the night so you can—”

“Alright you,” Maria jumped in, cutting the younger, drunker Miller brother off. “I doubt they want your drunk ass watching Sarah. Do you have someone lined up?”

“Oh, yeah, we’re good there. My dad is hosting a sleepover now that he is officially a grandpa. He’s insisting on being called Poppy just like I called my grandad.” You laughed at the memory of that conversation. JB was so excited to have a new nickname just for Sarah.

“Great! I would have been more than happy to help out but I’m going to have my hands full with this one,” Maria said with a gesture to Tommy where he swayed on his feet with a cheesy grin plastered on his face.

“Alone at last,” Joel whispered, carrying you through the threshold of the wedding suite. “You look beautiful in this dress, but I can’t wait to get you out of it.”

Any exhaustion you felt from the long, exciting day vanished at the smoldering look in your husband’s eyes. Your husband. Holy hell. Suddenly nervous, you slowly slipped the dress from your shoulders. Though you and Joel had been together more times than you could count, this would be the first time you had sex as a married couple.

Would his expectations be different? Should they be? Were you expecting something different? Should you? Fuck, why didn’t you think to ask Emily about this earlier?

“Darlin’?”

You glanced up to see Joel’s brows furrowed, realizing that you zoned out with your dress still around your hips. Warmth spread through your cheeks in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Joel. I’m… I’m a little nervous for some reason and got in my head about it.”

His lips tilted upwards as he stepped closer to help ease the dress down your body with gentle movements, knowing exactly what you needed to hear. “There’s no need to be nervous, sweetheart. It’s just you and me, like it always has been. We just have rings on our fingers now.”

And just like that, all worries fled your mind.

Once your dress was out of the way, Joel helped remove your bra and panties, leaving behind a trail of kisses on your dewy skin. His calloused hands, large but gentle, caressed every inch of bare skin before him, trousers growing tight as his body reacted to the sight of you.

His pupils dilated before your eyes and you pressed your lips to his, tongue teasing into his mouth to tangle with his in a searing kiss. He tasted of whiskey and chocolate and something so uniquely Joel, and you drank in the taste like a starving woman.

Still wearing far too much clothing for your liking, you ripped open his dress shirt, sending the buttons flying across the room. Oops. Manicured nails scratched down his bare chest, along his belly, until your fingers met the confining layer of his pants. After watching you fumble with his belt for too long – which, in reality, was only like two seconds, you swear – Joel brushed your hands aside and, without breaking the kiss, yanked the belt open and practically ripped his pants open to free his aching cock.

“What a lucky wife I am,” you purred, breaking the kiss, as your hand grasped his length. Your thumb traced over the bulbous head, smearing the precum pooling there, before bringing it back to your mouth for a little taste. “I get to experience this for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t tease, darlin’,” he growled low in his throat. “Besides, I’m the lucky one. I have the sexiest wife.”

Pants and boxer briefs shoved to the floor, Joel ripped off his socks and swept you right off your feet. Your legs automatically wrapped around his hips as he walked to the large bed. Kneeling on the mattress, he never let go as he settled you on your back.

Already dripping for him, and too anxious to have him inside you already, you didn’t need any foreplay to be ready. His cock slid, with torturous slowness, inside your warm walls with the slightest nudge of his hips. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re so tight,” he breathed against your neck, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin as he fucked into you.

A pleasurable burn spread through you, his cock splitting you open. “Mmm, so good. Fuck me, dear husband. Fuck me like you mean it.”

“As my wife wishes.”

Hips snapping, Joel set the perfect pace to bring you to the edge, heels digging into his ass with each powerful thrust. Fingernails scratched down his back, piercing the skin as he brought you to the peak, the orgasm causing your back to arch and muscles to spasm.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing my cock like a fuckin’ vise. Gonna make me come too soon.”

The orgasm seemed to last forever, pleasure washing over you in waves until you trembled beneath Joel. “It’s never too soon. Come for me, babe,” you gasped when the ability to speak finally returned.

Joel’s thrusts became sloppy near the tail end of your climax, and he spilled inside you as soon as the words left your mouth. His ragged breaths tickled your ear, sending gooseflesh down your body from neck to toes. Your name fell like a prayer from his lips, praising you for how good you made him feel.

“I love you, Mr. Miller,” you said, peppering his handsome face with kisses when he slipped from you and fell to the side with a heaving chest.

“And I love you, Mrs. Miller.”

You don’t know where either of you found the energy, but you made love twice more that night and once again in the morning. After each time, you admired the sparkle of the rings adorning your left hands, the jewelry a tangible symbol of your commitment to each other in this life and the next.

“Mom?” Sarah asked from where she sat doing homework at the breakfast bar while you made dinner. Joel would be home any minute.

“Yeah, nugget?” You grinned, heart swelling every time she called you that. You lost count in the year since the wedding, but Sarah calling you mom would never get old. It was a treasure you never thought you’d experience before you met Joel.

“Do you and Daddy want more kids?” At twelve years old now, Sarah’s voice lost that babyish tone you used to love. She looked and sounded more grown up each day, but she was still her Daddy’s little nugget.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. We’ve talked about the fact that I don’t want to have a baby and he doesn’t want one either. But I wouldn’t be opposed to adopting a child in need, if he wanted to. I’d have to talk to your dad about it though.”

Sarah went quiet while you stirred the pasta and checked the sauce. It was nearly ready, just another minute or two.

“Why do you ask, kiddo?”

Sarah looked up from her work to meet your gaze and shrugged her shoulders in a way that told you she was searching for words to explain herself.

“I dunno. I guess I always thought it would be cool to have a sibling, but then all my friends that have one or more always complain about them.”

Tilting your head to the side, you dug a little more. “So, you’re just curious?”

Dark puppy eyes gazed up at you again. “Yeah… well, no. There’s…” She paused as the timer went off and you drained the pasta and mixed it into the sauce.

“There’s what?” you questioned, placing the large bowl of pasta on the table along with a plate of warm garlic bread, hearing Joel’s truck pull into the driveway. “Come sit and tell me.”

Before Sarah could begin, Joel walked in and kissed you both hello. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink before joining you at the table and you both listened with rapt attention as Sarah explained her friend’s situation.

“You know my friend, Ellie?” she asked, to which you both nodded.

“The snarky one in the grade below yours? Yeah, I like that one,” Joel replied around a mouthful of food. “What about her?”

Sarah grimaced at her father’s poor table manners, earning a smile from you before she continued. “Well, she’s in foster care but her foster parents are awful. They drink a lot and don’t care about her. She ends up hiding out in the detached garage all the time, even staying there overnight just to get away from them.”

“That’s awful, nugget. I’ll look into her file on Monday, see if there’s anything I can do,” you replied. You didn’t realize she was in foster care. As a fifth grader, you haven’t had her in class yet.

Joel looked at you with big cow eyes, brows arched in question. You could practically hear him thinking – he hated the thought of a child suffering in any way. Before either of you could say anything, Sarah spoke up again.

“Well, I was hoping maybe we could adopt her, and she could live with us,” she said hopefully. “You know, since you don’t want a baby and I still want a sibling. It’s like a compromise or whatever.”

Turning to Joel, you could see the same hopefulness in his dark eyes, and your heart thudded in your chest. “Why don’t you invite her over for a sleepover this weekend so we can get to know her a little more. And in the meantime, we’ll look into what we’d need to do.”

Dinner forgotten, Sarah bounced in her seat and asked for your phone to call Ellie. “You guys are gonna love her, I promise!” Bounding away from the table to call her friend, Sarah stopped short at the edge of the room. “Oh, Ellie loves dogs. Do you think we could adopt one of those, too?”

fin

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@cuteanimalmama

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

GUILTY AS SIN...? - PART I

summary: one summer with the man you can't have, but can't stop thinking about.

pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader

word count: 5.5k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). mentions of sex. angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hi everyone! this turned out pretty long so i will be splitting it into parts so it's easier. next part will be posted soon. i hope you all have as much fun reading this as i had writing it. enjoy!

part two

The breeze riffled through your hair as you drove, the sun warming your skin through the open windows. The Irish countryside stretching out before you, lush and green, with rolling hills and quaint villages dotting the landscape. The scent of wildflowers and the sound of nothing but the wind in the trees filled your senses.

It was rare, really. The silence, the feeling of complete freedom, and the solitude that enveloped you. A fleeting escape from the chaos of your everyday life.

The ping of your phone interrupted the peaceful moment. You tapped on the pop-up notification after briefly glancing at the directions to your destination. It was a message from Cillian. Well, two, actually. One was asking how far you were, and the other was a Spotify link followed by a question mark. Ever since he started hosting his bbc radio show, he's been sending you potential songs for his playlists to get your opinion. Not that he needs it anyway. But you always appreciate being included in his process.

Your lips curled into a smile as you clicked on the link. The familiar sound of The Blue Nile's "The Downtown Lights" flooded the car, instantly making you feel a wave of nostalgia. It's been ages since you've listened to that song. The synth-pop melody carries you up the pine-dotted path to where his house perches atop a hill, overlooking the crashing waves below. You've been here a couple of times, and yet it never gets less breathtaking. The Victorian architecture contrasting beautifully with the rugged coastline, creating a scene straight out of a painting.

The car glides right past the wrought iron gates, and you cut the engine in front of the stone steps leading up to the grand entrance. You shoot Cillian a quick text letting him know you're here, unbuckle your seat belt, and hop out of the car.

The June sun beats down on your skin instantly, heat radiating off the cobblestones as you open the backdoor to look through your bag for a hair tie. The smell of saltwater mingles with the sound of gulls overhead, sending you into sensory overload. "Gotcha," you mutter to yourself as you finally find the hair tie and pull your hair back into a loose bun.

"You drove here?" you hear him call out from behind you, his voice tinged with surprise. "And you're alone?" you turn around to see Cillian walking towards you, a curious expression on his face.

"I actually had to throw a tantrum to convince them to let me come alone," you reply with a chuckle, feeling a sense of pride at your small victory. "I was like, It's Ireland. What's the worst that could happen?"

Being who you are means being guarded against any potential danger or harm at all times, being driven to almost everywhere, and always having a security team around.

Cillian laughs, a sound that makes your heart flutter and makes you want to hear it again and again. "Well, I'm glad you made it here in one piece, love," he says with a grin. "You're not a very good driver."

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You did regret your decision to drive from the airport 10 minutes later when you realized you were on the wrong side of the road. But he didn't need to know that.

"I made it in one piece, didn't I?" you playfully retort, trying to salvage your wounded pride. Cillian chuckles and shakes his head with a twinkle in his eye. You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. He looks good, you thought. Unbelievably good. Well rested. His jet black hair was perfectly styled, even though you know he didn't put any effort into it—the slightest hint of silver at the temples, his sharp jawline, and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. Though they looked a little tired, as if he had been through a lot since the last time you saw him.

You quickly avert your gaze, feeling a rush of heat on your cheeks.

"It's good to see you," you finally manage to say, trying to sound casual. Cillian's smile softens, and he replies, "It's good to see you too." He opens his arms, inviting you in for a hug. The soft fabric of his t-shirt brushes against your skin as you embrace him, and for a moment, everything feels right in the world.

"Come on, let's get inside," he says, leading you towards the house. Once inside, you make your way to the kitchen. The house was quiet; you wondered if anyone else was home. Cillian's family wasn't by any means loud or boisterous, but the silence felt heavier than usual.

"You hungry, love?" Cillian asks, opening the fridge, pulling out a white ceramic container, and setting it up on the kitchen island. You take a seat on one of the stools while he stands across from you.

"For something sweet?" you smile, seeing the container filled with what seems to be a piece of strawberry sponge cake. His mom must've made it. "Always," you reply. He hands you a spoon and takes one for himself, the two of you sharing the dessert in comfortable silence.

Until he broke it.

"How was Madrid?" he asks softly.

"It was good, great crowd," you reply, taking another bite of the dessert. "But tiring," you add, feeling the exhaustion of the long trip settling in.

"How many nights did you perform?"

"Four."

"Jesus, that's quite a lot, isn't it?"

Your eyes meet his; confusion clear in your expression. "You think that's a lot? Didn't you used to do four or five nights in a row of the same play?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "for months…?

"Yeah, but that was a different kind of exhaustion," he explains, taking another bite. "Performing the way you do in front of a live audience for three hours is a whole different ball game, love."

Love.

There it was again. That godforsaken term of endearment that he seemed to throw around so casually. It made your heart race every time he said it, even though you knew it probably meant nothing to him. But the way he looked at you now, with a hint of admiration in his eyes, made you wonder if maybe—

"Want the last bite?" he offered, taking you out of your thoughts. He pushed the container towards you, a small smile playing on his lips. His gaze was intense, as if silently urging you to take it.

"Oh, hello," a voice exclaimed from behind you, breaking the moment. You drop the spoon on the counter, a little startled. As if you were caught in the act of something forbidden. You turned around to see Yvonne, Cillian's wife. She said your name with a surprised tone, making you feel guilty for some reason. "I didn't know you were here," she continued, her eyes flickering between you and her husband.

You started to rise from your seat, confusion clouding your thoughts. That's weird. Cillian usually lets his wife know when you're visiting, but this time it seems like he didn't. She walked towards you, enveloping you in a hug. "When did you get here?" she said.

"Not long ago," you replied, relieved that she didn't seem upset. "I, uh, wanted to take a break and thought Ireland might be a good place to do that," you added, hoping to diffuse any tension that may have arisen. She nodded understandingly. "And you're staying here?"

"Oh, no, no," you quickly assured her. "I rented a place nearby, so you don't have to worry about me."

"Nonsense," Cillian interjected. "You can stay here. There's plenty of room."

"She's already paid for it, Cillian," Yvonne retorted, giving him a stern look.

Something was definitely off.

This was the last thing you wanted. You've specifically chosen the cottage for two reasons. First, to have space. The whole point of this trip was to finally have peace and write music. You've been stuck for months, not being able to find inspiration in your usual surroundings. Everything felt dull inside you all day—an emptiness that was smothering.

Second, you needed to stay the fuck away from Cillian. Being close to him was dangerous territory, one you didn't want to navigate right now. The plan was to come and visit and occasionally hang out and that's it. The thought of being in such close quarters with him was overwhelming. Staying here meant risking your heart and sanity.

You hesitated, also not wanting to intrude on their space, but Cillian insisted.

"Okay…How about if I stay for a couple of days and then move to the cottage?" you suggested, hoping to compromise. "Sounds perfect to me," he said.

This was going to be a long summer.

For the next few days, you dream too much, don't write enough, and try to find inspiration everywhere. As you settled into the routine of staying at Cillian's, you found yourself enjoying the peaceful surroundings and his company more than you expected. The days seemed to blend together, filled with laughter, deep conversations, and stolen glances that left your heart racing.

But you also felt constantly distracted by his presence, making it difficult to focus on your writing or anything else, for that matter.

All you could think about was him.

The piano room surrounded you with its warm, inviting atmosphere, and you found yourself drawn to it more often than not. The big windows overlooking the garden let in streams of sunlight, casting a warm glow over the bookshelf. You felt the softness of the carpet as you sat on the grand piano bench, running your fingers along the keys absentmindedly.

You started humming a tune that had been stuck in your head for days, the words appearing softly and effortlessly as you played:

Please

I've been on my knees

Change the prophecy

Don't want money

Just someone who wants my company

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

Who do I have to speak to

About if they can redo

The prophecy?

The humming went on whenever you didn't know what to say next, filling in the gaps between the notes on the piano and the lyrics:

A greater woman has faith

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

I'm so afraid I sealed my fate

No sign of soulmates

I'm just a paperweight

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

Spending my last coin so someone will tell me

It'll be ok

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

The melody filled the room until you stopped abruptly, frustrated that the lyrics weren't coming as easily as before. You closed your eyes with a groan, trying to clear your mind. "Fuck," you muttered under your breath, elbows resting on the keys of the piano.

"You good?" Cillian's rough voice broke through your frustration, causing you to look up and offer a weak smile. You don't know how long he's been standing there or how much he heard of your struggles. "Just hitting a wall with this song," you admitted, running a hand through your hair.

"Ah, I see," he nodded sympathetically. He moved towards the records stacked on the shelf and pulled one out, placing it on the turntable. "I don't want to mess with your creative process or anything, but maybe a break with some music will help," he suggested.

Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" began to play, taking over the room with its haunting melody.

"So you play one of the saddest songs ever?" you deadpanned, "Thanks."

He chuckled softly, "You were playing some pretty intense stuff; I figured it would fit right in."

Oh, so he did hear you.

"Ah, I know it's different from my usual stuff," you said quietly, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious about your music. "I might scrap that one. They might not be onboard with the change."

"And why's that?"

Thom Yorke's voice faded into the background as you contemplated his question, unsure of how to respond.

You shrugged, "I listen to sad music, not make it."

"I liked what I heard," he reassured you, "and change is good. It keeps things interesting."

His low voice was soothing, and you found yourself feeling more at ease with the idea of trying something new. Pop has been your comfort zone for so long, it's what stands out of you, but most importantly, it's what sells. At least, that's what's important to the industry. Maybe it was time to push yourself out of it.

"I guess you're right," you replied, a faint smile creeping onto your face.

"As always," he said, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. He stood leaning against the table where the record player sat, arms crossed, looking as if he had too many things to say and not enough words for them.

"Would this be a good time to ask you if everything's okay?" you inquired, noticing the weight of unspoken thoughts in his eyes. "With Yvonne, I mean," you added, nervous to bring up the topic.

That first day, when you arrived at the house, you could sense there was something going on between them. Something bad. The tension in the air was so obvious, but you didn't want to pry. However, as the days went by, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that she hadn't been around or the absence of a certain ring on his finger.

"And here, I thought you were never going to ask," he replied, his words laced with sarcasm.

"I was waiting for you to bring it up," your voice trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. "I-I didn't want to overstep."

He studied you for a moment, or at least, you assumed that was what he was doing. Finally, he averted his gaze and cleared his throat,"We've separated."

A cold feeling settled in your chest as you processed his words. The reality of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks, and suddenly everything made sense. "Cillian," is all you managed to say, the concern evident in your voice.

He still wouldn't look at you. Knowing him, in moments like this, he wouldn't want to be coddled or pitied, so you save your apologies for later.

"What happened?"

He waved his hand dismissively, still avoiding your gaze. "Nothing, really," he said, his tone final. He didn't look upset, but rather resigned to the situation. "It hadn't been working for a long time; we both knew it was coming. I guess we were holding on for the boys more than anything." You could see the sadness in his eyes, despite his attempt to appear nonchalant. The weight of his words hung in the air, leaving you feeling defeated and unsure of what to say next. You don't think there's anything you can say that will make this or him feel better.

And boy, did you wish you could take away his pain with just a few words.

Cillian walked slowly over the piano, stopping in front of it. He streched his arms over the wooden soundboard, gripping the edges tightly as if seeking some sort of solace in the instrument. He finally looked at you.

"Why didn't you say anything, Cill?" you asked softly, "I would've—"

"You would've what?" he interrupted, his voice strained with emotion. "I didn't want to worry you, you have more important things than my marital issues."

You could see the pain in his eyes, and it tore at your heart to see him suffering in silence. "You're my friend. These things are important to me, Cill," you said gently, reaching out to touch his hand in a gesture of comfort. He flinched slightly at your touch, but then relaxed, leaning into your hand.

He didn't say anything, but you knew he appreciated your words. You could tell by the way his shoulders slumped in relief and the way his fingers loosened their grip on the edge of the piano.

One morning, you woke up to the wind gently rustling through the trees outside your windows. The morning light was clear and clean, leaking through the glass and falling against the walls of the room in soft patterns. It felt too early to be awake, too peaceful to disturb the tranquility of the moment.

You roll over to look at the little clock on the bedside table: 6:20 AM. It wasn't worth trying to go back to sleep, so you threw the covers and climbed out of bed, feeling the cool wood floor beneath your feet as you walked to the bathroom.

You splash cold water on your face and brush your teeth, trying to wake yourself up fully. Holding up your hair, you tie it into a ponytail while walking over the bedside table to grab your phone and airpods. You put one in your ear and hit shuffle on one of your morning playlists. You couldn't function without some music. "Keep On Loving You" by Cigarettes After Sex starts playing.

On your way to the kitchen, you walked by Cillian's room and noticed the door was slightly ajar. Who the hell sleeps with their door open? Psychos, probably. Curiosity getting the best of you, you peeked inside to see him sprawled out on his bed, body illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through the curtains—characteristic warm and cool shades revealing every hollow and speck of bare muscle. He slept with every limb stretched out, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. It was a rare sight, quite poetic.

He looked so peaceful, completely unaware of your presence. So you let your mind wander.

You imagined yourself crossing the room, pulling yourself on top of him. You imagined the way his bare body would look beneath you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his dark hair messy around his face, his skin warm against yours. His hands—rough and soft at the same time—running over your thigh, your breast, your neck. You could almost feel the heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze as he looked up at you.

But then reality snapped back into focus.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath. This was just a fantasy, a dangerous game to play with someone who was somewhat off-limits. But truth be told, the temptation was becoming harder to resist with each passing moment. It was all you could think about ever since he told you about his troubled marriage.

It took a long time for your heartbeat to slow. You headed to the kitchen to get some coffee, hoping that the caffeine would help clear your mind. As you rummage through the cabinets for a mug, his voice startles you from behind. "Need some help with that?" he asks, making you jump.

For a moment you thought you were still imagining things, but you turn around to see him standing there with a t-shirt on as opposed to five minutes ago. Great, him walking around shirtless in his kitchen, sleepy-eyed, messy hair, and rough morning voice would've been lethal.

"I've got it, thanks," you reply, shaking the mug slightly in your hand. You quickly pour yourself some coffee and try to focus on the task at hand: looking for the sugar.

"Sleep well?" he asks, voice still husky from sleep, his accent more prominent. He's rifling through the cabinet for a mug of his own. You can't help but notice the way his muscles flex under his dark t-shirt as he reaches up. You hum in agreement, trying to hide your blush as you take a sip of your coffee. "You?"

"Grand," he replies, pouring himself a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. You exchange small talk about the upcoming day, but your mind keeps drifting back to how good he looks in the morning light.

"Any plans for today other than locking yourself in the piano room?" he teases, and you shoot him a playful glare. "Maybe I'll actually venture outside for once," you quip, laughing.

"How does the beach sound like?" he asks, "The boys are coming over, and they're bringing some friends, and I thought a trip would be a nice change of scenery."

"I could use some sun," you admit, feeling a smile tug at your lips.

"Let's make it a beach day then," he suggests, setting his mug on the sink. "We leave at 10, piano woman."

"Ha ha, very funny," you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes. "But I'll hold you to it, annoying man," you reply.

"Annoying man?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "I thought I was your favorite person."

"Only on days that end in 'y'."

•••

"Are you done with your sad boy music?"

Cillian bursts out laughing, the sound taking you by surprise. He's been playing Radiohead on repeat for the whole car ride, and you were starting to feel like you were in a melancholy music video. "I like their music as much as the next person, but I think I need a break from the sadness," you say.

"Fine, fine," Cillian concedes, reaching for his phone to change the song. The bleak atmosphere in the car lifts as "Linger" by The Cranberries starts playing, filling the space with a more pleasant vibe. Cillian glances at you, he's wearing dark shades that hide his eyes, but you can still see his stoic expression softening as he catches you smiling at the change in music.

"Better?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Instead of answering, you start silently singing along to the lyrics, gesticulating dramatically for added effect. Cillian smiles at your antics, his own lips twitching in amusement as he watches you. The boys were so caught up in their conversation with their friends in the backseat that you were pretty sure they weren't even paying attention to the music or your impromptu performance. With a small smile on your face, you face out the window and enjoy the rest of the car ride in content silence.

When you arrive at your destination, all of you unbuckle your seat belts once Cillian puts the Bronco in park. You all pile out of the car, stretching your legs and taking in the sights around you. You close your eyes for a second and take a breath. The sea air—you loved that smell.

•••

A few hours later, after countless swims and some snacks, you find yourself lying on a beach towel, book in hand, feeling the warmth of the temperature on your skin. You're reading a book you picked up at an airport several months ago by Elin Hilderbrand, or the queen of beach reads, as many call her. You were completely engrossed in the story until you felt Cillian settling down next to you.

His hair was damp from the water, and his skin was slightly glistening. Gosh, he looked absolutely stunning. "Mind if I join you?" he asks.

"Not at all," you reply, closing the book and sitting up. "Having fun?"

"Lots," he says with a smile, reaching over to grab his sunglasses. The two of you sit in comfortable silence. The laughter and chatter of his sons and friends coming from the water redirects your attention back to the beach scene before you. You look back at Cillian, his eyes fixed on his sons.

"They love you, you know," you say softly, watching the genuine joy on his face as he watches his children.

"I don't know if I'm doing it right," he says, eyes still fixed on the boys. "I worry I might've fucked them up by letting my relationship with their mother fall apart."

He continues, "Sometimes I feel they resent me for it."

"Why do you feel that way?"

"I don't know, they just seem distant sometimes. Like they're holding back."

"Hey, that's normal for kids to have mixed feelings about their parents' separation. I was so happy when mine got divorced because it meant no more fighting, but it was also tough to adjust to the changes. It's very conflicting stuff," you say, huffing a small laugh. "Also, they're teenagers now, right? That's a tough age to navigate even without the added stress of divorce."

Cillian nods in agreement, exhaling out a yeah.

You squint against the sunlight beaming behind his head before continuing.

"You're a great dad, you always have been. Just show up and be there for them when they need you, even if they don't always seem to appreciate it. They'll remember it in the long run," you offer, remembering how much your own father's presence meant to you after your parents' divorce. "And I'm not a parent, but what parent feels like they're doing everything right all the time, anyway?"

Cillian turns to look at you. He studies your face for a moment before offering a small smile. "I guess you're right," he says sincerely.

"Fork found in kitchen," you retort, breaking the tension with a bit of humor.

He chuckles, "That's clever."

"Well," you continue, "I've been accused of many things over the years, but being unoriginal isn't one of them."

He laughs. Just like he did back in the car: a genuine, carefree laugh that makes you feel a little lighter.

"Want to go for one last swim, piano woman?"

You roll your eyes. "Will you stop calling me that?"

"Not likely," Cillian replies with a grin. "It's too fitting."

You stand up and stretch. You're wearing a one-piece teal-ish swimsuit that you swear you only chose based on comfort and not because it makes your ass and breasts look fantastic. Cillian's eyes linger on you for a moment before he looks away, and you swear you can see a hint of a blush on his cheeks. He doesn't move.

"Are you coming or…?"

"Right, one last swim," he finally says, standing up and following you towards the water.

Maybe that one last swim wasn't a great idea after all.

And why is that?

Because not even five minutes into the water, you thought it would be a good idea to jump from a high rock, and now you're sitting in the car with your knee scrapped, throbbing in pain, and regretting your impulsive decision.

•••

"You're so fuckin' stubborn."

You try to move into a more comfortable position while ignoring the pain shooting up your leg by pressing a hand against one side of the door to keep yourself steady. "And you're so clearly overreacting."

Cillian pushes his bedroom door open. He's also clearly pissed. The ride back to the house was deathly silent. Well, not silent. His sad boy music made a return, and this time with Broken Social Scene. You couldn't ask him to change the music without starting another argument. Even the kids were quiet, beyond asking several times if you were okay, which you assured them you were. Obviously a lie.

As Cillian walks around the room, you reach for your midi white beachy dress and look down at your knee in horror. It's no longer just a bruise, but a gash that is slowly oozing blood. Not as much as before, but still. It looks nasty underneath the shirt Cillian used from his car as a makeshift bandage.

He grabs the first aid kit from a shelf and turns around to face you.

"Take off your dress."

"Pardon me?"

"Take off your dress so I can properly clean and bandage the wound," Cillian repeats, his expression serious. You look down at the blood-stained fabric as if you needed any more confirmation. "Off, C'mon."

You stiffen at his demand, your body going completely rigid at his bossy tone. You watch him stride into his bathroom. He pushes aside some stuff on the counter and tosses the kit onto the counter.

Okay, yeah. He has good reason to be upset. You had no business jumping from that rock.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he'd said before, right when he went to get you. And now you can see the anger still simmering beneath the surface.

You can hear him shuffle in the bathroom while you remove your dress. You still have your swimsuit on underneath, but you feel exposed without the extra layer. Maybe the pain is catching up to you or the fact that you have upset him or that he's waiting for you in the bathroom to take care of you but tears sting your eyes as you try to process the situation. You take a moment to collect yourself. You cannot go in there like this, he cannot see you this vulnerable. At least, not now.

He's braced against the counter, head hung low, when you push open the bathroom door. You nearly back out to give him some space or time to compose himself, but his eyes meet yours and his expression straightens. He clears his throat and then freezes. "I—you're wearing your swimsuit."

"I am. Were you expecting me to change into something else?"

"No," he grumbles, "I mean, nevermind."

He turns back and starts grabbing sterile gauze, his movements slightly jerky. He gestures for you to sit on the counter. "Up."

"I'm not sure I can do that given my—" Before you're done speaking, he scoops you up and sets you on the counter. Your hands are locked around his neck, and his are firmly gripping your waist. They fit perfectly there, like they're made to hold you close.

He reaches behind him, both your faces close together now, and grabs your wrists, pulling them away from his neck and onto your thighs. He puts a hand on your uninjured leg, his touch gentle yet firm. "This is going to hurt." You stare at his impossible blue eyes and think to yourself: yes, this is going to hurt.

"Oh, shit shit," you gasp, gripping his forearm. "Holy fuuuck."

"I've got you, breathe," he commands, and you allow yourself to focus on his voice, letting it ground you. The antiseptic burns both your nostrils and knee as he continues to clean the wound, the pain shooting through your leg causing you to clench your teeth.

"I'm sorry," you breathe out.

There's nothing but silence in response.

"I told you multiple times not to go up there," he finally says, his voice tinged with frustration. "And yet."

"I know," you whisper, feeling guilty.

"Don't do that again," he commands, his accent thickening with emotion. "You could've hurt yourself even more."

"I know," you repeat, not sure how else to respond.

His head is bowed in concentration as he finishes cleaning the wound, his hands steady despite the anger in his voice. You can see his dark eyelashes fluttering slightly as he works. He applies a little more pressure to the bandage than he should've, and you let out a soft moan. This doesn't go unnoticed by him.

The air in the room seems to shift. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see something soften in his gaze before he looks away.

"You're not supposed to like that."

Your cheeks heat up immediately.

He's gotten closer to you, your hands somehow made their way to fist his navy blue linen shirt. His body is between your legs, the delicate material of his pants brushing your skin. His breath is warm against your cheek as he leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't say I mind it either." Your heart races at his proximity, unsure of what to do next.

His hands slide up your thighs, gently caressing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He's going to kiss you, and you can't help but wonder if it's the right decision to let him.

But now is not the time to be rational about it.

"I'm not gonna stop you," you say quietly, "I wouldn't know how."

His eyes darken, pupils dilating with desire. He doesn't move.

It's like you're both aware of the line you're about to cross, so neither of you moves.

You keep your eyes firmly on his face. His lips inch closer to yours, and you feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Your body is angled towards his, hand gripping the edge of the counter. Your slightly damp hair, now cold, making you shiver.

He's impossibly hard against you, the material of his pants is thin, and you're aware of every inch of him pressing against your throbbing core.

"And I wouldn’t know how to stop kissing you," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. He shifts slightly, causing his erection to press even more firmly against you, both letting out a soft moan. His mouth hovers just inches from yours, just kiss me, you thought.

There's a knock on the bedroom door, which is, by the way, open.

"Dad?" You both freeze.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar, offering a sliver of privacy but not enough to shield you from any potential interruptions.

"Yes?" Cillian calls out, trying to sound casual despite the intense moment that was just interrupted. "We're ordering takeout, do you want anything?"

"No, buddy, we're good, thanks," Cillian replies, his voice strained as he tries to keep his composure. You hear the steps retreating down the hallway.

Cillian steps back, and the absence of his body against yours is jarring. It clearly would've been a mistake to take this further, but a mistake that would've felt so fucking good.

"We shouldn't do this."

He clears his throat. "Yeah."

He moves towards the door, his movements tense and purposeful. "I'm gonna—" he says, motioning the door.

"Yeah," you quickly reply, "I got it."

You watch him leave, the air heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires.

a/n: thank you for reading! please share your thoughts with me, let me know if you guys enjoyed it :)

part two

[normatural]

Echoes of Souls | A.T

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Summary: In the old, abandoned castle, she found a love letter addressed to her, written by someone who died a century ago.

Word Count: 1.121

A/N: Feedback is always welcome. English isn't my first language so excuse any mistakes but feel free to point them out to help me improve.

Chapter 1: Echoes of a Forgotten Past

The old castle stood quiet and forgotten on the outskirts of King’s Landing, its once-glorious exterior now a ghostly relic of the past. Long vines of ivy climbed its weathered walls, making it appear almost as if nature had attempted to reclaim the abandoned structure. Shutters banged against cracked windows, held only by rusty, old hinges, while the wind whistled mournfully through the broken panes. Even the birds seemed to shun the place, their songs the only absence in an otherwise haunted landscape.

It was this eerie, magnetic pull that had drawn you here—a sense of familiarity combined with an insatiable curiosity for between all the projects the company allowed you to choose, this was the one that stood out for you. As you walked through the creaky front doors into the sprawling foyer, you were struck by the imposing architecture, which still held a sliver of its former grandeur. Your footsteps echoed softly against the hardwood floor as you moved through the house, your fingers lightly grazing the banister of the grand staircase.

A sense of déjà vu washed over you. You paused, trying to pinpoint the origin of this haunting familiarity. Why did every corridor, every room, seem like it held a secret, a memory just out of reach? It was as if you had been here before in another life, another time. But that was impossible—or was it?

As night fell, the castle’s eerie charm only deepened. You made your way back to the trailer with the delivery you had ordered. The moonlight casts silver shadows through the window. Exhaustion soon claimed you after dinner, and you drifted into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

In your dream, the world was different—brighter, more vibrant. Standing on the verdant grounds of the palace, it was no longer an abandoned relic. It was alive, bustling with people, laughter, and the roar of dragons. The skies above were filled with the majestic creatures, their wings casting shadows on the cobblestone pathways below.

You looked down at yourself, your attire reflecting a time long past. Rich fabrics and intricate embroidery adorned your gown, and your hair seemed to be styled in the fashion of nobility. Heart swelled with emotions you couldn’t explain as you walked through the manicured gardens of the castle, the very same one that looked like a dried jungle just moments ago. Everything feels uncannily familiar.

Suddenly, you felt a pang in your heart. A strange vibration in your chest. And then saw him. Your breath caught as you took in the sight of him. His tall, statuesque form was cloaked in regal hues, the fabric of his attire moving subtly with each of his graceful movements. He reached out to touch a blossom, his long fingers brushing the petals with unexpected tenderness, and in that moment, you felt as though she was witnessing a secret part of his soul.

His face, chiseled and strong, held a serene intensity. The angles of his jaw and the line of his nose were softened by the play of light and shadow, creating a portrait that was both striking and ethereal. But it was his eyes that truly made you hold your breath. Piercing violet, it seemed to see right through the world and into the very essence of things. When his gaze shifted and met yours, you felt an electric thrill course through your veins, as if his eyes held the power to unravel your very being.

Slowly, a rare, faint smile touched his lips, transforming his face with a warmth that contrasted beautifully with his otherwise austere demeanor. The sight of that smile, so fleeting yet so profound, made your heart ache with an inexplicable longing.

Something inside you is alarming that the man standing a few meters from you is the very same from the letter whose words haven’t left your mind. Aemond Targaryen.

His silver hair glinted in the sunlight, and his piercing violet eye, filled with a depth of emotion you instantly recognized, locked onto you. He approached with a look of tender resolve, his footsteps confident and deliberate.

“Vaela,” he called you, a name from your past life that felt both foreign and intimate. Familiar. “I was waiting for you. Walk with me.”

You nodded, heart fluttering with a mixture of excitement and calm, and took his offered arm. Something inside you told you to stop staring but how could you avert your eyes from his figure when it was making your heart beat so fast? You strolled through the garden, the scent of blooming roses enveloping you, the sound of dragon wings beating in sync with your heartbeat.

“I have something important to ask you,” Aemond began, his voice steady yet soft. He led you to a secluded alcove where the garden’s flowers seemed to bloom more brightly. He turned to face you, taking both your hands in his. “I have loved you from the moment we met. In you, I found my heart’s true desire, a soul that mirrors my own. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Tears welled up in your eyes, the emotions flooding through you from both the past and present. Why was your heart-warming so abruptly at his words? Why did they sound so familiar? How the answer seemed to wish to jump out of your lips so quickly. Aemond was strange after all. Perhaps something is created just in your mind. But it couldn’t be, could it?

“Yes, Aemond,” you whispered, your voice trembling with joy. “I will.”

His smile, rare and sincere, was a sight that imprinted itself deeply into your memory. Wishing you could see it again. He lifted one of your hands to his lips, your knuckles being touched so softly and yet intimately by them as his violet eye seemed to stare deep into yours.

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering in your mind like the last notes of a haunting melody. You could still smell the scent of the flowers. Feel the touch of his lips on your skin. You realized in that moment that your journey here was no accident. The castle, the dreams, Aemond—they were pieces of a puzzle you were destined to uncover. Meant to find.

Clutching the blanket tighter around you, you knew the first light of day would bring with it a new resolve. You would unravel the past, discover the hidden secrets of this place, and understand why destiny had led you here. There ought to be answers somewhere in those walls. It was not just an abandoned relic; it was a bridge to your past, a testament to a love that had defied time itself.

+

taglist: @donut-seam @strangersunghoon @teasweeter @darktrashsoulbear

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Anywhere That You Are

Hozier x fem!reader

Author's note: Inspired by that picture (as seen below), my new favorite song (That You Are) and an idea sent in via asks.

Summary: A scene of Y/n and Andrew enjoying their vacation in a secluded spot in the mountains of Italy.

Warnings: NSFW/SMUT, semi-public sex (sort of?), so much fluff.

They’d bickered for a while over where to go. She wanted somewhere quiet and secluded – because after two entire years of sharing her man with the world, Y/n wants him to herself. Andrew, on the other hand, had simply requested somewhere near water – the beach, a lake, a pool, anything he could swim in. So they met in the middle; two weeks in a rustic, little one bedroom cottage tucked away in the mountains of Italy, within walking distance of a vast, jewel toned lake. The house is perched on a jagged hill, overlooking the serene landscape, and sunsets wash the area in a gentle, golden glow. They’ve witnessed three so far, and each one has been nothing short of magnificent – though Andrew has argued that there’s at least one view that he appreciates much more.

Her, standing on the open porch, wearing nothing but his shirt as that warm light hits her face, making it seem like she’s glowing. Like something ethereal; an angel on earth sent just for him. Or even better, his own, personal heaven.

He’s thinking about that as he sits there, in one of the two wicker chairs with an acoustic guitar propped in his lap, fingers absently grazing the delicate strings. At first, he isn’t playing anything in particular. Andrew’s eyes are trained forward, taking in the view of rolling hills and aged trees while his mind strays to the thought of his love, just past the window behind him, moving around in their rental’s charmingly quaint kitchen. Humming softly as she fills the kettle, moving around fluidly as she takes it to the stove before prepping a pair of matching mugs out of the small cupboard over the wooden counter as it boils. She’ll fill up the mugs at the end of the process, and bring them out, all without spilling even a drop – because she’s more graceful that Andrew could ever dream to be.

Because if he is a perilously tall stack of china plates, just waiting for a breeze in the right – or wrong – direction to end in a clumsy disaster, then she is silk, moving freely through calm water.

As thoughts of Y/n take shape, Andrew finds himself playing the notes of a familiar tune, humming along to it as he does. A wedding present, written with a new friend for someone he loves so dearly, and so deeply, that even the most beautiful words, tied together with threads of gold, could only express a fraction of what he feels. But she’d loved it, and that was what had mattered most to him. Because if she loves it, then chances are, she knows.

She knows that if he had his way, they would be together – always. No oceans would separate them for months on end. There wouldn’t be months between kisses and neither of them would endure the heartache of seeing that other on screens without being able to touch even the barest tips of their fingers. No bed would stay half cold, and no terrible joke will be told through text. They’d go on walks every evening with fingers laced and her head leaned on his arm.

He would be anywhere – and everywhere – that she is. Because he always finds that he makes a bit more sense when Y/n is around.

So lost in the inner workings of his mind, Andrew completely misses the whistle of the kettle, the subsequent clinking of a metal spoon against the ceramic and finally, the tell-tale creak of the front door. He’s only pulled out of his thoughts when Y/n sets the pair of mugs down on the small, round table between the two chairs and comes to stand behind him. Her hands begin at his shoulders, spending a brief moment messaging them before sliding forward, fingers sprawled on his chest.

“What’s on your mind, huh?” Y/n probs, bring her lips to his cheek in a much-too-short peck.

Freeing one of his hands, Andrew places it over hers. “You,” he offers softly, shifting his head to meet her lips.

“Mm, yeah?” She smiles, “now, why would you think about me when I’m right here.”

“Because,” he tips his head so their noses are touching, “you’re my favorite thing to think about.”

Y/n giggles again, walking around until she’s in front of him. Andrew allows her relieve him of the guitar, watching as she carefully lays in in the vacant chair before climbing into his lap, her legs astride his thighs. “That’s all?” She pouts dramatically, “just think about.”

Chuckling, his hands find her hips, clothed in a gray t-shirt stolen from his suitcase – not that he’s complaining, his clothes look much better on her anyway. “Not just think,” he promises, catching her mouth.

“Yeah?” Her arms go around his neck as she melts into his chest, words escaping through their tangled lips, “what else?”

“Favorite person to kiss,” his lips travel along her jaw, and then down her neck, where he presses his nose to the warm skin near her pulse, “favorite smell,” he nips at her throat, leaving little, telling bruises, “favorite person to do this with,” and then, as of to examine his work, or just freshen the image of her in his mind, Andrew pulls away, broad grin splitting his cheeks. “Favorite person to see wearing my clothes.”

She is really just his favorite everything.

“Our clothes,” Y/n corrects pointedly.

“Oh, of course darlin’,” he plays along with a chuckle.

“I’m glad we’re here,” she says suddenly and the mood sobers a bit. A soft smile still plays at her lips, but there’s a twinkle in her eyes that are indicative of those private moments where one of them says something that is only meant for the other. A surge of emotion pools in her chest, and there’s a lump in her throat. It doesn’t matter how long they’ve been together – five minutes or ten years – it isn’t the distance that makes her heart grow fonder, its the moments spent in their own little bubble. When he’s close enough for her to throw her arms around his neck or lay her head in his lap. When the sound of his voice isn’t skewed by the speaker of her phone.

When she can open a door and find him on the other side of it.

Those are the moments that make her heart swell so much that Y/n thinks it may burst out of her chest. They are the ones that remind Y/n of how much she loves him, only because he’s him. There isn’t another person in the world that could rouse such an intense feeling within her, or even a fraction of the certainty she feels it with.

Lifting his hand to the side of her face, Andrew mirrors her expression. “So am I,” he returns with the same ease, “you have no idea how much I’ve missed it just being the two of us.”

Y/n huffs a chuckle and leans in conspiringly, her forehead pressed to his while his thumb caresses the apple of her cheek, “I’m willing to bet I do.”

Still cupping her cheek, Andrew tilts his head and closes his mouth in over hers again. His other hand, the one on her hip, searches blindly for the hem of the t-shirt. “We’re outside,” Y/n’s mumbled admonishment melts against his lips when he flattens his palm on her upper thigh, gradually inching it upwards.

“Just us up here,” Andrew returns, then adds, “do you wanna go inside?”

Clumsily, she undoes the plastic buttons at the top of his shirt, “not really,” Y/n’s hands slip into the top of his flannel shirt, fingers dancing along his skin, leaving sparks in their wake. “God, I love this shirt on you.”

“I’d like this off you,” he starts lifting the oversized t-shirt over her head, not caring where it falls when he tosses it off to the side. She isn’t wearing much under it, just her underwear, and Andrew’s eyes fall to her unrestrained breasts after discarding the t-shirt. His gaze is steady as he trails the tips of his fingers up her spine, and its more his feather-light touch than the temperate evening air that causes the dusting of goosebumps along her exposed skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps, and Y/n feels her cheeks warm under his stare; a heady combination of tenderness and longing darkening his eyes.

There’s something about the way Andrew looks at her – and just looks – that never fails to rouse a sensation in the pit of her stomach. A warmth that she’s never really associated with sex; its more like the warmth of a hearth, reaching upwards. Embers spreading to the most hidden parts of her body. It's gentle, and comforting. It's not the rush of being desired, but the peace that comes with being wanted.

Its not fast and explosive. It doesn’t fizzle out when they’re spent.

It stands up against time, steadfast and true.

Andrew looks at her, and Y/n doesn't feel as if he's forgotten that there are other women in the world. Instead, she knows that of all of them, he will only ever choose her – want her.

“I love the way you look at me,” she whispers, still loosely clutching his shoulders as she leans forward.

Andrew’s grin broadens and he flattens his hand on the center of her back, “well, I love looking at you,” he returns in the same, hushed tone. A sound between a delighted chuckle and a hum of contentment falls onto his lips from hers. He tastes of the beer he’d taken out with him earlier, and something subtly sweet that makes her toes curl.

In a sequence of clumsy, fumbled movements, Y/n lifts herself off Andrew’s lap for long enough for him to tug her underwear down, and get it of one leg before they hastily undo the button and zipper of his jeans so they can shove them down to the middle of his thighs. A fit of laughter erupts from her throat, at some point during the jumbled mess of movements, and as she throws her head back, he laughs too, rendering their attempts efforts even more maladroit

It probably doesn't look like they’re in a movie, or even particularly sensual. But its the one of the things he misses the most when they’re apart. Not the act itself but the being with her like that; when they’re so caught up in how it feels that nothing else matters. Bodies in awkward positions or a stray comment that has nothing to do with anything at all, none of it matters because he's with the one person that it all makes sense with.

When Y/n sinks down onto him, her lewd moan is cast into the crook of his neck, and Andrew lolls his head to the side, pressing his cheek to her hair, the fruity fragrance of her shampoo flooding his senses. “God,” he rasps, reveling in the way she feels wrapped so tightly around him.

“Just like that,” he encourages, gentle grip on her hips guiding Y/n into steady pace. Rocking her hips against his in pronounced, languid motions, her back arches slightly, creating in a balletic curve. She looks much like art, Andrew thinks.

Just like that, so simple and unhampered. With a couple stray strands falling over her face and her head thrown back. Practically melting in his hands. Through his hazy, lust-blurred vision, he sees the most beautiful person he’s ever known transform into something that can only be other-worldly. Every bit of her has been carved by the gods with the purpose of being the truest personification of beauty.

What must he have done in some other life to be afforded the privilege of her company?

It's really the tangible that’s keeping him grounded; reminding him that he’s real enough to share that moment with her. The warmth of her silken skin under his rough fingers, the clench of her core around him, the tips of her fingers sunken into his shoulders.

The pressure of Y/n’s forehead against his, the heat of her breath when she ellicts his name in a husky moan. “God, Andrew,” there’s a waning smile tugging at her lips as she quickens ever so slightly. His hips buck to meet hers, and every time they connect in a heady, jerked movement, her breath hitches audibly.

God, he loves that sound. That little, whined, “uh.”

Y/n’s fingers curl into his shoulders as her thighs start burning, a direct result of Andrew’s light wash jeans rhythmically rubbing against her skin. That fiery friction coupled with the usual tingle that accompanies being stretched around him is enough to run her breaths shallow and ragged. There’s a light sheen gathered on his forehead when she presses hers to it, and from that angle, Y/n swears she can feel him in her stomach.

Vaguely, she registers when Andrew moves one hand from her waist, bringing his thumb to her sensitive bundle of nerves, while he lowers his head to press his mouth to the swell of her breath. Curling her toes at the new sensations, one of Y/n’s hands slide out from under his shirt and reaches for the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, disturbing his haphazard bun. Andrew's tongue flicking at the top of her breast, incits the most thrilling sensation in the pit of her stomach, and the way he's working her nub is dizzying; the combination quickly guiding Y/n to the cusp of release.

“I need to feel you,” Andrew grits, edges of his teeth dragging along the ample flesh. “Let me feel you,” he pleads urgently, the upward motions of his pelvis growing erratic as he tries to prompt Y/n to quicken her pace. “Come’on sweetheart,” he encourages, tone low and dry.

"Andy….Andy….” Y/n yelps, crescent-shaped nails grazing his scalp as her legs start stiffening.

“That’s it, darling” he entices, thumb working on her numb more vigorously now. Andrew needs to feel her squeeze him; like she’s putting every stray part back into its place. He’s aching for the kind of release that only Y/n can bring, the kind that empties his mind completely and leaves him seeing stars for the next few minutes.

Twin kaleidoscopes are painted onto her shut lids as it happens, and Y/n can’t help but blurt out a string of cried praises muddled in with the obscene repetition of his name. A sinful prayer shared between lovers. Her legs, no longer able to support her own weight, become jello and Y/n struggles to keep moving through the cloud of her release.

“Fuck,” Andrew heaves, lifting his head as Y/n quakes around him. His breathing is heavy as he follows along, mind now far too tattered to properly enjoy the way she looks when she’s completely in ruins. So instead, Andrew hastily pulls his hand from her center and cradles the back of Y/n’s head, pulling her towards him so he can crush his lips to hers, the fervor of their kiss matching the thick warmth swirling around them.

That gorgeous scenery that they’ve been enjoying over the past few days – trees that soar towards the dimming sky, the bellies of green hills and the occasional burst of colour owed to wildflowers, all dusted by that golden evening hue – blurs around them, completely forgotten.

Even as they come down from the very top of it, Andrew’s breathing remains heavy, and he can feel Y/n’s heart pounding against her ribs.

“Jesus,” Y/n suspires when they break, shoulders slumping. Andrew chuckles briefly at her exclamation before sagging against the back of the chair, throwing his head back so he can stare up – but not really – at the ceiling. Looking down at herself, Y/n can’t help but feel the heat return to her cheeks upon noticing that she’s completely unclad. He’s seen her like that maybe a hundred times by now, if not more, but there’s always the tiniest bit of self-consciousness that sneaks up on her when he’s completely dressed and she’s….well, not

Abashed, Y/n throws herself against his chest and buries her face in the side of his neck. Andrew can feel her smile on his skin, and the way her fame shakes slightly with bashful giggles. “What?” He smiles, one hand settled on the small of her back while the other reaches for the side of her face, urging Y/n to look at him.

“You're still wearing all your clothes,” she giggles, tugging her lower lip between her teeth as she meets his gaze.

Briefly, Andrew glances down at himself; the first four buttons of his shirt are open, and his pants have made it to the middle of his thighs, but otherwise he’s still entirely clothed. “Shit, yeah,” he laughs softly. “Tell you what,” he meets her lips in a punctuating kiss, “gimme ten minutes, and then we’ll fix that.”

[cillianmesoftlyyy]

Wary Sailor Pt. 2 | Matthew Joy x fem!reader

summary: Second Mate Matthew Joy goes out on a whale hunt and even after a successful chase, he can't seem to feel satisfied. Something's weighing heavily on his mind. While alone in the harpoon boat, trouble comes to call.

warnings: Aiming a gun at someone, talk of violence, smut, oral (F receiving), penetration, dubious consent (weird circumstances), unprotected sex, Matthew's abandonment issues lol.

word count: 2763k+

Tucumcari- Goodnight, Texas 🎶

Lady May- Tyler Childers 🎵

Note: The lyrics that I included are from the old whaling song Maid of Amsterdam.

*Pt. 3 (and maybe 4???) coming soon!

The men were deployed into the smaller whaling boats, each boat armed with a harpoon and dense cord. Matthew stood at the back of his boat to steer it away from the ship, navigating the aggravated water. He forced himself to think about the whales, keeping his mind inside the boat… but the girl’s eyes appeared like stars in the corner of his vision at all times. 

“Joy!” One of the rowers was yelling at him, snapping him out of his trance. “Joy, focus! Don’t go soft on us all of a sudden, eh?” 

Matthew grimaced as the grisly sailor chuckled. He steered them out to open water, following the Captain's boat as per his orders. While he couldn’t see their bodies in the water, Matthew could hear the loud vibrations of sound the Sperm whales made as they spoke to one another. He could also hear Owen yelling out commands to his men. The harpoonist prepared his weapon. Matthew directed his man to do the same. 

“Steady now!” He advised his men as they waited for movement below the surface. Striking the whale was simple compared to the rest of the exhausting process. Matthew just planned on keeping his men alive but whale oil was also a necessity that he was willing to sacrifice for. He wasn’t a greedy man by any means, he’d lived in poverty all his life. His life was whaling and he didn’t spend much time off the ocean, the stillness made him restless. 

“There she blows!” A man yelled and Matthew peered over the edge as the side of his boat rose out of the water, stuck on the back of an adolescent whale. As he looked over, the distinct silhouette of a woman wavered beneath the surface. Choosing to ignore it, Matthew swung the boat over to allow the harpooner to cast his weapon. 

“Go, go, go!” He barked, spit flying from his mouth as he waved the man on. The harpoon sailed through the sky, landed in the water like a seabird, and missed. The whale diverted away from Matthew’s boat and found itself trapped beside Owen’s. The mother whale broke the surface nearby, distracting the men to the real prize. Matthew steered his boat away as the other men helped reel in the harpoon’s cord. The harpooner aimed and threw. 

…

It was evening when the whale was secured by chains to the deck of the ship. The whale was so large she had to rest in two different places, one on the ship’s deck and the other in Matthew’s boat. The men aboard wrapped rags around their noses to cover the smell. Matthew just grimaced and rubbed the sockets of his eyes. The darkening landscape helped relieve some of his headache. The other men were already aboard the Essex, only he was left to watch over the end of the whale, saving it from sharks and other predators. He could hear the men singing as they did their work, scraping the fat from the inside of a giant. He hummed along to the song they were singing together.

A roving, a roving

Since roving's been my ru-i-in

I'll go no more a roving

With you fair maid! 

Movement in the water drew his mind away from the song. Ripples expanded across the surface where something had just been. Matthew drew his rifle from the floorboards and checked the chamber for bullets. He watched the surface carefully for the distinct fins of sharks. 

I put my hand upon her thigh

Mark well what I do say!

I put my hand upon her thigh

She said young man ‘That’s rather high’

I'll go no more a roving with you fair maid!

Matthew cocked the gun and aimed it at the dark water around his boat. The men’s singing seemed to dissipate with the seriousness of his situation. Sharks could be both dangerous and damaging. The scent of whale blood always drew them in, sending them into a frenzy where they could throw themselves against the side of the boat, risking damage. They were a nuisance to Matthew and he didn’t mind shooting them when necessary. The boat rocked in the waves and he steadied himself. 

“Are you going to use that on me, Matthew Joy?” The voice behind him startled a gasp from his lips. He swung the rifle around, aiming it at the same face he’d seen hours before. 

“You…” he whispered, keeping his rifle trained on her throat. Her eyes were the same green as before, only this time he could see them more clearly. The sun had fully set but colors remained in the sky above her head, bloody purples and such. He couldn’t see her body below the water but he saw that her shoulders were bare save the scattered pearls stuck to her skin like freckles. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” She whispered back, her face inches from the barrel of the rifle. He licked his lips before speaking.

“Where… where did you go? You disappeared…” he muttered darkly, flicking his eyes up to the deck where his crewmates continued to work. He was alone with the girl. 

“I had to see what you were like,” she offered a small smile. Matthew adjusted the way he held the gun, still aimed at her. 

“You asked me if I believed in Sirens…” Matthew remembered warily, his eyes trailing over the pearls across her chest. Her dark hair rested behind her shoulders, down her back. 

“Do you?” She asked and reached up her hands slowly, holding the edge of the small boat. He stared at her, his breath clouding the metal scope on his gun. 

“Is that what you are?” He asked finally and the girl smiled once again. 

“Is it quite shocking?” She teased and bit her lip timidly. 

“Well… yes,” Matthew exhaled and raised his eyebrow, “I thought they were only in stories. They weren’t real… Why didn’t you sing?”

The girl cocked her head to the side. The air felt heavy between them as he waited for her response. His body was confused and frightened, something he’d rarely felt before. His instinct and desire clashed, strengthening the opposing forces within him.  

“I don’t want to kill you,” she answered honestly, “we sing to kill.” 

Matthew lowered his gun and nodded, breathless. 

“You had legs. You didn’t look… ” He ran a shaky hand through his hair and ran his hand over his mouth. He could see the top of her fin break through the water. It was a beautiful silver color and her scales were shiny and iridescent. 

“I wanted to see how you would treat me. I disguised myself as a human girl and you treated me gently.”

“What do you want from me? You had to keep me alive for some reason,” Matthew sat down on a plank of seating and rubbed the waterducts of his eyes. 

“Nothing more than just to know you. I’ve watched your crew from the sea for weeks. You are a good, kind man.” 

Matthew looked up from between his fingers and exhaled slowly, lowering his guard only slightly. 

“Then what does this mean? How do you want to… know me?” He furrowed his brow and sat back once again on the plank of wood. Her hands tipped the boat slightly so that she could come a little closer to the sailor. 

“Come closer, please…” she whispered and rose onto her elbows, her face a few inches from Matthew’s. Matthew stared at her lips, rosey pink and plump. She smelled like sea salt and clean things. Ever so slowly, Matthew closed the distance between them, his eyes staying on her lips. 

“Y/N…” He tried to restrain himself as he whispered but eventually, as she stared up at him with her beautiful curtained eyes, he kissed her. It had been years since he’d actually kissed a woman. Kissing was so different than fucking. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed it, the softness of it. Her hands inched up his blouse, beneath his overcoat, grabbing at his lapels. His hands found the sharp edges of her jaw, meeting her mouth with a more fervent kiss. She tasted lightly of salt, like seaspray against rocks. He devoured her flavor as though it were precious, forbidden. He twisted his fingers into her hair that felt dry despite being in the water, moaning against her lips. 

“In what other ways do you want to know me?” He muttered against her lips, his eyes closed. Her fingers ran over his neck, down to the dip between his collarbones. 

“I want to know every part of you,” she smiled and moved away, allowing the light from the deck to illuminate her figure below him in the water. Matthew hid a choked sigh as his eyes trailed over her body below the waves. Her body was decorated with pearls and scraps of white cloth. Instead of a tail, she now had two legs that beat the water to keep her afloat. 

“Will you take me into your boat?” She asked softly and Matthew nearly forgot to respond, caught in a state of disbelief. He cleared his throat and scooped his hands beneath her arms, pulling her into the boat in one movement. Standing above him on two legs, she looked even more beautiful than she had hours earlier. He could see the buds of her nipples through the white fabric, surrounded by pearls and strands of seaweed. Her cunt was hidden behind a swath of wet fabric but he could still see the dark shape of pubic hair. He looked back up at her face, his lips having fallen apart in amazement. The Siren laughed softly and carded her fingers through his hair, pulling his head back slightly as she did. 

“Lay me down,” she requested and smiled when he immediately wrapped his hands around her waist and flipped her over where she could lie flat on the bottom of the harpoon boat. The planks were far enough away to give him space to kneel above her. He supported himself above her, studying the contours of her body, plump and full. She twisted her fingers through his hair again and pulled him close so she could whisper in his ear. 

“Now make love to me, Matthew Joy.” 

…

He was already hard when she cupped her hand against his pants. It had been a while since he’d slept with a woman after months at sea. His body ached as badly as if he were a teenage boy again, not an aging man. He was throbbing as he moved the fabric on her cunt aside and lowered his head between her thighs. Looking up at her, he ran his tongue against her, tasting her. She hummed and shook with nerves. 

A roving, a roving

Since roving's been my ru-i-in

I'll go no more a roving

With you fair maid!

Feeling emboldened by her reaction, Matthew licked her again and rubbed his nose against her clit. She was wet against his tongue and he licked his lips greedily. His cock started to throb as she whimpered and moaned beneath his mouth. Her hand pulled tightly at his hair but he loved the pain and worked his mouth harder into her cunt. 

“Now, please now!” She begged him as she started to shake with pleasure. Taking the hint, Matthew undid his trousers and pushed them down to his knees. His face was still wet with her precum as he pulled out his cock and inserted himself quickly. She spasmed around him, her hands moving to grip the sides of the boat for leverage. His thighs clenched as he thrusted into her, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head. He leaned closer to her chest and rocked into her neck as he fucked her. 

“Oh you don’t know how long it’s been, love,” he sighed against her neck. “Is it ok?”

She nodded emphatically and pulled him closer by the back of his jacket, moving him deeper inside her. They both gasped out. He pulled his face away to watch her, still fucking her. 

“Beautiful. Pretty pretty creature you are,” he praised her as he trailed a finger down her cheek. Her thighs bounced against his as he pulled her legs around his waist. The boat shook around them. He slipped his tongue around the mound of her breast beneath the cloth, making more moans escape the girl’s mouth. He slipped the fabric aside with one finger and looking up to watch her face, he pressed his mouth around a nipple and sucked. Immediately, her body pulled into his, her back arching off the curved bottom. 

I'll go no more a roving

With you fair maid!

“Matthew…” she gasped as her muscles tightened and her bare feet flexed. He rolled his tongue around her nipple while his hand moved to hold her neck lightly, supporting her head. She cried out silently, her eyes screwed shut as if she were in pain. He dragged his tongue along her sternum to her neck and sucked at the flesh there. Her breathing evened out and she pulled his face to hers once again. 

“Do what you want with me. Get what you need from me,” the seriousness of her command sent a spasm of pleasure into his cock, still inside her. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. I want you to use me,” she whispered and spread her legs farther. Matthew looked at her for a second before smiling. 

“Fuck, love. I think I’ll fall in love with you,” he chuckled softly and brushed his hand across her cheek. 

“And so what if you do, sailor? Hasn’t everyone else done the same at some point?” 

Matthew raised an eyebrow and kissed her, dragging her hands out above her head. Pressing her hands down into the boat, he began to thrust slowly into her, his hips still rebounding off of her pelvis. 

“You’re going to stay right here, Y/N. I don’t want to lose you again.” 

The girl smiled and broke into a moan as he shortened his thrusts, keeping himself as far inside her as he could. He went slowly so he could feel the orgasm clearly as it came over him, making his cock feel swollen with seed. Her hips shook wildly as she began to lose control over her orgasms. He watched her orgasm and released a wave of contractions around him. Smiling, he finally began to speed up as she whimpered beneath him.

“Fuck, yes… fuck… yes!” He muttered breathlessly as he felt his cock start to twitch before his orgasm. She tightened around him, pulling him deeper and drawing a guttural groan from his throat. His shoulders shook with effort as he allowed his orgasm to explode, cumming inside the girl and sending waves of relief through his system. He pulled out slowly and kissed down her stomach, savoring the heat of her skin against his lips. She caught her breath as he lapped at her swollen cunt. She was still shaking from her orgasms and whined when his tongue overstimulated her. He cleaned her out and nibbled at the skin on the inside of her thighs. 

“It’s time for me to go.” 

Matthew looked up at her and furrowed his brow, “so soon?” 

The girl nodded and sat up to face him. 

“I’ll be back, I promise.” She smiled shyly and rubbed her nose against his. 

“Where do you go… I mean where do you go while we’re aboard?” He stumbled over his words, still catching his breath. 

“Here,” she offered no further clarification as Matthew gave her a questioning look. She pressed her hand against his cheek and laughed. 

“Don’t worry about where I go, sailor. The sea is my home.”

Matthew kissed her hastily as he redid his pants and pulled his suspender straps back over his shoulders. She stood and kissed him once more before she stepped over the edge and dropped into the water. In seconds she was resurfacing with her silver tail. 

“Let me ask you one thing,” Matthew stopped her before he could leave, “are you real? Was that real?” He gestured to the bottom of the boat and the girl laughed brightly. 

“Be wary, sailor. You might just lose your mind."

Matthew nodded and watched as she backed away and dove into the dark water beyond the reflection of light from the deck. Moments later, a whistle sounded and he was called to return to the ship. Forcing himself to look away from the place where the girl disappeared, he felt the familiar material of his old coat that he had wrapped around the girl earlier on the plank beside him, folded and damp.

...

End of Pt. 2!

[ileaveclawmarks]

An interview with Leslie Feinberg appearing in the Oct/Nov 1998 issue of On Our Backs.

Please click on image to read or find the transcript below:

Feinberg and hir activist peers have transformed the landscape of current queer politics: they have introduced "trans" (even into the mission statement of the National Organization for Women) as an umbrella term for transgender and transsexual persons. "Transgender" refers to any person whose gender expression appears at odds with his or ber biological sex, including transvestites, drag queens and kings, intersexed persons, "passing" men and women, feminine men, and masculine women. "Transsexual" refers to men and women who challenge the sex they were assigned at birth, whether they choose sex-reassignment surgery or not. Feminism popularized the distinction between "sex" (as biological sex) and "gender" (as the social expression of masculinity, androgyny, and femininity); the trans movement took this distinction to the streets.

Feinberg and hir activist peers have transformed the landscape of current queer politics: they have introduced "trans" (even into the mission statement of the National Organization for Women) as an umbrella term for transgender and transsexual persons. "Transgender" refers to any person whose gender expression appears at odds with his or ber biological sex, including transvestites, drag queens and kings, intersexed persons, "passing" men and women, feminine men, and masculine women. "Transsexual" refers to men and women who challenge the sex they were assigned at birth, whether they choose sex-reassignment surgery or not. Feminism popularized the distinction between "sex" (as biological sex) and "gender" (as the social expression of masculinity, androgyny, and femininity); the trans movement took this distinction to the streets.

Feinberg discusses her struggle with the health care system in hir new book, Trans Liberation: Beyond Pink or Blue. Released in October, Trans Liberation chronicles Feinberg's career as a public speaker and collects the addresses s/he delivered to a variety of groups, from Gay Pride organizers to straight male transvestites. We spoke with Feinberg about why sexual freedom is impossible without freedom of gender expression.

On Our Backs: Trans Liberation was released this fall. Can you tell us about what you're working on now?

Feinberg: I'm deep into a novel titled Drag King Dreams. It's about a working-class, Jewish trans person who has a foot in both the diverse trans communities and also the lesbian, gay, and bi communities. It's a book about figuring out what "home" means and who your people are. I'm also trying to write a fable titled "Tale of Two Hearts." it's really a love song to Minnie Bruce Pratt-my wife, my lover, and my friend. It's just one chorus of the love song I write to Minnie Bruce every day of my life.

On Our Backs: Your relationship with poet Minnie Bruce Pratt, thanks in part to her book S/he, is well known. What is your advice to those of us seeking a long term relationship as loving as yours?

Feinberg: I just know that for me, this is a relationship unlike any other I've ever had. I wasn't looking for a lifetime commitment when I met Minnie Bruce. I°d been dating nonmonogamously for quite a while, nothing serious. Minnie Bruce and I both did a lot of work individually to grow up, get sober and work hard at developing our political consciousness and activism. We were ready for each other. Ready to be loving, to communicate, and to listen.

On Our Backs: Pat Califia once wrote that she wishes there would come a time when we don't pick a sexual partner by his or her gender, but by other criteria, such as whether the person is a top or a bottom. In your ideal world, what would attract people to one another?

Feinberg: It's hard for me to hypothesize. In the world we live in, individuals do organize their preferences around gender expression. But a spectrum of sexuality existed in ancient societies that predated state. sponsored repression of human love. That leads me to think that these preferences might continue to exist in future societies in which no form of sex or gender is outlawed or demeaned. I don't think the problem today is preferences so much as prejudices. For example, I read personal ads in which people say "no druggies or butches need apply." Wow! That's preiudice. If you say in an ad that you're looking for someone feminine or androgynous or some other form of preference. that's very different from saving "no butches." As more and more prejudices are defeated, and in a world freed from divide-and-rule bigotry, people will be freer to explore their preferences about gender and about individuals.

On Our Backs: Do transgendered persons have sexual representation-pornography, erotic fiction, videos made for and by themselves?

Feinberg: Right now, there are many people trying to write erotica that bends gender. And I think it's very important. For many of us, it's very hard, never being able to identify with the sexuality we see everywhere in the dominant culture. [So] it was very important for me to write about sexuality in Stone Butch Blues. In the novel I'm working on now, I've been thinking a lot about how to write about sexuality that's not necessarily masculine or feminine, or gay or straight.

On Our Backs: What do you mean by "sexuality that's not necessarily masculine or feminine"?

Feinberg: I see masculinity and femininity as forms of gender expression. But a person's gender expression doesn't necessarily determine their sexuality. It doesn't determine whether you'll be attracted to someone of a similar gender expression or a dissimilar one. It doesn't mean you'll be sexually aggressive or submissive or both. That's what makes me so angry when I hear people derisively refer to someone as "thinks she's so butch but she rolls over in bed." It's an assumption that masculinity translates into being a top sexually. It limits the range of sexual expression of masculine females. And it's a sexual attack on someone who is, by virtue of their social oppression, already sexually wounded.

On Our Backs: Both sex scenes from Stone Butch Blues were excerpted for collections of lesbian erotica. Did you intend the scenes to be sexually arousing for readers - to be erotica - when you wrote them?

Feinberg: That's such an interesting question. I have to say that when I set out to write the sex scenes, I began to be aware of internalized censorship: "Can I or should I write about this or that?" So I consciously blocked out any thought of readers with this odd mental trick: I told myself that whatever I wrote, I didn't have to publish it. First write it, then decide. By doing that, I discovered that I could write about the kind of sex that i thought was true to the emotional makeup of the characters. If it was erotic for readers, I think it was because I was true to the characters themselves, so the sex was "real," if you know what I mean.

On Our Backs: Can sexuality exist without gender? Or is gender an essential component of sexuality?

Feinberg: Certainly everyone is gendered - quite complexly. And we infuse much of who we are, as gendered people, into our sexuality. But sexuality is so complicated by oppression right now that it's really hard to study it removed from its social soil. Jesse Helms defeated funding for a study that would have backed up much of what Kinsey revealed decades ago: that human sexuality is not two opposite poles- one normal, one not. Sexuality is on a spectrum, and many individuals move along that continuum during their lives. But lesbian, gay, and bisexual love is outlawed in the majority of states in the United States. So how can a truly objective, intensive study of sexuality even be conducted? It's like doing a study on religious beliefs and affiliations during the Nazi regime in Germany. So much of what we will learn about the relationship of gender and desire, as well as unraveling other questions about the matrix of sexuality, will be tied to the victories of our liberation of humanity from oppression altogether.

On Our Backs: In Trans Liberation you wrote about how frustrating it is voting for a two-party system when both parties are backed by big business. Do you vote? Should poor, queer, and trans people even bother voting?

Feinberg: Well, politics is about more than voting. It's also about finding ways to move people to action. In a particular situation, voting on an issue in an election or a candidate could help advance the movement. In general, though, I don't think voting for Republicans or Democrats - both supported by wings of corporate America, as are their parties - advances our struggle. I believe we need to build an independent liberation movement that's not tied down by waiting to see what happens in the next election. Everything our movement has ever won, including progressive legislation, has been won based on the strength of our struggle.

On Our Backs: Lesbians who accept transgender liberation in theory often balk at making alliances with transsexuals. Why is this so?

Feinberg: First and foremost, transsexual men and women helped build the modern lesbian, gay, and bisexual communities and movement. I know of at least one transsexual sister who fought the cops at Stonewall. They haven't always been recognized for their valuable contributions. But I believe strongly that those in the lesbian communities who are opposed to building coalitions with the diverse trans communities are just one current, and very often a minority current. The question is: Which current of any movement will lead? Those who seek to narrow the movement, or those who seek to broaden and strengthen its collective power?

*In this interview, On Our Backs refers to Feinberg with the pronouns "hir" (pronounced "here") and "s/he." We choose to do so because Feinberg has stressed that if society is to accept transgendered people, our language must expand as well. S/he gives as an example Ms., a common term now, but unacceptable before the women's movement.

Source.

[loveinhawkins]

“What do you write about?” Steve asks.

The question slips out on a summer night, the kind where the grass still holds a residual heat after the sun has set. They’re on that hill, the highest point in Hawkins—the one Dustin calls Weather-something. Eddie got a real kick out of hearing the name when they’d walked up here, laughing as they began an impromptu race to the top (“Not fair, you distracted me! Didn’t take you for a cheat, Harrington.”).

It feels special that they’re here, Steve thinks. That there’s even a hill to be on.

Eddie is plucking away at his acoustic guitar; he has a tell where he repeats a few meandering musical phrases, and Steve knows that there’s a song beginning to grow underneath his fingertips.

Eddie pauses mid-pluck of a string as he registers Steve’s question. He smiles, huffs almost fondly, “What a question, Steve.” Doesn’t even hesitate when he answers, “Just… good things, man. The things I love.”

Steve doesn’t know how he does it—just says that sort of stuff out in the open, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

“Okay, but…” Steve pulls out a few blades of grass, smirks when they brush across Eddie’s bare ankle and he jumps slightly; it must tickle. “Like what?”

Eddie’s smile grows. “Why? You makin’ a list?” But before Steve can think of a reply, he adds, “Oh, y’know. Loads of things.” He gestures at their surroundings, winks. “Like… a summer day. And, well…” His eyes flicker to the town below them. He shrugs, but it comes across as a painful attempt at looking casual. “Hawkins, I guess.”

“Why?” Steve says, can’t stop himself.

How can you still… Don’t you hate it? I fucking hate it, sometimes.

Because, in the end, it wasn’t The Upside Down that had almost killed Eddie. Not really.

It was people.

Eddie is staring at him. He sets the guitar aside, leaning forward and peering at Steve like he’s doing something particularly fascinating.

“You’re angry.”

Steve shakes his head reflexively, feels a prickle of defensiveness. He keeps his voice as even as he can when he says, “No, I’m not.”

“Oh, you are,” Eddie says softly. Something must show on Steve’s face because he amends, “Like, not… Don’t worry. Not a loud anger.”

Eddie says things like that sometimes, things that bring Steve up short. He wonders, not for the first time, if Eddie’s dad was loud in his anger.

“You know how I know?” Eddie is so close now that Steve can see where the bridge of his nose has been turned red by the sun. “Your eyes, Steve. They burn. What’s all that about, huh?” He throws in a little playful tone at that, but when Steve doesn’t smile, he sobers. “Just… seems like a lotta energy, is all.”

He doesn’t say it, but Steve can hear it. Hates that he can hear it.

Seems like a lot of energy to waste on me.

“I just—” Steve sighs, casts a glance at the landscape down below. Works his jaw. He’s no good at this, he thinks. The words get stuck. They almost took everything from you.

But Eddie just smiles back like he gets it, like he can hear Steve, too.

“Everything’s a mix of good and bad, right? One doesn’t, like, cancel out the other. Not always.”

And Steve hears I hate it sometimes, too. But that can’t stop my love.

Steve tries again. “It’s just…” He turns away from Hawkins, looks right into Eddie’s eyes. “Eddie. You deserve… better.”

Eddie’s expression softens. He leans closer still. “You’ve got a big heart, Steve Harrington.”

And then…

He kisses Steve on the cheek, chaste and sweet, lips still warm from a day in the sun.

“You’re one of my good things,” Eddie whispers.

[klausysworld]

Peaceful Power

Valentines day.

Klaus didn't care for it nor understand it.

If you truly loved your person then why did you need a special day to prove it? Every day should be valentines day.

But Y/n loved love so much that something about valentines day was so magical for her.

She was a very calm soul.

Despite being a witch in New Orleans, her patience and compassion was everlasting. They were traits that Klaus deeply admired and was eternally grateful for. Not many people would be so tolerant of him.

She offered other methods to settle his rage.

The first few times he found it silly and embarrassing when they would sit on his art room floor, gentle music in the background as they closed their eyes and meditated until they felt the weight of the day lift off from their shoulders.

She had made him playlists of songs that she knew he would like and were peaceful enough to settle his nerves when he should need to.

A few times he had let her guide him through a yoga routine or two however those sessions almost always ended up with him testing just how many positions he could actually get her into before she was too exhausted for him to carry on.

She was his serenity.

So when she had expressed her passion for valentines day, he knew he couldn't disappoint her. Not that he believed there was a way to disappoint her at this point.

Now Klaus was quite romantic anyway, his main love language was gift giving and acts of service followed closely behind so he wasn't too sure how to really impress her.

However if there was something Klaus was known for it was his dramatic flare.

It was because of this that Y/n found herself blindfolded and wearing noise cancelling headphones while sat in fist class while Klaus stroked her hair and fed her the over priced airplane food. He would of course lift her headphones to whisper to her throughout the flight to ensure she was sated, thankfully Y/n was just fine with the arrangement and rather excited for where they were wind up.

He kept her covered right until he got her to their hotel.

Only when he had her stood on the balcony with the view of the sea before did he allow her senses to return.

A glowing smile lit up her face at the sight and she quickly spun around to face Klaus. He beamed back at her, chuckling when she leaped into his arms and wrapped herself around him like a koala. His grin grew as she repeatedly kissed his face and he spun her around playfully until she dropped her legs back down and leaned over the balcony pointing at the beach excitedly.

"It's so beautiful!" She gasped but he wasn't looking at the landscape, he was just looking at her. "Where are we?" she whispered, her soft voice expressing her astonishment.

"Italy" he answered with a smile as she turned to face him in amazement, "Amalfi Coast to be exact" he added and she squealed.

"For how long?" she asked excitedly and he shrugged

"For as long as you would like" he told her simply and she practically bounced where she stood.

Klaus eventually coaxed her into the hotel room, surprising her further as she was overwhelmed by the valentines theme spread throughout the apartment.

Heart shaped balloons rest in the corners of each room, pink and red candles made the hotel smell heavenly and a sweet little meditation area was set up in the lounge. Their bedroom was covered in heart shaped pillows and roses. Y/n was expressing her appreciation all night before finally resting, her mind filled with anticipation of what would come the following day.

Morning arrived and they spent valentines day on the water, giggling and smiling as they spotted dolphins and reached their hands into the sea to see the fish shimmer. Klaus braided her hair and gradually slotted more and more little flowers into the strands as they day went by.

They ate at a sweet little place just down the road from where they were staying before heading to a cocktail bar and finally laying against the coast, watching as the sun hid below the ocean line and the moon slowly found its way to the top.

"I've always loved the moon" Y/n whispered softly, looking at Klaus from where her head lay on his chest. "It's so peaceful but so powerful, you know?"

"Just like you" he uttered and her heart melted

Klaus's gaze remained on her as her cheeks blushed rose and her eyes softened to the point where he worried that he had made her cry. A singular tear slipped past her eyes before she kissed his lips and tucked her head under his chin comfortably.

"I love you" she mumbled, her voice weak as he wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled the top of her hair.

"I love you so much more, my little valentine"

[torsamors]

So Much (For) Stardust + (some) of my favorite lyrics from each song (id in alt text + artworks below the cut)

Artwork: Zhiyong Jing - Untitled, Suhaylah H - untitled/green landscape, Untitled - Georgia O’Keefe, James Whistler - Nocturne in Black and Gold The Falling Rocket, James Hervat, Waldemar Fink - Evening in Adelboden, Emily Kame Kngwarreye - Of Rare Winter Rain, Fumihiro Kato - Last of the Summer Wine, Zhiyong Jing - C’mere, Niall Naessens - Artist Observing Moonrise From the Sea, Caspar David Friedrich - The Evening Star, Ivan Aivazovsky - Shipwreck on Stormy Seas, Xie Lei - Blow

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Laurence Olivier (Hamlet, Rebecca, Pride and Prejudice)—Any reference article will tell you that he's one of the finest stage actors of the 20th century and (arguably) contributed to transforming the landscape of live theater in the Anglophone world. But this is the Tumblr hot men poll, where it is arguably more important to know that he was an incredibly charming bi disaster who eye-fucked Vivien Leigh so conspicuously that everyone talked about it, both before and after their marriage. I do not have words for how hot this man was. I once sat under a portrait of him in black velvet and tights in the NPG cafeteria, and let me tell you I remember that so much better than my sandwich. I listened to a recording of him as Coriolanus on stage and got full-body chills. I photographed his copy of Richard III in the Folger Shakespeare Library for the sake of seeing his handwriting and his thoughts. ...okay, so I may have a problem, but the point is. So hot. And delivered one of the iconic pre-1970 lines about bisexuality on film ("oysters *and* snails," Spartacus 1963.)

Harry Belafonte (Carmen Jones, Island in the Sun)—one of my favorite things in the world when I'm sad is kicking back and listening to him and Danny Kaye singing "Hava Nagila" together. Or who can forget this man singing the Banana Boat song with the Muppets?? immensely talented, a powerful fighter for civil rights and humanitarian causes his whole life, if you have any remaining doubts PLEASE look at the following pics [clips and pics attached below]

This is round 3 of the bracket. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage man.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

Harry Belafonte propaganda:

"Now let me say this about the songs of the Caribbean - almost all black music is deeply rooted in metaphor. The only way that we could speak to the pain and anguish of our experiences was often through how we codified our stories in the songs that we sang. And when I sing the 'Banana Boat Song,' the song is a work song. It's about men who sweat all day long, and they are underpaid, and they're begging the tallyman to come and give them an honest count - counting the bananas that I've picked, so I can be paid. And sometimes, when they couldn't get money, they'll give them a drink of rum. There's a lyric in the song that says, 'Work all night on a drink of rum.' People sing and delight and dance and love it, but they don't really understand unless they study the song that they're singing a work song, a song of rebellion." -Harry Belafonte

Laurence Olivier propaganda:

"THEE actor man. You can't take theater classes and not know about this man. THEE Hamlet. Look at this lil blondie. VERY talented. (we are ignoring him also playing Othello, no he should not have done that) He was a pretty baby"

[dystopia-incognito]

Male Werewolf x Female Reader

Warning: NSFW (minors DNI) contains sex/dubcon A short spicy story of 1,977 words about a young woman encountering a werewolf.

A little side note: I NEVER write, I'm a nervous wreck for just posting this. That being said.. I wrote this little dabble specifically for a very special person the night before their birthday as a surprise and I might never actually finish it. Do enjoy it for what it is, though! <3

Freedom. In a tranquil corner of the world, nestled by the edge of a serene lake, Y/N found her escape from the bustling village that had kept her busy for far too long. The cool, inviting water lapped gently at her feet as she sat on the grassy shore, her emotions swirling like a symphony. It was the first sensation that washed over her. As her toes touched the water's surface, she felt liberated. Here, away from the ceaseless demands of her family and the never-ending chores of the village, she could finally breathe. By this quiet lake, she could be herself, unburdened by obligations. She smiled and hiked up her modest dress a little higher to not get it wet, the lush grass beneath her bare legs seemed to embrace her like a lover. Overhead, the leaves rustled like ancient scrolls, and the rhythmic ripples of the lake provided a soothing lullaby. In this moment, she merged seamlessly with the natural world, an integral part of a harmonious landscape. The water's gentle caress on her ankles brought forth sheer delight. She wiggled her toes, savouring the exquisite sensation. With each movement, every ripple she created in the water, she found a wellspring of unadulterated joy. Her laughter echoed, blending harmoniously with the songs of the birds in the nearby trees. Her gaze was drawn to the horizon, where the sun's golden glow painted the sky with hues of orange and pink. Her thoughts wandered to the future, where dreams and aspirations converged. Her heart swelled with optimism and a sense of adventure, as if the world itself were an open book, waiting for her to write its next chapter. It was a future where her heart would find its truest desires, where every sunrise held the promise of new adventures, and where her spirit would soar unburdened.

As the sun descended lower, casting elongated shadows across the water's surface, she closed her eyes for a moment. The soft breeze gently played with her hair and gently kissed her cheeks, carrying the fragrant scent of the surrounding pines. It was a tranquil pause, a chance to gather her thoughts amidst the serenity of her secluded haven. But as the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting the forest clearing in a deepening twilight, she suddenly became aware of a presence. It was a sensation she couldn't ignore, a feeling that sent a shiver down her spine. Beyond the familiar forest clearing that had always felt like her refuge, something new and unsettling had emerged.

The tranquil harmony of nature seemed disrupted as if an intruder had entered this sacred space. She stood up slowly, brushing her out of her face, slipping hastily into her boots, her heart pounding with an inexplicable mixture of curiosity and trepidation. She scanned the tree line, her eyes straining to pierce the gathering darkness. And there, between the dense shrubbery and shadowy trees, she saw it— a pair of eyes glowing with an eerie luminescence. The intensity of their gaze sent a chill through her, and she felt a sense of foreboding. She considered the possibilities: perhaps it was a lone wolf, their eyes reflecting the fading light. Or, in the depths of her imagination, a more ominous thought took root— a creature of legend and terror.

As she slowly retreated from the water's edge, she couldn't tear her eyes away from those glowing orbs in the darkness. Her instincts told her to be cautious, to respect the untamed wildness of the forest, and to tread carefully as she made her way home. With each step, she couldn't shake the feeling that the presence she had sensed was something beyond the ordinary, something that had been drawn to the tranquil haven she had sought for solace and reflection. The mystery of those glowing eyes haunted her thoughts as she ventured back toward the village, journeying through the forest's depths. With a heart pounding in her chest, she hurriedly attempted to make her way back through the dark forest.

Fear of the possible threat had her senses on edge, and as she ventured deeper, an unsettling disorientation began to grip her. The once-familiar forest now felt foreign, as if the trees had rearranged themselves while her attention was drawn to the mysterious presence by the lake. Thick greenery pressed in from all sides, making it difficult to discern one path from another. The foliage seemed to conspire, creating an eerie sameness that made every turn look alike. Her footsteps, once confident, now faltered as uncertainty took hold. Panic threatened to consume her as she feared she had strayed from her familiar way home. The forest's natural beauty had transformed into an intimidating maze, where every tree and every shadow appeared as a deceptive mirror image of the last. As the encroaching darkness deepened, she battled her rising anxiety, pushing her body through the underbrush, trying to remember the landmarks she'd used countless times to navigate these woods.

It was a race against time and her fear, an urgent attempt to find her way back to the safety of the village before the night's secrets fully unfurled, and her fear of the unknown became a reality. As the unsettling sense of being stalked by what she could only assume to be a werewolf tightened its grip on her, she felt a growing unease that urged her to flee. Panic and adrenaline coursed through her veins, driving her to her feet as she started running through the dark forest. With each pounding step, her surroundings grew increasingly unfamiliar. Trees loomed like shadowy sentinels, and the underbrush seemed to tangle at her feet. She ran aimlessly, her heart thundering in her chest as she picked up speed, the urgency of escape driving her forward. In the oppressive darkness, the sound of her breath and the rush of her footsteps filled her ears. But then, she began to hear something else— a haunting, primal sound echoing through the trees. It was the unmistakable sound of pursuit, the creature she had feared drawing nearer with each passing moment.

The relentless rhythm of its power and grace echoed in her ears, a chilling reminder of the danger that chased her through the labyrinthine forest. She dared not glance back, for the terror had become all too real, her only thought was to find her way to safety in this perilous game of survival amidst the darkness. Her heart was pounding in her ears and her limbs failing her as she ran through the forest, her breath ragged and laboured, each step became a monumental effort. In her desperate flight, she suddenly tripped over a gnarled root, sprawling to the forest floor. Pain seared through her, but adrenaline surged through her veins. She scrambled to get up but hit the ground again, exhausted she realized, her escape had come to a heartbreaking halt.

Her body refused to obey her commands, with trembling limbs she lay there, chest heaving as she fought her burning lungs to breathe. She snapped her head up to look around, her nightmare had vanished into the shadows but she knew it was only a matter of time before it would catch up to her again. Willing herself to move, she managed to roll onto her back, peering into the direction she had come from as her eyes adjusted to the darkness surrounding her. Long minutes passed, and then over the sound of the blood rushing in her ears, she heard it — rustling of leaves and twigs, the eerie whisper of fur against the night air. The werewolf, with one giant leap, emerged from the shadows and fixed its feral eyes upon her.

Frozen in fear, she felt unable to breathe, dwarfed by its imposing size, she could feel the creature's hot breath as it drew near on all fours, coming as close as to hover over her. The scent of the forest and the wildness of the beast enveloped her, and for a moment that stretched into eternity, they remained locked in a tense and inexplicable stillness. Y/N couldn't tear her eyes away from the werewolf's gaze, and the creature's intelligent eyes seemed to calculate the situation, caught between predatory instincts and fascination with her presence. Then, with a hesitant and almost tender movement, the werewolf lowered its large head and sniffed her.

It was a surrealistically intimate moment, where the boundaries between fear and curiosity blurred into something she couldn't comprehend. Y/N, still frozen in place, allowed it to happen, her heart pounding in her chest. The forest rustled, the night held its breath and she and the this wild beast existed in a tense and enigmatic moment. She now was at the mercy of the unknown. Not knowing what the future held, in that fragile moment of shared vulnerability, something unexpected had passed between them.

…

And then the spell was abruptly broken as it leaned in, got a hold of her face, and licked it. Its tongue left long clammy strokes over her cheek and down the side of her neck. With its wet snout, it nudged the low neckline of her dress for access. She gasped and thrashed in sheer surprise, struggling to get away, but the werewolf muscled her back firmly to the lush forest floor. It withdrew slightly to look at her, growling a low, possessive warning which vibrated through her very being. In horror, she watched the beast's thick, viscous drool drip from its fangs and felt it land with a deliberate and heavy splat onto her chest. Shivers ran down her spine as the invasive syrupy substance tenaciously clung to the soft slopes of her rising and falling chest, lazily pooling down into her cleavage as it glistened in the dim moonlight.

She could only expect the worst, powerless, as it continued to sniff her. Its keen sense of smell and big paws explored her curvacious body, moving downwards to dip underneath the hem of her dress, sending her nerves on edge. Its snout then pushed upwards, moving her dress along with the motion, to nuzzle apart her thick trembling thighs. Her fingers dug into the fresh earth beneath her and her skin prickled as goosebumps appeared all over her body, But before she could even flinch it let her know once more, and quite vocally, she wasn't allowed to move. Taking two deep huffs of her, the werewolf's hot breath washed over her sex. A strangled noise escaped her, and then, without any warning, it hungrily began lapping at her. The sudden sheer sensation of it drew a high-pitched wail from her lips, like a wounded animal, her body curled in on itself, thighs clamping down weakly around its powerful head. Her hands shot down to grab white-knuckled fists full of the beast's thick mane as it continued, absolutely unbothered, to wetly slobber away at her. And it was too much at once. Her stomach tied in knots, and she shook with mixed emotions tumbling away inside her, even if pleasure slowly but surely bloomed in her core. Then the creature's head snapped up, licking its lips as sure goal-set glowing eyes met hers to stare her back down into submission, into the moss and dancing leaves beneath her. She was overwhelmed by it, the werewolf's sheer masculinity and assertive power made her feel more vulnerable than if she were completely exposed to him. It, on the other hand, wasted no time and grabbed at her, pulling her in and pushing her back against his hips eagerly. Her insides contracted involuntarily as it ripped at her dress for easier access to more of her body. She was met with throbbing heat on her newly exposed skin, carnal desire and the sheer size of Him against her tummy. Her mouth went dry with the realisation of what would happen next..

- FIN

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Detour 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Thor

Summary: You find yourself stranded in a small village.

Part of the Backwoods AU

Note: So this is an idea I had for a while but I just know I wouldn't get to do it full length for chapters but I hope it's fun.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You watch the green landscape pass outside the window. The tow truck rattles, almost to a concerning degree, as it chuffs down the winding country road. The driver, a man who calls himself Vol, sings along loudly to the radio as you make yourself small in the passenger seat.

This isn’t how you saw your road trip going. You don’t understand why something always has to go wrong. Even with your utmost efforts, there’s always some hitch.

You go over it all in your head. An oil change, standard check-up, some adjustments. All that on a nearly new model and you still ended up stranded. A flat tire but you don’t have a spare. The man promises one back at his shop. 

Whatever it costs, you don’t care. You’re annoyed at the time spent on this ridiculous mishap. It does seem to occur often that each time you attempt to do something for yourself, that there must be some disaster. It’s why you haven’t tried anything of the sort in years.

You look in the mirror and see the edge of your car strapped to the bed of the truck. You should’ve done the train. The view along the cross country rail is allegedly quite resplendent but you didn’t like the idea of having to abide by a schedule not your own. Once again, your stubbornness nips you in the rear.

The man slaps the steering wheel along to the beat of the music. You don’t mind the song, it’s considered a classic of the genre, but does it need to be so loud? You cross your arms and huff, the noise of your displeasure drowned out by the crackling speakers.

Country houses stand on hills and fields sprawl with freshly sowed fields. You try to imagine a life here, away from the bustling furor of the city. That thought makes your chest want to collapse. You couldn’t do it. You are urban to the core.

As you come to the heart of the village, the houses are placed closer but not clustered. Only along the sparse row of their ‘downtown’ do buildings dare to touch. It’s after five and the shops are all closed for the day.

“Garage is just behind Mary’s place,” the man turns down the radio, “we’ll get a better look at the damage.” He assures you, peeking at you in the rear view, “these old country roads aren’t meant for speeding.”

“I wasn’t…” you cut yourself off. You won’t argue. You just want a new tire, “right, thank you.”

He chuckles, nonplussed by your curtness. He steers around another long bend in the road. Why must everything be so tedious and slow? He shuttles up to a bright red structure that resembles a barn. Across the moniker, hand painted nonetheless, is the name Volstagg’s. He flips the stick to park and kills the engine.

“Here,” he proclaims, pausing as his eyes pinpoint through the windshield, “ah, of course.”

He clicks his seat belt and lets it repel. He swings open the door so violently it shakes the entire vehicle. You furrow your brow as he hops down and hollers. What on earth is he doing?

“...working. What d’you want?” Is all you catch through his chortling grit.

“Good to see you too, friend,” another voice counters, even deeper and smooth like silk. Great, another of the village folk.

You undo your seat belt and check your reflection in the side mirror. You open the door and plant your heel on the little metal step below the door. You let yourself down but stumble at the still jarring height of the truck cabin. You cling to the door as you gain your balance.

You shut it with a creak and a clang. Your soles mulch in the dusty gravel as you follow the voices. You clear your throat, facing the men chattering on the other side of the truck. You bring your hands to your hips in a show of your irritation.

“Hullo,” you sneer, “my tire, sir.”

The bearded redhead, Vol, and his companion, a blond even taller and blonder, look over at you with curious expressions. Their faces tint from surprised to amused. You want to roll your eyes. Your stature rarely affords you dignity.

“Yes, ma’am,” the redhead shows his large palm apologetically, “forgive me,” he faces the other man, “as you see, I have work to do.”

“So I see,” the other man drawls, his gaze stuck on you, “you are visiting Hammer Ford?” 

You curl your lip, “never. Passing through,” you turn and stride away, towards the front of the building as Vol gets back in his truck. 

The blond jogs in front of the high bumper, waving at the driver, as he crosses over to you. You keep your back to him as you strut up the edge of the dirt lot. You try to ignore him as you watch the mechanic angle around to bring your car along the front of the garage, steering the bed towards the doors.

“Passing through. On your way to…?”

“None of your concern,” you sniff, “I only need a new tire and I’ll be gone.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. This is a lovely village. Quaint. You might like it here,” he muses, “a woman like yourself, you might find it novel.”

“A woman like me?” You challenge, facing him at last, well, facing his torso. You look up, “how am I like, sir?”

“Well, from the city presumably,” he tosses back as if mocking your tone, “city folk tend to endear themselves to the quiet here.”

“Mmm,” you accept with a purse of your lips, “I’ll be off as soon as my tire is fixed. I have more important places to be.”

“Fair,” he shrugs, “you do seem rather… important.” He emphasizes the last word, echoing your own statement. You squint and turn away again. You’ll be gone soon enough.

“Vol,” he spins with a holler, bounding off to bother the other man as he works at placing the loading ramps against the truck bed, “before I go…”

His voice trails off as he claps the other man’s shoulder, his volume dropping notably. You slowly drag your heels towards them, receiving another glimpse from the blond’s sea blue eyes. He smirks before he releases his comrade from his bearlike grasp.

“Good day, lady,” he bows his head in exaggerated gallantry, “not to worry, Volstagg always takes special care of the pretty ones.”

[youcalledmebabe]

my favorite bits of babe lore from brothers in battle, best of friends:

As a kid Babe used to hang out in the laundromat “so the nuns wouldn’t see us and put us to work”

In his late teens Babe and his friends rented a room and made “a dance hall called the shindig”

He liked jumping out of planes: “I found it to be exhilarating. I loved my first jump. I wasn’t scared at all…. As I looked at the landscape I always thought about the beauty of God’s work.”

It’s no wonder Doris dumped him. He didn’t go see her his last weekend before Europe. Of a time he did go to see her, he says “It was the most boring few hours I could’ve spent. I wasn’t much for the broads anyway, never one for sitting and holding hands. I liked hanging out with the guys more than anything else.”

According to Bill, “Babe was an expert jitterbugger, danced all night with the broads; they lined up to jitterbug with him. He won contests too.”

Babe had beef with Peacock too, he says he “never liked” him. Bill echoes this

Babe talks a lot about Spina but only mentions Doc Roe. So not only is Tom Hanks into rpf but he’s into rarepairs

Babe liked to sing “old Irish songs” and according to bill was “pretty good.”

Babe was the one who said that they’d die in a state of grace in Bastogne after Mass.

A guy tried to feel up Babe in the fox hole because he was dreaming about his wife. Babe says “they didn’t use that story in the movie. They want everyone to think we’re all American boys!” honestly shocked tom hanks didn’t put this in as a baberoe scene

This was a decent read. I’d rank it well below Parachute Infantry (which is maybe unfair because Web was an actual writer and this is like a transcribed oral history) but I still enjoyed it. The chapters written by the actors who played babe and bill were interesting too

[floweroflaurelin]

So Pixlriffs’ finale is a masterpiece and I’m experiencing a lot of emotions right now ✨🌻✨

For my own reference I made a transcript of the monologue and thought I might as well share it! It's under the cut to avoid spoilers but the whole first 8ish minutes of his video are typed out. I recommend watching at least that much, if you haven’t yet, because it’s really something worth hearing.

We are not done.

Not yet.

Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But before they fade into obscurity, as so many events do, there is one more story left to be told.

[It is the Story

of

the World.]

It’s important to remind ourselves that history is an account of events remembered—and there are so few left who remember, so it mingles with myth and hearsay, folklore and fireside stories. This is the account of just one man, and others may recall the tale differently. Others still may decide to change the narrative to suit their own ends. And this, it must be said, is no bad thing. So it goes.

[Sun setting

over

our Creation.]

—

In a long-lost age before records truly began, our world was built by Titans (or so it is said). The lands they created became home to people who would seek to emulate and even to surpass that act of creation, and that would eventually bring about their destruction. But destruction is simply part of a cycle. Nothing is ever truly lost.

Those who foresaw the destruction fled before it could bring the walls of their homes down around them. And many who had been downtrodden and overlooked saw it as their chance to find a new life for themselves.

Thus began a great migration, leaving behind the old nations of the world and striking out for somewhere new, a life untethered from the follies of their former state. And though the road was long and treacherous, and many fell behind in the wake of such an awful endeavour, new bonds were forged in the fires of adversity.

As time passed, and more joined the great caravan, the host became a nation of its own, a glorious congregation sharing one purpose, singing the same resolute song. Though the road was long, they were homeward bound.

And a home they found nestled in a mountainous landscape, one that might have been carved by the very bones of the gods themselves. There they planted roots, drank deep from the water, and continued to grow. The farmers sowed new fields and raised new flocks. The work of many hands turned to building a new city. And together the architects conceived a castle upon a great plateau that would stand as a monument to their past apart and their future together. To them, the castle itself would tell the Story of the World.

Stone-whisperers from Mythland and the Grimlands, well-versed in masonry of all kinds, sculpted its walls from the abundant rock of the nearby mountains quarried for the glory of their new capital. They wrought rock and iron, carved and timbered their great halls, and raised mighty towers to stand atop the grand cliff.

The mages of the Crystal Cliffs brought knowledge of magic and the beauty of gemstones, and theirs was the sanctum at the heart of the castle, ever-seated at the Ruler’s left hand: their shield and protector.

A tribute was raised to Gilded Helianthia, whose ruler was still revered in the hearts and minds of many, and in time she became their warden against the spectres of the past, carrying the twin burdens of light and shadow on her shoulders; a burden with which the people of Rivendell were all too familiar.

And below, far below, the engineers of Pixandria sought to reproduce the jewel of their empire. A mechanism that would surpass the work of the Copper King himself.

Not all who came to found the Ancient Capital remained for long. Like dandelion seeds, the people of the Overgrown were scattered on the wind, alighting on the mountaintops and valleys. The vast majority of them came to settle in the rolling meadows of Chromia, which was renowned for the richness and beauty of its dyes for lifetimes after.

In the absence of their king, the nation of Mezelea resettled in new badlands, establishing laws and ordinances of their own. Many of them had been armour stands before the king imbued them with life, and some found this a hard habit to shake.

The people of the Cod and Ocean empires, bereft of the waters that gave them life, took to diving in the rocky pools of vast caverns and their affinity for stone grew. Over many generations they adapted, becoming the green-skinned race that folk came to know as goblins—their pointed ears the only remaining vestige of the fins they had once had.

For the gnomes of the Undergrove, this was a homecoming! They had long dwelled here before their exodus through the Nether and the fairy circles of the Evermoore welcomed them with open arms.

And the villagers of the Lost Empire, hiding in plain sight amongst the caravan of peoples, sought to find a place where they would be unburdened by this facade of humanity, standing at last on their own two feet.

But the boundaries of this land were ever-changing, and the nations soon found the cataclysm they had left behind had weakened the walls between their world and others. Waters rose and fell unpredictably; incursions from other realms were possible, bringing chaos in their wake. The tide of history churned and rippled.

None now remember how the Capital fell, only that its remains have lasted: an epitaph to all they had achieved together.

And just like before, new nations would arise. The pirates of Eversea ruled the waters from their secret cove. The inventors of Cogsmeade arrived sailing in from the air on their skyships—only to find whole buildings floating in the golden kingdom of Stratos. Rumours abounded of a Sanctuary hidden in the deepest jungle for those who knew the way.

Their tales are better told by those who knew them well. Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But for this tired historian, it is perhaps best to leave these things in the past and begin to look towards the future.

For whatever comes next, we who have sown the seeds can only hope for a bountiful harvest.