#the deeper you go into the tomb | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

Note

Hiya! I’m so happy your requests are open omg your writing is impeccable. So I’ve been with this concept in my head for so long since I read this prompt somewhere: what is with your weird fascination with me?

And just immediately my head started creating a story about reader having the nickname ‘Death’ because she has the highest body count known, skilled as no other and, also, imposible to know on a deeper level because she is like a wall, not letting anyone in. Until John Price needs her for a mission and is, as the prompt says, fascinated by her (and feeling other things he doesn’t want to admit), and is able to break her a little when he gets hurt in a mission after months of working together.

Glory to the Reaper

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: He was strange, you admitted to yourself. Always around even when you didn't want him to be. But perhaps the Brit just might surprise you.

WORDCOUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, gore, canon typical violence, avoidance tactics, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: I switched around the codename but it's still the same plot! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your eyes slip over the file on the table, slowly caressing the parchment with easy and careful consideration of every word and comma—searching. Focusing. You hum under your breath and slide the page away to spy on the one behind it, the room quiet and the air cold. Outside the window the entire compound is asleep, only the light of the street lamps illuminating the land; inside this office, your feet barely shuffle over the tuft of the rug.

Clicking your tongue, you go to the next document in the pile.

The still-warm body flinches and jerks below you, but you barely notice—he hadn’t put up much of a fight; wasn’t memorable. Sighing and itching over the mask along the bottom of your face, you snatch the last six papers from the desk and fold them four times, stuffing them into your vest pocket.

Stalking with sure steps, you press into the radio on your gear as you step over the body and head to the door. Bloody bootprints follow behind you like a crimson shadow of surefire death.

“Actual, intel secured. Heading to Evac now.” Laswell was listening intently on the other end, your Op of the highest priority.

You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, surely. The small click from the other end greets you as you shove open the office’s door and saunter down the hallway paved with glints of marble and pools of viscera like a Roman horror story. Eyes numbly slide past the scores of bodies; necks slit and stomachs burst from bullets fired through silencers.

“Good job, Tomb,” Laswell utters, voice fast and serious as always. “What’s the clean-up status?”

Your lips flinch upward, “I suggest fire and a prayer, Actual. But no one knows I’m here. Main house is neutralized.”

A small pause later and a huff of dull amusement.

“Copy, Tomb. Your ride is waiting—best not to miss it, we need you back sooner than later.” The structure of your lungs rearranges in a small chuckle that echoes off the ceiling; molten silver from the moon slips over your darkened form. The patch upon your right shoulder is illuminated in steady intervals, the familiar image of a mausoleum and a guarding Sphinx.

Alone, that patch is, with no other dark affiliations beyond that demonic cause. Many see it right before they meet their end, but the insignia was entirely left to ruin—no one sees it and lives besides other soldiers.

“Copy.” Your voice is easy and bland as the curtains from the single open window shake in the breeze. “Tell the boys I’m on my way.” You pass the window and slap a gloved hand to it, hearing the squeak of the frame as it hits back down before you turn the corner, slinking away to reform into a figure that evokes grim glances and sliced sentences.

—

You stare into blue eyes with a sheen of disinterest coating your own, hands stuffed into your pockets and gear heavy on your chest. From your shoulder, the strap of your rifle sits as you speak, tilting your head, “Captain Jonathan Price of Task Force 141.”

The man was tall, you admit, fit and formed to harsh military life. Undoublity he’d been in the service for decades. You’d seen his face before—the brunette beard and the strong jaw; small eyes with wrinkles, it’s how you had ID’d him. Plus the bucket hat. Laswell had told you he’d been inquiring about your file and you’d done your own digging off the books.

John grunts a greeting before nodding.

“Pleasure. Tomb, was it?” On the tarmac, you glance around with stiff shoulders as the blades of the helicopter slow down behind you. Morning was just on the horizon, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the flight back.

Lips thin, before your vision slides back into place. John’s hands are crossed casually, but his blue holds glints of intrigue. You don’t like that. “...The one and only. Excuse me.”

Walking past, you move like a crane, legs taking long, steady, strides. A hand comes up to scratch at your cheek through your face covering. Laswell was expecting you immediately.

And those feet at your side were not supposed to be there. Your eyes shimmer lowly at the shadow of John as he follows.

“Should tell you that Laswell’s in building two, then.” Pace halting, the Captain continues off on his own as your sharp gaze burns into his neck. He spares a glance over his expansive shoulder before adjusting his course to the East. “Told me to bring you to her. We need to have a little chat, yeah?”

You stay silent, watching John travel to the larger building where Laswell was apparently now waiting for you. After a still minute where you listen to the birds waking up and the scent of dew is in your hidden nostrils, you sigh deeply and roll your shoulders before beginning to walk behind.

“Hm,” Garbled grunts are only heard by you as you stay well enough back from the man. Cautious as you stare at his head.

He holds the door open for you when you finally make it, and you stand blankly from the opening as John’s calloused hand clenches over the door. When you don’t enter, the Captain shakes his head and releases a deep chuckle.

“Alright, then,” he mutters, shuffling through the door first. You follow the strain of his back until you look away and reach for the barrier, pushing it back from you. Making your way inside, you sigh and wonder what you’re getting into.

“Laswell said you don’t like strangers,” eyes peek back at you as the buzzing from the overhead lights echoes in your ears. Your throat releases a hum; shoulders showing a picture of wound ease. “Can’t say she’s wrong, now can you?”

Watching another soldier pass the two of you, you tilt your head to make sure the stranger’s footsteps turn the corner before you answer John’s question with a raised brow to mirror his own.

“Did she also tell you that I don’t plan on joining One-Four-One, Captain?” His bearded smirk catches you slightly off-guard, perplexed by not even the hint of shock in his gaze. He’d done his research.

John grunts as his eyelids narrow, amused. Your muscles tense.

“Affirmative.” The meeting room door is opened and this time he allows you to ease your paranoia by slinking in first.

In the room sits an occupied Laswell, a long table, a projector, and black-out windows. Confused but used to last-minute changes, you simply enter silently and pick a chair with your back to the wall and a good view of the room.

“Laswell,” you utter in greeting as the woman hums a hello, shifting through numerous files. In your breast pocket, you pull out the files you’d stolen and toss them onto the wood. John stands near the entrance with crossed arms, hips shifting every so often as his feet re-situate themselves.

He blinks down at the papers and then back to you with a careful glance at Kate.

Your Station Chief chuckles when she looks at you, tilting her head before she snatches the prize.

“Good work as always, Tomb.”

“Why is he here?” You get to the point, one hand going up to brush over your hair as the other sits limply on the seat’s arm. Your gear sits heavy on you, but that brutal tic of curiosity blooms.

John’s lips twitch before he answers, “An offer. Knew I wouldn’t be able to meet if Laswell wasn’t the mediator, eh? You’re bloody difficult to track down.”

“Offer?” Small talk never mattered to you, hadn’t since you’d signed up, and probably never would. You didn’t understand why people beat around the bush—just say what you need to say and get it over with. There was only so much time in a day.

It seemed John Price carried part of that opinion as well.

Blunt, you admit to your opinion of the man, and sure of his strengths.

“I need your skill set.” Kate looks back and forth between you two before she focuses on her work, multitasking. John continues, pointing a hand at you in demonstration from their hold on his chest. “Mission in three days. Turkey…” He watches you closely as if gauging your abilities. “You in or out?”

You wait in a dim silence for a minute or two before you tilt your body to Laswell, eyes still stuck in stormy blue and pale wrinkles inlaid with dirt.

“Kate?”

“Totally off the books,” the woman says confidently, pen sliding over paper. “Two targets in Bursa. There’s a file in your office.” Raising a brow, John hides his cheeky smile behind a bored mask.

“Take your Lieutenant,” you glare, “Ghost, was it?”

Price shakes his head, hat flinching along with it. “On assignment. I’ll need an answer today, Tomb. Time’s ticking.”

Your jaw clenches in annoyance, “Capture or kill?”

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Either. Is this a yes or a no?”

In this game of cat and mouse, you find yourself slipping. Your obligations as a soldier call to you to take the mission immediately, but for the simple fact that this Captain was unknown to you—and apparently, you weren’t unknown to him.

John was checking all of the boxes of people you didn’t like to be around.

Your voice grits out, eyes burning in their glare, “...When?”

His smirk makes you want to storm out.

“Tomorrow. 1300.” The air in the room is thick, tense like a thick layer of molasses was overtop everything. Under the table, your foot taps to the steady beat of your heart, your face tensed, and the layers of your facemask suddenly too formed to your neck and chin.

Twitching your nose you dig your eyes into John, peeling down his expansive shoulders and chest to take in the layers of packs and other miscellaneous items. His thigh holders and the way they hug his legs. You end with one last dead-on look into his eyes, trying to pinpoint intentions and flay the lines of his brain.

Most people glance away, but John returns the look with a casual tilt of his head and a raised brow. Not at all off-put.

Your hand steadily clenches over the chair.

All you give him is a firm nod—nothing more than a mere jerk of your chin. Kate sighs from where she’d been watching.

“Perfect. John,” she points her pen at the Captain as you both stare off. John grunts before his eyes flicker to the side, leisurely roving back moments later. You blink and rub your forehead. “You have your answer. Now would the both of you get the fuck out of here?”

“Copy, Kate.” John sighs, and you huff; standing as you plan out the amount of time you have to clean up and sleep before you have to leave. With an easy brush of your shoulders, your form shimmies past the Captain with dull enthusiasm.

You weren’t happy about this, but fine. You’ve been through worse.

As you shuffle down the hallway to the armory, your ears quirk when the footsteps ring in the drums of your ears like a hiking beacon. Already you’d memorized the walking pattern.

The thump-bump, bump-thump, of boots and the clink-clank of metal on metal. Shoving down a growl you hiss out into the air, not turning around.

“Problem, Price?” A gruff humph bounces.

“Negative, Tomb.” His shadow comes to conjoin with yours, large body standing side-by-side. Eyes flash to the side of your face, hidden from all by the cloth—like a bored cat, you continue to pave your way to silence; hoping whatever thought this man had in his head would disappear. “Just curious, see.”

“Curious?” your brow raises, the make of your muscles showing your unease. “Can’t help you with that.”

“No, probably not, eh?” John grunts and reiterates as strange emotion spikes in the lines of his face as he glances along you. “Tomorrow. 1300. Don’t be late.” With nothing more, he halts and pivots, peeling back to leave your side as his sudden absence leaves you devoid of heat.

Confusion breeds in your chest, but your steady legs carry you on until your tension leaves. Under your breath you utter a question as you enter the armory, shuffling your rifle off of your chest. “What the hell was that about?”

—

Price and you stand inside the safehouse with fast hearts and narrowed eyes. Blood was dripping down your hands, the black gloves flooded with gore that sure as hell doesn’t belong to you.

“Fuck,” John growls, guttural reverberations echoing off the walls. With stiff ribs, you go and lightly peel back the fabric of the nearest window to study the street below; looking for any suspicious figures. Frowning, you see nothing and let the curtain fall, eyes wafting to the Captain.

“We either lost them or they have surveillance on the building. Best for you to not leave either way.” The mission had gone sideways—apparently one of the targets had an ID on John as a member of One-Four-One. One thing led to another and resulted in you sticking a knife into some man’s gut to get away when he’d been spotted. You blink at his agitated expression, the black beanie on his head ruffled as he runs a hand over it.

But you don’t say anything else. Peeling off your gloves, you listen to him as a rain of blood splatters the carpet.

“This sets us back—since when does bloody fuckin’ Metin Baydar know who I am?” John’s hands are clenched, jaw so tight you wonder if his molars will crack under the pressure. A smirk twitches your lips at the thought. “Tomb,” you slowly tilt your eyes to him. The man sets his lips and crosses his arms, the brown casual wear in his chest bunching. “I’ll need you to be my eyes on this, yeah? If I leave this position I jeopardize your safety.”

“My safety?” you huff a laugh and push your gloves into your loose pants. “Captain, I don’t need you to worry about my safety.”

He seems to pause for a moment, and with a shake of his head his blue eyes shutter closed. A deep, tight, breath is taken and those tiny lids are forced back as you lock gazes. You send a blank look his way and he nods firmly.

“Keep low.” Is all he grunts, feet standing apart and his stare intense. “Copy?”

A swirl of amusement dances in your gut—you tap the earpiece in your shell with a stained streak of blood on your fingers. John stares, unreadable.

“I’ll leave when the streets cool. Just keep on the line so I can relay my intel, Price.” After a moment of silence, your eyes tighten with intrigue. “How do you wonder Baydar knew your face?” Standing by the window again, you peek out and keep John in view. His form shuffles, and he scoffs before walking beside you. Over your shoulder, he also views the buildings and businesses below. You still at the sensation of his breath on the back of your head, hand twitching over the curtain. It ruffles your hair for a moment before you snap out of it, eyes blinking rapidly. “Your Task Force isn’t exactly known,” you finish your sentence, voice strained.

Clearing his throat, as if realizing how close he’d gotten with only the intention of gazing outside, the man’s form jerks back; taking a step or two away to give you distance. Your far-gone eyes blankly continue to look outside but your chest gains some tension to it. You don’t know why.

This Brit is strange. You frown, watching a cat traverse the concrete far below. Not that I really have much to go off of.

“Haven’t a clue.” John sighs again, one hand going to itch at his chin. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing I do know is that we have to fix this. Now.”

“You should tell Laswell,” you mutter, turning around and walking past him to stand around your packs—all of which hold your gear. Your knife was set into a small sheath inside your shirt, leather wrapped around your waist as you stopped near the coffee table. You pull the lip of your clothes up and grasp at it before peeling the metal out with an inquisitive eye.

If there was any breakage to the tip, you’d be furious.

John watches from across the room, catching glances at your bare skin riddled with scars and burns; unmarred flesh foreign. He feels his breath hitch before you drop your shirt back down and bring the blade into the light.

Holding it parallel, you gaze along the edge and tilt your head, eyelids half-closed.

“Kate?” Price answers you, clearing his throat. “No, it’s better not to create any more shite. She’ll be good off not knowing, yeah?” The brunette’s brow raises in question.

You hum and don’t reply.

The rest of the mission was spent with the two of you conversing over the open line of your comms as you scoured the streets for any sign of the target, feet carrying you over the city as the chill of the late afternoon set in. Presently, you didn’t know how to feel about your situation. Working with others was a strain on your focus—on the walls you’ve built up; John had obviously noticed that you didn’t exactly play well with others. It was plainly stated in your file, after all.

“—attitude, or lack thereof, is a detriment to the structure of any team/unit/platoon that she is placed into under all circumstances. Recommended reserved operations to limit drawbacks.”

Having a pleasant attitude wasn’t your job.

Stalking around the corner, your ears twitch to John’s voice. “Sitrep, Tomb. What’s it looking like out there?”

It was strange, then, that the man over the line was so eager to speak to you. Your sigh hits on deaf ears, and you respond as you carefully walk past civilians making their way home.

“Quiet. No sign.” The silence re-settles and you gradually loosen again. Like a cat, your ears twitch to hear the muttering from the commuters; eyes sliding with watery film across faces.

Baydar owns a restaurant as a front for funding terrorists. Anyone exiting from this direction could be part of it—

“You said you’d never join One-Four-One,” John’s voice makes you shove down a flinch, ripped out of your focus. In your pockets, your hands close into fists, and a deeply annoyed mask fits itself over your expression. “Why’s that, then?”

“What is this?” Your voice goes cold, “interrogation time?”

“With a record like yours, you’d get pick of any Task Force or SOF in country.” The Captain seems to ignore your hiss and jab as his deep voice continues; accent low. You hear the drag of a cigar and the puff of smoke. Internally, you’re thankful for the casual yet attentive acknowledgment of your skills—how the man doesn’t seem in the slightest worried about you. “Why is it that you’re always alone out ‘ere? Couldn’t wrap my head ‘round it, truthfully.” A tobacco-slick chuckle, “Bloody hell, people would kill to get you on a mission like I did, eh? No doubt.”

For a long time, you don’t answer, leaning against the wall across from your target’s restaurant doing recon. Frown tight and face stiff. John’s voice fizzles.

“Ah, fuckin’ forget it Love, just a man’s curiosity speaking for ‘im. I’ll leave you to focus.” Before the line can click, you open your lips—as if the things have a mind of their own.

“People are unpredictable.” The Captain’s breath is gently puffing over the line. He listens and you know he hangs on every word; it was a strange feeling to know that. From under you, your feet shuffle. “They do things that don’t make sense. I don’t like dealing with it.”

A grunt. “Well, can get behind that…” John had a smirk on his lips, you can hear it. “You’d lose your head if you met MacTavish.”

Your focus waning, you blink, getting sucked into this strange interaction with an even stranger man.

“Yeah?” You wonder, head tilting to the side. “One of yours?”

“Hm,” he affirms and the chill of the night caresses your skin. John chuckles. “Sergeant. Bloody good shot, but can get into trouble faster than his fucking gun can fire.”

Your mouth quirks. “Sounds horrible.”

“Makes my job a living hell,” John admits and you shock yourself by listening. “But no one better to keep by my six…You’d ease up to him.”

“I’m not joining, Price,” Your voice mutters out like how a dragonfly snaps its translucent wings on still air. “This is it.”

In the safehouse, John hums under his breath, staring out the window at the blinking lights of the city as you watch the restaurant with far-off thoughts. A smile twitches his lips. For some reason there was something about you he wanted to figure out—something to unravel. You were like Ghost sometimes, but more… fascinating. Darker.

And you knew how to get the job done better than anyone.

John wanted you on his Task Force, your expertise, and the only way to get that was to take you apart like a puzzle of razor blades. Study you. Learn you as the edges cut up his flesh. The Captain had no idea what picture you’d make when everything was in its proper place, but he’d be willing to try with the very tenacity that had gotten him this far.

But there was something else there, too. Some kind of tightness in his chest when you looked at him; he'd gotten it when he’d seen you on the tarmac back not so long ago like some schoolboy. Those blank eyes of yours…why did he want them to light up?

Why did he want to see your laugh?

John wasn’t immature enough to not know his own feelings or attractions, but this was an entire section of its own. Blinking, the man grunts to himself and smirks. “Well, better make it last, then.”

You feel your eyelids carefully pull in surprise.

“I…” Your voice starts but dies off, swallowing saliva down as your mouth clacks shut with a connection of teeth. Closing your eyes, you steady your heart, which had suddenly created a concerning skip in its beats.

John places the cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, leaning out of the window to watch the smoke disappear into the twinkling lights. Lips peeling his beard hairs back.

—

As it turned out, the mission in Turkey wasn’t the only time you’d have to deal with John Price, and it certainly wasn’t the last time you’d see his face in front of yours. One mission turned into two—two into three and so on. You hadn’t exactly wanted it, but you found you couldn’t turn him down either.

At whichever base you were stationed at, all of a sudden he’d just show up; standing on the tarmac with his arms crossed and that casual set to his shoulders. The first time you’d seen him after Turkey, you had half convinced yourself he was a mirage. And then he’d smirk at you and tilt his head and you’d have no control over your words.

It was pathetic…disgusting…it was…it was…

You shake yourself back to the present when a bullet whizzes past your head, a sharp call from across the utter warzone you’d found yourself in the middle of.

“Tomb, what in the hell’s wrong with you?!” John’s voice is harsh, and you lock onto it. “Get your gun up!”

You sigh, unperturbed. Peaking past the large crate you use as cover, your eyes glare at the enemy soldiers across the dock, fixing your finger’s position over your M4A1. The small unit you’d been dragged into by John was mostly dead—only four of you remaining from the ten.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

Jerking back, a splintering of wood explodes in front of you as the next fast piece of metal nearly takes your nose off. With a grit of your teeth, you flick your safety off and swivel your shoulders.

Popping from the top of the crate, your sharp eyes lock onto the first visible body before you press your finger to the trigger with practiced ease as the word shrieks all around you. Recoil is eaten into the padded kevlar of the junction of your shoulder and arm.

When you dart back, the body has yet to hit the ground.

“There she is!” John calls, and you look forward with a steady stare as the brunette laughs from behind his own crate a few feet away. “Keep your head in the game, Tomb.”

You frown, normal facemask back over your chin hiding it. While you loathe to admit it, John had grown on you in these…what was it…? Months? Yes, that seemed about right.

Months of joint missions. You could hardly believe that he’d dragged you out like this.

“Tell the others to flank,” Your voice whisps over the line like smoke, “Left side—there’s a gap in the crates.”

John looks you in the eyes and blinks, eyelids twitching. With his beard covered in gunpowder, the man looks across the open space between the gunbattle to the left. Sure enough, right before he’s forced to snap back down to cover, the Captain spies a very well-hidden gap in the defenses.

He smiles viciously like a dog, and barks a laugh to you, nodding, “Good eye! Boys,” the two don’t pause their assault but call their questioning voices over the line. You don’t listen, occupied with giving off bursts of gunfire and trying to avoid the eyes of your fellow dead soldiers. Your lungs are compressed inside of your ribcage like prisoners. “Flank left. We’ll cover you!”

“Sir!” Steadying your breath, you avoid John’s confused glances and scoff to yourself, resituating your clammy hands.

When all’s said and done the four of you are the only ones left. Letting your gun sit on your chest you use the body as an armrest, allowing it to hang off the side from the trigger-guard. Your fingers twitch, and as John speaks to the two men, you stare silently at the gushing bodies of your fellows like phantoms spring from their chests.

John’s voice slows when he sees you apart from them, glancing at the soldiers at your feet before ordering the remaining men to get to the evac point. They try to argue everyone should be going together, and on all accounts, they’re completely right, but John won’t hear it.

“Go—that’s an order.” Reluctantly, the two glance at each other and speed off.

You jolt at a call of your name, head turning to face stormy blue as they gaze at you with concern. Stopping a few feet away, John stands still and folds his arms, face going rigid with concern as he glances you over for wounds.

His head slightly leans in, chin down.

“...You alright?” Hand flinching, you clear your throat.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, fixing the position of your feet and forcing away the images of dead bodies and blank eyes.

You’d seen scores of men dead before—friend and foe—but you had thought you’d never have to see more of your own fall. It had been a long time since you’d felt the distant lull of numb horror in the back of your brain; like some ocean wave that drowns you under every time it comes back. It always comes back.

John narrows his eyes and frowns deeply, glancing around and hiding the slight way his right arm sags.

“Tomb?” He says it so lowly that you really have to focus, ears straining. That gravel was back, and you found yourself latching onto it. “Eh, you just focus on me, yeah? I’m right ‘ere.”

“I know,” you snap, eyes shuttering away only to find more vacant stares. You flinch back and look up into the sky; a sudden burn in your brain that you need to quell.

The man grows even more concerned with you, taking a step forward and clenching his jaw. He studies you, your shaking tension and the clench and loosening of your fists—attention always on you but roving to the dead men all around. Something clicks with a violent inhale.

John moves to you without a word and grasps you around the shoulders quickly. You gasp at that, immediate reaction to shove away, but only gape at the warmth that he brings you instead—the steady presence and chest to lean on. As the Brit drags you, you focus instead on calming your breathing.

The Captain lightly shimmies down your facemask and you suck down tight air as you go limp into his side.

“C’mon, Tomb. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here.” He’s muttering to you, disguising his pained grunts in favor of taking care of you.

That strange affection for you had grown in your time together…not that he’d said anything. It was more proper of him to watch out from a distance, not sure of your own feelings or the probability of you gazing back at him with the same amount of concealed longing. Many a night he’d sat on his bed and wondered. Wondered how an animal so extraordinary and remarkable took the form of a woman with a black sphinx patch and sharp eyes.

John had heard you laugh once through your expeditions together—sniping in Greenland. Once had been enough; if he never heard it again, he could still recall the pitch and frequency to the yawning of his soul. He didn’t need to hear it again.

It was locked into the fabric that made up your skin and speech, and every time he stared at you he could find it in your eyes.

The Captain puts you down near a crate around the corner, letting you lean into it as he turns and captures your neck from either side. You shake under him, blurry vision stuck to his dog tags as they wink against his chest.

“Tomb,” John says again, and with a lick of your chapped lips, you carefully turn your head up. Blue eyes crease worriedly. The thumbs on the sides of your neck caress up and down your rapid pulse steadily; calluses creating stimuli. A small smile meets you. “There we are, atta girl. Focus.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and you flatten your lips, whispering out brokenly, “I said I don’t like teams.”

John’s heart breaks.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” his hand captures the back of your head and you’re brought into a deep and firm embrace—gear pinching and prodding but neither of you care.

When was the last time you’d been held like this? The feeling makes your mouth quiver, your face stuck into the junction of the Brit’s neck and shoulder.

“John…” You whimper out and his arms around you only tighten—his tense nose shoved into your scalp as his eyes closed tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, heart racing, “I’m so, so, sorry.”

You don’t know long he holds you there, the air filled with blood and death but just so soundly resting atop his vest and limp to his gentle swaying. The tears dry at some point, they always have to. Sniffling, your burning face takes in the scent of beard oil and gunpowder and you find yourself calmed by it.

Calmed by John.

The man holding you waits a moment more before he slightly leans back, staring down at you intently; nervously. You lick at the tears drying into the line of your mouth to taste the saltiness on your tongue as fingers grasp at your chin.

Angled up, your face is on full display.

John sighs and the drowned keratin of your lashes flutters, embarrassment flooding you. His eyes crease before his hands come up to take away your sorrows with a soft brush of his digits. The man clears his throat tinily, voice deep with emotion.

“Better?” Your eyes dip away from his, knowing you’d been staring.

“I…” Glancing over his right shoulder absentmindedly, you only get a word off before you see a fountain of red. Blinking away the last of your tears, John’s finger on your cheek stops moving as you freeze—stiff to the touch.

His panic spikes again.

“What’s going on—”

“When did you get hit?” Your voice is hard and laced with something you can’t name. Shaving back from John you frantically grab at his arm. In an instant, the Captain is whirled around and shoved back into the crate; he grunts loudly, eyes snapping wide.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grumbles, but flinches when you peel at the bloodied layers of his compression shirt. John smirks, letting your touch rove him as your nose scrunches. He represses a shiver at the bite of your nails, whispering out, “If you wanted to throw me ‘round, Love…all you had to do was ask.”

You blink rapidly and turn your fast gaze to his eyes as you stutter, fingers covered in blood and holding apart the fabric of his outfit to show a bullet graze to his pale upper bicep. John’s cheeky smirk grows and against all the pain and the dark corners, you feel a bubbling in your gut.

A small chuckle snakes out, like twinkling bells.

“Shut up,” your smile leaves him breathless, smirk falling to a small open-mouthed screen of obvious admiration. A hum marks the back of his throat, eyebrows loosely curving upon his forehead.

You look over and find him like this—his gaze trapping you like his arms had. Like music, it takes you into its melody. Staring, your smile, gradually too, leaks out.

“What are you doing?” Your question is breathy. "What is your fascination with me?" John’s eyes stick with you, the shining, shimmering, blue. There are tempests held there and if this man was anything, he was a storm of intentions and promises.

“Looking,” John answers lowly. "Just looking."

You take down a breath, “At what, John?”

He chuckles at you, face close and pleasant, “Y’know, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, Love.”

Blindly you wonder how the world can still turn while you both stand here—was it, even? How can life go on when such things are uttered to light? When they’re buried deep into your marrow like the dirt on top of a grave?

How can the Reaper knock at your doorways when love exists in such quantity…in the fractures of his eyes? Only when his lips brush yours do you understand.

It’s all here, and then it’s gone. Nothing can truly be as it was in the past, and therein lies the small, glorious, deaths. Both a blessing and a curse.

Your lips press deeply into one another and the blood of old wounds dries.

TAGS:

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borzoilover69 · 2 months

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I dont know about you but god sometimes i thibk abt some of the cannibalistic symbolism in dirk and jake relationship and i go a bit insane ok. Let me explain.

So if youre just catching up youre probably wondering, borzoi. Why is everyone doing Dirkjake cannibalism? Where did this come from?

Attached, is three images depicting what could be seen as cannibalism metaphorically. Attached are images of Jake with brainghost Dirk, Brobot ripping his own heart for Jake, and Dirks beheaded head, sent to Jake by Dirk. In simple terms, this sacrifice and act of giving Jakes parts of himself could be seen as cannibalism, which hangs on giving a part of you to someone you love for their own use.

But it runs a bit deeper than that. Cannibalism and violence as a love language is a rather nontraditional take, toeing the line on macabre, but its also a sign of extreme loyalty. It “highlights the contradictory urges of desire and aggression.”(Typeset, 2023). Dirk has two rather extreme examples of this, with Brobot ripping his heart out for Jake, killing himself, and Dirk beheading himself and transportalizing it to Jake to kiss, again, killing him.

This connects to Dirkjake by their dichotomy between the affection and intensely loyal bond they have to each other and their more violent combat based bond shown in the comic, from their relationship with their respective weapons to Jakes desire to fight (and Dirks subsequent gift of a robot to help protect and train him) to their hobby of choice in game (raiding tombs and fighting monsters) to even post credits (where they are seen engaged in a strife). Combat plays such a big role in their relationship.

Another thing to bring up about the cannibalism love metaphor is that it was often seen in old culture that to devour someone in death was to forever have a special bond with them, they become part of you and you share attributes. Which.. again. Need i say more? Brainghost dirk is a PART of Jake. The unique bond is one of Dirks fragmented self in Jakes soul, but also as a subconscious voice of reason given life in the form of Jakes best friend.

Cannibalism is a wordless nod to wordless acts of physical affection and intimate exchange between two people. Its no small feat to say that Dirk and Jake struggle with that. The majority of their lovelife is wordless, delivered through proxies or their reflections on their relationship through others. They find themselves feeling selfish and heartless for wanting to love each other in the ways they do. On dirks side, his desire to serve ingrains itself to him giving parts of himself to others whether it be a robot bunny, an autoresponder, or a robot. His gift to Jake are notably extreme, however Jake does not seem adverse to it, noting how he feels some sort of intimacy on being on level fighting ground with brobots (hence the upping in difficulty) and the “movie kiss.”

Its a selfish sort of love. Jake is known for his interest in non-traditional forms lf love over traditional (Think avatar and the.. hair connection thingies). But it serves them just fine. Its a way for the one that is cannibalised to offer themselves a gift to the devourer, and as a sacrifice. For the cannibal, its a chance for them to remain with a part of their lover forever. Dirk desires to be Jakes. In consumption, he will forever be part of him. A part of him surrenders all autonomy and ownership to seek the desire of being impossibly close. Which we do in fact see! When separated and in distress, Brainghost Dirk makes his appearance and fights for him, even as Dirk himself is hundreds of miles away hurtling through space… a part of him even haunts Jake after death in the postcanon, irrevocably, forever..his.

In short, Cannibalism is a nontraditional form of physical and intimate affection that seeks to show the depths of loyalty to the beloved and the desire to have a special bond and connection- to be a part of them- forever. Throughout the story of homestuck, Dirks splinters serve to accomodate themselves in that way, through the physical acts they act out or the special connection between brainghost dirk and jake. Hope you enjoyed reading!

#homestuck meta #homestuck #hom3stuck #dirk strider #jake english #dirkjake #borzoi talks #borzoi meta #*eye twjtches #yeah ok man #AND TO WHOEVER SAID IT WAS A SEX THING FUCK YOU!!!#IM AROACE MFER #KILL AND DEATH!!!#Anyways.

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bananastarion · 8 months

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Rambling headcanons about how Astarion's trauma could manifest in your relationship.

Disclaimer: I am not fetishizing trauma or PTSD here. I have C-PTSD myself, and have dated others with it as well. So some of this is (loosely) inspired by my own experiences. It's not pretty, it's not fun, but I'd say it's pretty realistic. So yeah, fair warning! Anyway, let's gooooo

Astarion isn't fazed by much, but he IS claustrophobic- having to claw your way out of your own coffin, being trapped in a mindflayer pod and being trapped in a tomb for a year straight would do that to anyone. If he is ever unfortunate enough to be stuck in a small space again, he'll go into a blind panic. He'll hyperventilate and try to force his way out any way he can, and if he can't get out in time he'll just completely mentally shut down for a bit. If you plan to pull him into a little broom closet for a sneaky fuck, just forget it ok? You will probably get your eyes accidentally clawed out.

There is a long period in your relationship where Astarion is gradually getting more comfortable with being vulnerable around you, but he's also very self-conscious about it. He doesn't want you to pity him or think he's weak. You will be tempted to give him lots of validation and praise to make up for all of the psychological abuse he endured, to reassure him that he's finally safe and free, and that you love him for more than just his body. That his problems won't ever drive you away, and that you don't judge him. He appreciates your words deeply, he wants and needs them more than he cares to admit. But at the same time, they completely overwhelm him. Finally being in a good place with a caring partner is such a stark contrast to what he's been through, that it forces him to see even deeper into the void inside him and recognize just how badly he was treated, how deprived he's been. They hit him hard in both good and bad ways, and sometimes he'll tell you to stop because he just can't handle feeling so much right now. It's best to stick to mostly surface level stuff and ease carefully into the deeper, more meaningful observations.

The sweeter your words, the more his mind races with fears that you are idealizing him and eventually you'll come to see him for what he really is- and then abandon him. Fears that he'll come to depend on your kindness only for it to be ripped away, whether by you or by circumstances beyond his control. Fears that you don't really mean it, that you're just manipulating him the way he did to others. Deep down he hopes and trusts you're sincere, but it's just so hard to accept when Cazador's voice is in his head, countering all of it. This is all so new to him, so unknown. And the unknown is terrifying. He gets frustrated that your kindness does this to him, he wants to be able to embrace your words, he's so impatient to heal and finally be over this shit already. He judges himself so harshly for still struggling with all this. Cazador's dead, he is free, he has someone who truly loves him- why isn't that enough?! Why can't he fully appreciate it, is he just going to feel broken forever? He worries he'll take too long to get over his past, and you'll get tired of it and leave. Expect to give him lots of reassurance about all of this.

He doesn't like to cry around you, but over time you will lower his guard enough that he'll stop fighting back the tears quite so much. Sometimes it's a bad dream, sometimes you say something that just hits him hard (even if it's in a good way), and sometimes he has no idea what triggered it. You tell him he can wake you up any time if he needs you, but often he chooses not to wake you and just suffers through it alone. When it happens while you're both awake, at first he would roll over and face away from you when the tears started flowing if he couldn't collect himself, and you'd just hug him from behind. But eventually he feels comfortable enough to bury his face in your chest and just let it all out. When it's really bad, he'll be trembling and hugging you so tightly as he sobs into your shirt that it's almost hard for you to breathe. The best thing you can do is just be there with him, stroke his hair, caress the tears off his cheeks. It can be dicey, but eventually you learn to read him well enough that sometimes stroking the scars on his back very gently can be healing for him. There are other times though, when this will be too much for him. Same goes for kissing. Also, don't even think about telling anyone you've seen him like this. But of course, why would you?

Don't go into therapist mode with him when he's that vulnerable, and if he decides to talk, just let him talk. Hold space for him and be there with him. Afterwards, help ground him in the present and reconnect him to his senses by pointing out things in the room, remind him that it's not all happening to him right now. Realize how special it is that he feels safe enough with you to be so vulnerable. There are times when he even breaks down during sex, and he'll say that he's fine and you can keep going, but it's for the best to stop what you're doing and check in instead. He often dissociates when he's triggered, and doesn't realize something is wrong until it's too late.

Trauma isn't always pretty, and there are times when it does strain your relationship. When he's really triggered, he might take it out on you. He'll try his best to push you away, and say terrible things he doesn't mean. Perhaps things Cazador said to him. His articulate manner of speech can be sharper than his blade when wielded against you in the heat of the moment. He doesn't believe you can love this side of him, that he is fundamentally broken and unlovable, so it's a test of sorts to prove his own fears. He doesn't necessarily realize what he's doing, he's just lashing out from a point of pure fear. Trauma is an explanation for this behavior, but not an excuse, so it's important you set very firm and consistent boundaries when he gets like this. He might not appreciate it in the moment, but he will once he calms down.

It takes some time for him to feel truly secure with you, but he's getting there. In the meantime, he's starting to get a little clingy and codependent. He's not used to having so much freedom, and doesn't always know what to do with himself when you're not around. Being in your presence is when he's closest to feeling safe and at ease, and being apart for too long can cause his mind to race, especially when he has nothing to distract himself with. It drives him crazy that it gets to him so much- he's never been dependent on anyone before, and this side of him surprises himself. He hates it, which only stresses him out more. He tries to play it off, but it's very obvious he is struggling with separation anxiety. You don't want to overindulge him, but to ease his fears you decide to get a pair of magical rings. You can make each other's rings glow whenever you want- so if Astarion is feeling lonely, he can make your ring glow and you can make his glow back. Sometimes, just that is enough to get him through a rough day without you. Once he has done some more healing, eventually he will come to enjoy his alone time in a way he's never gotten to before in his life, and as much as you enjoy spending time with him, you'll be so happy for him to finally have that.

#astarion #headcanons #baldur's gate 3 #astarion/tav

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kentopedia · 10 months

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carefully, i was going to live

FEATURING. past nanami kento x f!reader, gojo satoru x reader — wc: 2.9k

SUMMARY: you and gojo realize you share the same kind of pain.

CONTENTS: shibuya arc / jjk s2 spoilers, death, grief, depression, suicidal thoughts, references to disordered eating, implied satosugu, platonic gojo x reader, anger, angst, gojo isn’t sealed

note: reader & gojo’s relationship for the future is up to your interpretation. title is from a mitski song <3

The world was bleak outside your window.

With November came the death of all things beautiful. The trees grew barren, flowers wilted into dreary puddles, the sky turned a muddy shade of grey, and your house transformed into a tomb.

It was almost evening now. The streets were busy with people commuting home from work, children skipping along sidewalks after a tedious day at school. Each expression became the epitome of human nature, and through all their ups and downs, there they stood, alive.

You blinked at the scene, just enough to wet your eyes, trying to ignore the spiteful hatred that bubbled up in you against cheerful strangers.

When the women had a smile on their faces, your mind easily morphed them into miserable frowns, weaved a story of how their partners treated them terribly. Children’s loud giggles turned into wretched cries, sobs from spoiled complaints of not getting their way. Men’s casual conversations on their cell phones became a long-winded rant of how their job was slowly destroying them.

There wasn’t anything left for you in the world but misery. It should only be fair that other people received the same.

Perhaps that was an evil thought, but you didn’t care. The bed was cold, and it had started to smell of something awful from the sheets that housed your own grime and sweat. You shivered, bundling yourself up in the blankets more.

An ache increased in your stomach before it grumbled, breaking the silence. Though, it suppressed its own pleas, knowing better than to suspect sustenance after so many evenings of emptiness. Over and over, you ignored your hunger, a part of you hoping that your body would begin to devour itself from the inside out.

Perhaps, then, you’d finally achieve the peace that you’d been longing for.

From the world inside your mind, Kento scolded you, begged you to pull yourself out of the darkness that you’d crawled into. He’d be unhappy, that much was certain. One look at your unkempt hair would put a crease between his eyebrows. He’d recoil at the piled trash that you’d been too exhausted to take out.

Still, you knew better than to believe he’d be anything but kind about it. Stern, maybe, but uncompromising words would never leave his lips without soft eyes and a sad smile.

You swallowed down the nausea that erupted from within you, and buried yourself deeper into the pillow, wishing the couple in the distance would cease their affectionate embrace.

A tear collected on your lash line.

For a moment, you let yourself fall into the painful peace of delusion. A phantom touch rested on your skin, comforting fingertips dancing along your hip. Kento Nanami’s love pressed into every subtle graze. Please. Let me help you.

His voice was raspy, unfamiliar, and you wondered if you were starting to forget the sound of it, the exact inflection of his words, even though you listened to his painfully short inbox message every day, replayed the voicemails he left you more often than music.

A dry sob forced its way up, though no sound released as you squeezed Kento’s pillow tighter, digging your nose into the cotton. You were desperate for his lingering scent, but it had been two weeks since he’d been killed, and there was nothing left of him.

Still, you sprayed his old cologne on every surface, left everything as he had, and pretended that he was still around.

Grief hugged you tight, trying to embody the embrace that Kento had once given you. You didn’t hear the knock at your front door, muffled from two rooms away and the constant swirl of your heartbroken musings.

No one had visited you in two weeks. Itadori had tried, but you’d screamed far too cruelly at him, even though he was just a kid, and none of this was his fault. The list of guests had been shortened since then.

You didn’t blame them.

Someone said your name, though it was distant, and it was easy to chalk it up to your imagination. Though, the plea became a whisper through a grisly storm, then a scream over the fierce winds in an attempt to reach you.

You opened your eyes, shifting to face the noise.

Satoru Gojo stood at the edge of your bed, his large frame towering over you with every ounce of power he’d been born with, his slack jaw unable to hide his horror at the mess you’d made of yourself. Blindfolded eyes flicked across the room, then, his lips curled into a grimace.

“You’ve been ignoring my calls,” he said. Another sound but your own breath was so unnatural in the stale room. It took you far too long to understand him.

You blinked back once, before rolling over to return your attention to the window once more, the scene beyond it still playing like a television series. Kento had always hated that your bedroom had a view of the city, some illusion of privacy gone now that he could see the world outside. Though, it was the only thing you could be grateful for now, as that square panel of glass became your salvation.

“Sorry.” Your voice was hoarse, raspy. You weren’t sure when you’d used it last. “Phone’s dead.” It had been for days. The slender device rested useless on your nightstand, and you wondered how many people had died since Kento; jujutsu sorcerers didn’t stop fighting just because you had.

Gojo shuffled around the room. You peered over your shoulder to see him sliding the charger into your phone, the screen lighting up later with a bright logo and a ding.

“Everyone’s been calling.” His back was to you, muscles taut with exhaustion and strain. “There aren’t enough sorcerers. We’ve lost so many people.”

You tensed and considered blocking your ears, humming a song like a petulant child. No part of you wanted to hear about Jujutsu. Satoru Gojo could manage on his own, and you didn’t give a damn about saving the world anymore.

“I can’t help you,” you said, realizing just how true that was. There wasn’t an ounce of energy within your body.

Though you had let yourself rot, you had grand plans of finding a curse you could never defeat. You would never be strong enough in your current state, and that was alright. You just wanted to go out with some semblance of a purpose, as Kento had. Maybe that way, it wouldn’t feel so much like a suicide.

“I know,” Gojo sighed, and you waited a minute before he spoke again. “That’s not why I came.”

You breathed; the process was no longer subconscious. “Then why are you here?”

Gojo came around the bed to stand in front of you once more, so close that he blocked your view of the window. His icy irises had been revealed, somehow warning you just how serious he was about this intervention.

The laugh you couldn’t muster up came out in a shaky exhale. You weren’t scared of Gojo, and you certainly weren’t impressed by him enough to listen to whatever wisdom he wanted to bestow upon you.

“I just want to help my old friend.” A twinge of pity in his voice irritated you, even though it was warranted. The scene before him couldn’t evoke any sort of emotion except for pathetic despair. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“No.” Your muscles were weak as you maneuvered your shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I just don’t care. Not even Satoru Gojo can fix everything. I thought you’ve learned that by now.” It was cruel, you knew that, but you spat the words without regret, rolling onto your back.

The stiffness in your hips alleviated, and finally, he couldn’t pin you with his gaze. You could only imagine the way he’d flinched at your comment, wondering when the shy, sweet girl from his youth had become such a bitter woman.

Your eyes glued to the ceiling, and you imagined Kento there beside you, staring at you with a wistful smile while you merely blinked up at the white walls.

Gojo said your name again. Then he was tugging on your arm, and the clench around your heart unfurled, bringing you away from the desperate fantasy.

“Look at me,” Gojo said, and his words were harsher, exasperated, and you realized he’d been talking this entire time, minutes of one-sided conversation flowing in one ear and out the other.

“No, Satoru,” you growled, trying to resist, even though you didn’t have the strength. He pulled you to a seated position easily, forcing you to look at him once more, and never let go of your wrist. “Get out of my house.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

“Get out.”

“No.” Satoru stared at you, his eyes cold and unflinching, and for a moment, you realized just how fearsome he could be, why so many curses looked him in the eye and remembered that they didn’t stand a chance. Then, he blinked, and that image was gone, left with the picture of a broken man who had lost too many friends, and was trying not to lose you too. “You won’t talk to anyone; you won’t see anyone. You’re destroying yourself like this. I won’t let it go on any longer.”

The sympathy and disappointment in his voice disgusted you, and you recoiled with a renewed strength, slapping his hand away. “I don’t care if you want to be a hero now. You couldn’t help Kento, and you can’t help me. What good is being the strongest if you can’t even save the people that you care about?”

Gojo tensed, his jaw clenching like you’d slapped him across the face. That, at least, gave you some sort of satisfaction, even if it only lasted for a moment. A twinge of regret started, burning brighter and brighter until the weight of your comment came down on you.

There was a point to being angry at the world, to projecting your suffering onto strangers. They would never bear witness to every ounce of your misery. But Gojo had known you since you were a child, had cared about Kento too, and you were treating him no better than the curses that had killed the man you loved.

“Fine,” Gojo said more tersely. “I can’t help you. You have to want to help yourself, too.” He raked a hand across his face, revealing dark, purple circles, and sallow skin. The two of you were an ugly picture—the perfect personification of every struggle a jujutsu sorcerer could experience. “I just thought you’d want to know you still have a friend. Nanami and Haibara may be gone, and…” He looked away, mouth pulling down further. “Suguru, but I’m still here, you know?”

You swallowed, even though your lips were too parched to produce any saliva. They were cottony and stuck together as you spoke. “Don’t come back here, Gojo.” Though you swayed, lightheaded, you didn’t lay back down, only curled your knees into your chest, feeling small. “I don’t want to be a sorcerer anymore. I don’t want to remember any of it.”

Gojo hesitated, disappointed that his previous comment hadn’t hit as hard as he’d intended.

“What will you do, then?” he asked, his hands helplessly dangling by his side before he moved to sit beside you.

“Nothing.” The word felt like a punishment to say, even when that’s all you’d been doing, for days. Your life meant nothing anymore, so there was no point in trying. “I’ll forget I ever loved Kento Nanami and then I’ll disappear.”

Gojo’s face turned, his eyes narrowing, lips curling down. “No, you won’t.”

You almost came back with a childish retort—but it no longer seemed worth it. You turned back towards the window, wondering if it would rain soon. The sky looked like it might.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the only person still alive who knew Nanami exactly as he was. There are people out there who cared enough about the both of you to not let you throw that all away.”

Guilt gnawed at you. Kento may not have ever respected Gojo for his decisions as a sorcerer, but deep down, he’d always known that he was a good man who tried to do right by everyone.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” you said, quietly at first, swallowing back the heavy emotions that weighed on you. Satoru watched you, never interrupting, though your pause was long and burdened. “I just want it to stop. It hurts so much, Satoru.”

“I know.”

“Everyone moved on like Shibuya never happened.” You twirled the ring around your finger as the heavy tears returned, ones that you’d thought had long been expelled. It seemed impossible that someone should be able to cry without end, yet, your grief was unrelenting, and your cheeks grew wet once more. “Everyone kept going, and I can’t do that. I can’t pretend like I didn’t lose my entire future. I’m never going to get married, Satoru. I’ll never be able to—”

You stopped, choked by your own emotions as a lump rose in your throat, sour like bile. It was the first time you’d said the words out loud. They tasted worse than they felt in your mind. You’d never be able to call Kento Nanami your husband.

Gojo’s eyes softened, and though he reached for you, you flinched away, swallowing over and over to bury your tears. Heaving breaths came, unsteady.

“Nanami wouldn’t want this for you.” It was cruel, too close to mockery to make you feel anything but anger.

You already knew that you were disappointing the man who loved you with every fiber of his being. The sight of you so weakened would wreck Kento, but you couldn’t get yourself to move out of the house. Not even when your skin yearned for a ray of sunlight, or your body screamed for something other than the stale convenience store snacks.

“Don’t say that. Kento’s not here anymore.” His name came out choked on your lips, the first time you’d said it since screaming it in misery. The word didn’t feel so much like love anymore. It was sorrow, wrapped into two tiny syllables. “What he’d want doesn’t matter.”

Satoru lowered his voice, treating you as fragile as you’d become, uncertain how to speak to someone who would never want to listen. “It does matter. He loved you so much.”

You covered your ears, squeezed your eyes shut. “Satoru, please. Stop it.”

“He’d want you to be happy—”

“I don’t care.” You spoke over his ramblings and pushed him away until you were certain he’d fall off the bed. Though, it did nothing to move him, strong and steadfast Satoru Gojo who would never be toppled. “You just don’t understand. I replay it over and over in my head, wondering why I wasn’t there, why you weren’t there.” You dropped your head in your hands, breathing into your palms like a paper bag. “It’s not fair.”

“Nothing’s fair.” Satoru said, the age-old cliché, a hand hesitant on your wrist. He was quiet when he said your name again. “I know how you feel.”

“No you don’t.” You slapped him away, even when he held strong, even when he let you see the anguish he usually hid away, let it erase the warmth from his expression.

You remembered dark long hair, kind brown eyes, a young man who had once held such a promising future. Two best friends that perhaps had been more, never sharing the secrets of their ill-fated bond.

“No, you don’t.”

Gojo was scooting closer, pulling you into his arms, the embrace tight, protective.

He was serious and sullen in a way that you hadn’t seen since Geto died. Gojo was a master at veiling his emotions in laughter, but it seemed now that your own emptiness was reflected back at you, the sheer desire to stop existing all at once.

“I know it better than anyone.” Nothing more than a whisper. The tears were too heavy and hot; there was nothing you could do to stop them. “You’re not alone.”

You were quiet for a moment, then another, before everything that you’d been feeling for the past two weeks crashed upon you like a wave, drowning you, and you were unable to breathe, clinging to Gojo like he was the only thing holding you above water.

You’d known Kento for ten years. You’d been strangers, friends, lovers parted by death before either of you had turned thirty, and though you weren’t the only person who had lost someone in Shibuya, you felt like the only one who was too weak to recover from it.

“Satoru.” Your voice broke. “I don’t know how to live without him.”

Gojo smiled. “You find a way.” Said so confidently, a man who’d been through it all before, and your heart shattered with sobs that came out uncontrollably, soaking Satoru’s shoulder.

Desperately, you clawed at his back, wishing you could wear his skin as a protective shield, could tear his heart out of his chest and trade it for your own, if only to gain an ounce of his strength. He held you tight in his arms, but nothing about him was the same, right down to the very blue eyes that had lost all their arrogance. Both had dimmed, and even the infinity within them seemed to end.

He didn’t smell like Kento, didn’t feel like Kento—but no one else had comforted you since he’d died, so you let him. Satoru kissed your forehead with an affection you’d already forgotten, reminding you to move on.

You never would.

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the-fandom-is-now-my-life · 2 months

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The creator had a :

star eyed child

+ a quick sketch

Wc: 500

Cw: birth process but it's glossed over

With lips tight as a tomb the archons could only stand beside you as your stomach swole and the child kicked you awake during the last month.

“Should I fetch you your tea? The doctor said it would help with the birth” Raiden signals at Nahida to get it from the side table as furina rubs the top of your stomach.

“The doctor should be here soon,” Nahida grabs the freshly brewed tea, the dark liquid swirling around as she urges you to drink.

“Barbatos should be close” and as if zhongli predicted it venti barges in with a bunch of white dressed people.

None of the five archons had any knowledge or experience with birthing or newborn reception; they stayed quiet and still on the seat, a nurse even having to rip furina away from your side.

Now fed up one of the nurses hurries them out, archons be damned if they hinder the patient's attention.

“won't you bunch go for fruit or juice? Yep? Thanks” and without missing a beat she slams the door closed leaving them outside.

14 hours pass by and the doctor and a nurse come out.

“Everything checks good, both of them are healthy and stable so I will take a last look while the nurses finish cleaning the little boy”

Now breathing calmly the five minutes pass quickly until they are allowed in, you are seated on the bed drinking a sugary drink from a straw with the newborn on your chest.

“Want to meet the baby? I'm still unsure about the name” the baby was snuggling to your chest and dressed in a simple long shirt with a few tufts of hair poking out.

“he is very cute” furina exclaims hunched besides the bed, her finger pressing on his cheeks causing the baby to open his eyes, an upset look on them

You laugh a bit at the side eye he was giving them “He is quite grumpy, isn't he?” but nobody else was laughing as they were focused on his deep blue eyes.

Star pupils. How interesting

“Didn't the tsaritsa have a harbingers who had star eyes?” Venti suddenly jumps up, nervous about recognizing those eyes

“And why are you jumping so quickly? Only guilty criminals jump when they see evidence”

“didn't one of your civilians have similar eyes? I think I remember one from the tavern you forced me in”

“No, I don't think so” Venti gulps as all the archon's eyes are on him. Why did he even open his mouth

“Every time you open your mouth you incriminate yourself deeper, you must be gifted there”

He believed in you Kaeya when you told him you were only flirting and nothing more.

“What do you mean I'm an uncle?”

“Oops?”

“Where are they now? Don't tell me you are a deadbeat”

“Sumeru, they left almost a year ago”

“you would never dare…”

“...yes”

“Retribution!”

“What do you think about naming him ‘aster’ because of his star eyes?” Nahida plays with the baby who only wants to sleep, he is so grumpy he reminds her of someone

“I don't think it's a boys name”

“Then what about Zappu? It means star of stars”

“Aww that is cute, I might think about it”

#genshin impact #gi #sagau #self aware genshin impact #genshin x reader #this time the dad is obvious so just #kaeya x reader #kaeya genshin #kaeya alberich #sagau x reader #genshin impact x reader #x reader

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ja3hwa · 4 months

Text

So random thought right...

But i can't help but think about a witch x vampire trope where the reader is some kind of witch or fae or something magical, and Mingi (@atinystraynstay gave me the idea to make it for Min hehe.) is a 400+ year ish old vampire.

To set the scene... Imagine you are this young creature just wanting a fresh start in a new town far from your coven/clan since you were banished as an outsider for having beliefs that all creatures no matter their species, should be deemed as equal.

So here you are, putting down your deposit for this abandoned manor that no one seemed to want since people had said it was haunted, people died in there blah blah. You didn't care. It was the most beautiful thing you had laid your eyes on, and it felt like you needed to be there...

You had to have it.

Once inside your newly purchased home, you found yourself wandering the halls and rooms to find any hidden gems and secrets. Unbeknownst to you, there was a basement, hiding a dark sinister truth.

A few months passed, and you've finally gotten comfortable in the home, having not even noticed the basement. Until on faithful night while you slept, you swore you could hear humming, like someone or something was tugging you awake.

Like a silent song, beckoning you to find the holder.

You manage to find a sealed entrance, covered in ruins, chains, thick wooden boards, and writing that says turn back. Do not enter.

Death lies within

Of course, you just laugh. After all, what could possibly be so dangerous? Humans were such fragile and scared little things. It was more likely to be some spell casters chambers or some orc's dungeon. Nothing you couldn't handle.

So you casted a spell, unlocking the dark tomb. What you didn't expect is to find a coffin in the centre of an eerie empty room. It was chained and had scribbles of ruins and sigals on it.

Typical witches, you thought, afraid of anything that they can't control.

You opened the coffin, removing the spells casted on it slowly, trying your best not to set off any of them. And once the lid was opened, you were faced with a gorgeous eternal looking male. His skin like porcelain, hair like silk. He was the most handsomest creature you've ever laid eyes on.

Something in your soul was calling out for you to wake him. Gift him blood so he could return to the waking world.

So you did.

Slicing your wrist, you angeled your arm aboved his slightly agaped dried out mouth. Feeding in slow droplets of blood. At first, you think your blood did nothing. But then, without another thought, your body moved quicker than lightning. Your back being slammed against the nearest wall, in a blur. Your eyes try to focus on the being in front of you, one hand holding you tightly by the waist, while another held the back of your neck. Trapping you against the concrete.

You've never felt such a painful pleasure like the one that is piercing your jugular. Two pointed teeth sinking deepering in your skin, drawing blood from your main artery, making your head dizzy.

He fed on you. Stealing slow, big gulps of your rich, thick blood. You feel a tingle in your core, something stirring in your entire system and without another whimper escaping your throat. You cilmaxed from the intense amount of power surging through your veins. Like everything in your life suddenly made sense.

And once you'd calmed down, he would finally pull away, licking your wound shut and cleaning any spilt blood he could get to before whispering softly in your ear;

"My beloved. My mate..."

Anyways I'll go back to being on my hiatus. Hehe. ✌️

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chickenparm · 8 months

Text

Thorough (Wriothesley/afab!Reader)

happy halloween, we're suckin' and fuckin' in a graveyard.

---

AO3 Link

Wriothesley/afab!Reader (female anatomy, no pronouns)

3,212 Words - NSFW

(mild consensual non-con, handjob, handcuffs, use of anal plug, power dynamics, fingering, cavity search, pre-established relationship, i wasn't kidding it's in a graveyard)

---

It’s a good hiding spot, you think. No escaped prisoner would be brazen enough to hunker down in a place like this. Maybe it’s a little cliche, and if you were any less than you are, you’d be worried about something spooky. But under the moon it’s just mausoleums, rows of tombstones in varied states of care, you, and the loose clothing hanging off your frame. The least they could do is get you some standard-issue prisoner’s clothes in a size that’s appropriate.

A shiver runs through you, just from the cold. Not that it’s a little unsettling being here at night. But it’s just so quiet, only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, a slight dryness to it thanks to the changing of the seasons. The air even smells a little different, a little more crisp as you inhale deeply and get a move on.

Among the tombstones, you feel too exposed. It allows you to see around yourself to make sure no one is tailing you closely - and they are tailing you - but it also means that the vision will go both ways. No matter who you are, being in a cemetery at night isn’t normal behavior. As the larger constructs of mausoleums and tombs grow closer, you pickup the pace, pulling the collar of your shirt back up from where it sags on your shoulder.

They’re close together, with enough space to walk single-file between them. Fontaine has a long history, shown in the rows of noble-blooded family resting sites, one after another after another. You feel a little safer, less exposed when it’s you and the marble on each side of you, your fingers running across the chilled stone. Not even your own footsteps echo - the leaves haven’t blown far enough to fall here.

Maybe it’s best to just settle here for the night. To wait until your pursuers lose hope that you’re nearby, and you’ll have a little more wiggle room to plan your next moves. Leaving the country for sure; you’ve heard good things about Natlan and its hot springs. Warmth sounds really nice right about now, a little shiver bringing goosebumps along your skin as you turn down a different row.

It’s darker here, the moon at just the right angle to cast everything in shadow. It calms you a little, lets you slow down and take a deeper breath, another shudder as your lungs fill with cold air. God, why couldn’t you have committed a felony in the summertime?

That cold air in your lungs is swiftly forced out, your cheek smacking against the marble as a weight pushes in against you from behind. There’s that warmth you were thinking of, pressed against the length of your back, breezing across your face as you look over your shoulder and your stomach drops.

“Almost got me good, you know,” his voice rolls across your skin as surely as his breath. “I thought, surely you wouldn’t be brave enough to hide out in a place like this.”

And then he laughs, low and from the bottom of his chest, yet it still makes your spine vibrate with its proximity, “But you were brave enough to run from the authorities. Brave, or stupid. Maybe a little of both; I’ll be generous.”

And in response, you say nothing at all. What is there to do but plead for your freedom, spout apologies, spit insults back at him? None of that would change the fact that he’s got you in custody again, and the latter would certainly make all of this worse. So you pull your lower lip between your teeth and try not to shake as he makes a little tsk noise with his teeth. “Right to remain silent, of course. Unfortunately, there are no attorneys around to represent you, so you’ll just have to trust I’m doing it right, hm?”

Wriothesley’s hands, palms pressed into your shoulder blades to hold you still, start to run down your sides, fingers dipping into every little space they can reach. “Now, you were out of my sight for a little while, so I’ll just have to conduct a search to make sure you didn’t pick up any contraband.”

You shake your head - of course you don’t have anything, you didn’t have time. But he continues on, sliding his hands along your arms, then back to your shoulders to feel around your too-loose collar. Nothing there either, of course.

Unthwarted, his fingers slide down your spine once more before easing along your waist toward the front, feeling at your waistline for anything tucked there. Unable to help yourself, you stammer, “I didn’t pick up anything, I-I swear-”

“Stuttering? Are you nervous?” Wriothesley’s hands pause for a moment, pressing into your lower stomach with light pressure, his pinky just beneath the band of your pants. “You have nothing to be nervous about… unless you have something to hide.”

And with that, his hands rise, dipping beneath your shirt to skin along your skin. There’s no way he doesn’t feel the goosebumps, or the way your breath catches as his fingers skim at the bottom of your ribs. Wriothesley must be able to feel your racing heart as one hand slips up the center of your chest to your sternum, fingers splaying out across your collarbones. “Hm. Nothing so far.”

Your eyes shut tighter, a shuddering breath leaves you as his hand moves to the side, sliding across the curve of your breast before he stops to squeeze, the heel of his palm dragging against your nipple - hardened from the cold, not from this. At least, you try to tell yourself that as he cock his head to the side curiously and his fingers tug to draw a little hiss from between your teeth.

“That was something, but not what I was looking for. We’ll come back to that.”

Your cheek presses hard against the marble of the mausoleum he has you pinned against, the cold seeping through your cheek enough to make your molars hurt with the change in temperature. Parting your lips, you suck in a lungful of that same chilly air as he releases your breast and travels further down.

The tip of his pinky beneath the cheap elastic of your pants has been humming at the back of your mind throughout this exchange, demanding attention enough for you to remember it’s there. You don’t forget, especially now that one finger has turned to five, then ten as his hands slip beneath. One holds you steady at the hip while the other brazenly cups you, the tip of his middle finger dipping in just so.

Your thighs clench together, a reflex born from the unexpected suddenness of it all. Like you didn’t know this would happen the moment you saw his expression over your shoulder when you slipped away from him and the Gardes in Vasari Passage.

Wriothesley notes your instinct, the way you close your legs tighter as if to keep him out - or keep him close. A little cooing sound leaves him, as if he finds your reactions impossibly amusing, “Aw, did I not say this was a cavity search?”

Dumbly - because you feel dumb - you shake your head, and he leans in to laugh against the shell of your ear, his breath warm enough against the cold skin that you feel it condensating.

“Oops.”

That teasing fingertip presses harder, curling up through your undeniable wetness until it strokes against your clit once, then again when he decides he likes the way your hips rock at the sensation. Your spine curls, arching against the wall in a way that you’d feel shame for in just a moment. But for now, your mind is whirling and his finger is dragging wet little circles that make your nails scratch uselessly against the perfect, polished stone.

There’s nothing for you to grab on to, nothing to brace yourself with as he toys with you.

“Wri-”

“Your Grace,” Wriothesley corrects you, pressing hard against your clit to push the line of pain. The motion steals your words, and he only makes a little sound that sounds awfully close to, “Oh well.”

With a drag, his hand releases your pussy, smearing wetness up and over your hip as both pull free of your clothing. A bit of relief flows through you, barely noticeable from the frustration of his little game. You didn’t think the Duke was one to be cruel, but you had broken the law. It should’ve been expected.

Roughly, he snatches your hands from where they’re flat against the marble, tugging them behind your back with an ominous rapid-fire clicking of his cuffs. They’re frigid against your skin as he binds them at your lower back, something he should have done when they first picked you up. But you’d been so well behaved, he’d remarked when you went so willingly into custody.

Fear has a way of shaking things up, and now that you’re completely at his mercy, it’s potent in your throat with its incessant squeezing. Patiently you lean against the wall, waiting and waiting for him to start to drag you away. Yet all you hear is the shifting of fabric, the jingle of something that sounds like a belt buckle, and then something hot is pressed into your hand behind your back.

“Just… hold ‘em right there. Where I-... mmh… can see ‘em.”

Wriothesley’s hips roll forward, his cock thrusting into your curled fingers, abundant arousal catching on your palm and easing his way as he does it again and again. With a slap that startles you into squeezing your hand around him tighter, his palm smacks against the wall next to your face to brace himself against the movements of his own hips.

Heat burns at your cheeks, creeps down your neck, makes your thighs press together as he uses you to get himself off with slow, languid rocking. Like he has all the time in the world. In truth, he does, because who else would come looking for the two of you in a graveyard? No one is coming to find you, no one will see the Duke of Meropide rutting himself against your cuffed hands.

Each push forward comes with a little groan in your ear, his knuckles bleeding whiter as his fingertips press and press against the mausoleum wall. You’re entranced by them, your eyes watching as his grip starts to slip with the sweating of his palms. Zoned out, eyes glazed over, your mind takes in the hotness against your palm, the weight of his cock as your fingers close a little tighter.

The sound of his quiet appreciative moan in your ear.

It makes your jaw tick, your eyes refocus on the moment, just in time for Wriothesley to pull back and leave your hand wet with pre cum that chills rapidly in the autumn air. He hadn’t finished - denied himself of it, it seems. Wriothesley doesn’t lean on you for support, instead using the wall over your shoulder with both hands, just for a moment to catch his barely-lost breath.

And then both hands leave your vision, curling around the band of your pants again. Anticipation floods your veins, making you tense as he snaps it against your skin once. “Got a little distracted, sorry about that. Back to business - we’re not done with the cavity search.”

Your knee jerks, smacking painfully against the wall as you instinctively try to stop him, but his chest presses you flat against the surface with a quiet sound of sympathy to placate you, “I’ll be quick, just relax. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about running from me, hm?”

Not running from the authorities, or from the Gardes, but from Wriothesley.

The curve of your ass is revealed as he tugs your pants down enough to get at what he needs. Closing your eyes, holding your breath, you wait on the precipice as his fingers squeeze against your cheeks, then pull apart to scrutinize your ass.

And then laughter, disbelieving and a bit more elated than you expected. “You little liar. And to think I almost trusted you when you said you didn’t have anything to hide.”

His hand on the right shifts, his thumb pressing forward, pushing on the flared base of the plug to force it a little deeper, making you whimper breathlessly. The same fingers that pinched at your breast, toyed with your cunt, find purchase on the plug and tug on it a little, just enough for the flare to pull out a little, to test the tight ring of your hole before letting go. You can feel his interested gaze as it goes back in, the base sitting snugly against you once more.

“Spread your legs. Looks like I’ll have to be more thorough in prior places. You understand, right?”

You weakly nod, spreading as much as you’re able with your pants still caught on your mid-thigh. It’s good enough, you think, because he adjusts his position and he presses his cock against your cunt with very little preamble. Just a single moment for you to take a breath, to reconcile all of this, to say you don’t understand.

But you don’t, and you take that breath, and look at him over your shoulder with eyes that plead for him to do it. And he does, with one long, slow stroke that makes you feel every inch of him. Everything feeling is magnified, your breath turning into a low moan as both of your holes are filled, each feeling tighter together than they would have alone.

“Your Grace…”

“Don’t cum,” Wriothesley orders, hand curled around your hip, squeezing in emphasis of his warning, “little liars have to face their punishment.”

“Please-”

“Hush, or the sentence is just going to be worse.” You don’t doubt it, and you keep your mouth shut even around your moans as he crowds you further against the wall, your arms shifting uncomfortably with the cuffs at your wrists. “Take what you’re given. Be grateful that it is what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.”

It doesn’t even sound like it’s affecting him, but you know it is. You can feel the way his pace picks up when he shifts and his cock drags perfectly inside you. The plug in your ass makes it all the better for him, but it doesn’t seem to be quite enough. Lost in your own haze of pleasure and a desperation not to succumb to it, you don’t notice his wandering fingers until they’re already tugging on the plug again.

The sudden shift, the slight stretch as he pulls on it, makes you tense and tighten and bear down on his cock in a way that makes him laugh through his pleased groan. “Nice, just like that… knew you could be amenable.”

It rankles at you, and your fists tighten. One of them is sticky, the remnants of his use before he abandoned that for elsewhere on your body. And yet you can do nothing but bite your tongue and taste the blood that blooms faintly in your mouth, hoping the pain will distract you from the way his cock nudges insistently against something inside that makes you want to scream loud enough to wake every one of the remains in this graveyard.

But beyond disturbing the dead, it would also likely bring someone curious. Some caretaker or passerby that can’t leave well enough alone. As much as you want this to end differently, you don’t particularly want to end it prematurely. So you keep your mouth shut and let your eyes roll behind closed lids as he fucks you against the wall of some mausoleum that belongs to a family you’d never heard of before.

Meeting his demand is a near impossible task. You think you’re going to fail with how he pulls and twists at your contraband, how his free hand curls around your shoulder to pull you back onto each thrust. But then he snaps first, his grip turning from the pads of his fingers to nails digging into the loose fabric and the skin beneath.

The length of him pushes as deep as he can, pressing his entire body against you, up against the wall until your toes barely reach the gravel below. It’s like he can’t drive himself far enough in, even as he throbs inside with each rope of his cum you’re given.

With a little slide, he pulls back and you barely catch yourself on your wobbling feet. You did as he asked, you didn’t disobey for fear of a longer sentence. You were well behaved - willing. But you’re still surprised when he fixes his clothing in a deft move then takes a knee behind you.

Craning your neck to try and look back and down at him, you cry out as you’re given no warning when two of his fingers slide inside and hook. His thumb finds your clit with clumsy, rough circles that still do a hell of a job making you writhe as he works you over quickly. It’s torture, one that you can’t endure for long, and you plead, “Please, Wriothesley-”

“Oh, yeah, no you’re good. Cum hard, push it all out.” A brush of his lips against the swell of your ass that turns into the feeling of his teeth in a little grin. “Wonder if I could make you do it hard enough to push your little toy out, too.”

Really, you’d love to have this conversation later, but he’s got all the time in the world to chat away as you writhe on his fingers and feel the remnants of his release drip down the inside of your left thigh. “I’ll be honest, that was a nice surprise. You hadn’t mentioned you were gonna do that.”

“Wriothesley, please-”

“Yeah, you’ve been saying that a lot. Alright, anything for you.”

The words are like an invisible tripwire, one that sends you tumbling end over end as your shoulders roll forward and you arch in on yourself under the weight of your orgasm. Wriothesley is relentless, watching with an attentive gaze as you leak down your thighs, along his fingers, into the fabric of his wrappings. And you’ll never see him use the same ones again, unaware of what he does with them.

That thought doesn’t get to live in your mind long as it peters out into some strange white noise that could be a short circuit, or just your blood rushing in your ears. Vaguely you feel him cleaning you up with a square of fabric from his pocket, his hands working quickly to fix your clothes and then wrap you tight in the very jacket he’d been wearing.

It’s warm. It smells like him, comfortable and familiar, tea and whatever brand of aftershave he’s been fond of lately. Against your ear, he asks if your legs work or if you need to hitch a ride, then doesn’t wait for an answer as he scoops you into his arms.

You’d like to apologize to whatever resting place you just desecrated, but as you look over Wriothesley’s shoulder, you honestly couldn’t pick out which one it was from this distance.

Hopefully they’ll understand.

#mind the a/n for content tags #wriothesley #genshin impact #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #mdni #nsft #x reader #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley/reader #genshin #genshin x reader

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dailyadventureprompts · 3 months

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Mystery: Oh, How the Iron Coffin Hungers!

There's been a rash of graverobberies across the kingdom that have the authorities suspecting necromancy. For their part, the necromancer's guild has nothing to do with these crimes and is willing to hire your party to help clear their name. The investigation will lead you to through tombs, black markets, and haunted crossroads of the realm, as it becomes clear the culprits are seeking far more than coin or corpses at the bottom of those defiled graves.

Clues & Complications:

A missing body is usually a dead giveaway that a necromancer has been involved in a grave robbery, as most criminals only care about grabbing what valuables they can and wouldn't result to bodysnatching unless someone was going to pay them for it. How unusual then when a few of the bodies begin turning up days after they were exhumed, one in an abandoned cellar, one on the side of the road, and one in a completely different town, which may give a hint as to the culprit's movements.

Working for necromancers has its benefits, the guild is aware of the habits of the corpse trade (only in a theoretical sense, you understand, yes?) and can use their magic to extract information from the cadavers. Strangely enough it appears all the corpses bear the marks of previous magical questioning, hinting that it might be information the robbers were after, not flesh or treasure.

The bodies all belong to minor gentry or well-to-do merchants, the ideal targets for graverobbers who don't mind breaking into a tomb or fussing with a trap (both of which the party might have to do during their investigation) if it means access to better plunder. If the party press deeper however they'll notice a recurring symbol, on a ring or a tattoo or etched into the gravemarker, resembling the crudest sketch of a jawbone.

Just like it seems the party is getting answers, the corpses they've been trailing sit up and lunge for the nearest individual's throat, transformed by dark power into a rampaging ghoul. Chaos ensues as this awakening occurs not just with those corpses that have already been found, but also with those that were previously undiscovered as well as a half dozen or more random bodies scattered across the countryside. Though they seem too possessed with hunger to be capable of speech, if the party manage to restrain one of the ghouls and sate its unholy hunger, they may just get the last few clues they're looking for.

Background: In life all of the bodies belonged to a secret society known as the jawbone club, a bad pun on one of the first mystical objects they'd obtained; a crude weapon made from the skull fragment of some great beast, unearthed on one of their founder's estates by some adventurers clearing a nest of monsters.

Their association started a few generations before as a mostly innocent affair, a nameless but exclusive social lodge where those in the know could smoke and gamble and make the sort of back room deals that occupy much of the energy of the idly wealthy. Those who took an interest in the jawbone realized that whoever held it had greater luck in their personal affairs, in no small part because of the unlucky and sometimes disastrous circumstances that would befall their rivals. They became secretive, an inner circle within the lodge that took on more authority as their powers grew, understanding emerging that if they fed their blood to the jawbone it would grant them power.

Power does not spring from nowhere however, as the weapon was infact an artifact dedicated to the ghoul-saint Doresain, the avatar of a hungry and terrible demon god who was in turn feeding on the hungry ambitions of the inner circle. Unconscious impulses became whispers became visions, as the tithe of blood raised to sacrifices of flesh and fingers, because what was letting the razor teeth of some dead beast scar your body if it meant your hateful old uncle suddenly took ill just after rewriting his will to leave you his fortune.

Things came to a head with Catiro Wayte, the youngest and least favored son of a large noble family. The Wayte clan owned land and mills aplenty and were no strangers to ambition, Catrio and his siblings were practically weaned on it. So when the opportunity came to take hold of his fortune at the price of only a little pain Catrio was only too happy to pay it, and keep on paying so long as he had blood to let and skin to scar. After they'd come to understand what it could do the Jawbone Club had made rules about how often its members could make use of the artifact, fearing not only discovery but one of their number growing in power above the others. Catrio begged, bartered, and blackmailed to jump the line every time he could, hacking away a little more of himself each time, not giving his wounds time to heal up between sacrifices.

One night, when the itch of pride and avarice overwhelmed the pain in his infected flesh Catrio broke into the jawbone's sanctum. It was too late when the others found him in the morning , he'd carved open his belly looking for more of himself to cut away and had died with the artifact buried in his guts. Such heedless sacrifice opened a door for the ravenous hunger of the gnawing god, transforming Catrio's corpse into its mouthpiece, hungry and cruel. For all their resources the Jawbone club were unable to slay their former friend, instead sealing him in the lodge's basement and later an iron coffin they had constructed. They had a select number of their most trusted find a place to entomb Catrio's body (along with the bone it still clutched) in some unknown location and swore all the rest to secrecy, dissolving the jawbone club and swearing never to speak of it for the rest of their days.

The Culprit & The Consequences:

Catrio left much behind on that night he met his end, including a commonborn mistress and a daughter named Heliana only a few years old. One could theoretically source his ambition to his desire to make a place for them in the world, but that would be making things far too simple. Unrecognized by her father’s family and cut off from Catrio’s support Heliana and her mother ended up scraping to get by, with her ending up in the gravemaking trade out of one part practicality, one part wistful desire to perhaps one day find where her father was buried.

after nearly four decades after she and her mother were forced out on the street, Heliana’s crime spree began when by chance she found the first of the Jawbone marked graves. Remembering the stories her mother had told her about the club and its excesses, It took only a little convincing to have her fellow undertakers help her unearth the body, and a few charms learned from a travelling death priest to get the cadaver talking. After that it was just a matter of asking which corpse knew what, tracing her way through the postmortem ranks of the Jawbone club until she found out what had happened to her father and where his body lay.

Originally, all Heliana had wanted to do was give her father a proper burial alongside her some years dead mother, as she was told was always his wish. Plans changed when her father began to speak to her within the iron coffin after she’d unearthed it from its secret hiding space. Through the magic of the ghoul-saint he knew her, knew of her hungry years, and of the long dormant pride and ambition he’d handed down to her along with his blood: a desire to be recognized no matter the cost. He whispered a plan into her mind, a way for him to return to life and use the artifact he still carried to make everything as it should be. Naturally when they caught her agreeing with the corpse, most of Heliana’s muscle deserted her, and might give your party a much needed lead in their tall tales.

The animation of the other jawbone club members as ghouls was only a warning sign, a byproduct of Heliana breaking through the outermost layer of the iron coffin’s wards in preparation of something far more calamitous. Her father’s plan (or rather, the thing wearing her father like a mask) is to have Heliana burn the iron coffin along with her mother's bones in a ritual pyre at the heart of the Wayte estate. Catrio’s spirit will be free, devour the grounds (and his unwelcoming family) and use the power of the jawbone artifact to remake them all as they should be, with him as lord of the manor, united with his lover and child. While she’s more than willing to even the score with the people who denied her birth and threw her mother out on the street, why Heliana doesn't suspect is the horde of flesh eating undead and other malign spirits that will be unleashed should the ritual be allowed to finish.

Art 1 Art 2

#mystery #undead #necromancer #mid level #town encounter #cultist #yeenoghu #dnd #d&d

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nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos · 8 months

Text

So...hi

I may have decided on a whim to continue Your Scars Are Mine for no reason.

No reason at all. Nope not me.

Why's he gotta be so pretty how dare he

No need to read the previous fic, this one is still a oneshot.

Anyway here it is.

Ten Years

Hurt/Comfort and Smut

NSFW

Trigger Warnings: Trauma, Mentions of Self Harm, Depression

OPLA!Mihawk X AFAB!Reader

Wordcount: 5.2k

♫♬ Medusa in Chains — The Fratellis ♬♫

Before this whole thing began I had some sense of pride

Just one more night with your lips, your company is hard to eclipse

Four days.

Nearly four damned days had passed since you had last ate. Last bathed. Last done so much as dragged yourself out of bed to do more than half-stumble to the bathroom, and Mihawk was growing as impatient as he was concerned. It had been a few weeks since he had brought you to Kuraigana Island, and you had spent a fair amount of time flitting around the castle learning its halls and corridors front to back, dusting corners that even he had forgotten existed.

Then, a few mornings ago, you had simply refused to get out of bed.

Refused to speak as to why.

The warlord had told himself it was fine. That it wasn't as if he wasn't accustomed to having the sprawling stone castle to himself, that he could let whatever was ailing you play out, give you your space to work through it on your own.

But it was clearly doing no good, not to him or you. He had already grown too accustomed to your presence there, and seeing you in your present state was driving him completely mad.

He lingered in the doorway of the bedroom, arms crossed and leaning his shoulder into the doorframe, his eyes scanning slowly over you as you lay there with the sheets pulled up to the nape of your neck and your back to him. He had known you for nearly five months, had deemed to call you his lover for two of them. You did have a tendency toward the silent treatment when you argued, as much as that drove him mad, but this was different. This hadn't come on the crest of any argument, and it clearly ran far deeper than that.

You weren't doing this to get under his skin. That was clear to see, and Mihawk was at a complete loss on how to approach it.

He gave a small growl of annoyance at the sound of his transponder going off in his pocket, digging the thing out and shoving it into his ear as he turned the corner into the hallway outside the bedroom you had all but made your tomb.

"Little busy," he said impatiently. "Make it quick."

The last thing he wanted to deal with now was the goddamned government.

"Oof. That bad, huh?" Mihawk's eyes darted toward the transponder, the pad of his index finger pressed against it to hold it in place as Vice Admiral Garp's gruff brogue went on in his ear. "I figured. How's the kid holding up?"

Mihawk furrowed his eyebrows, and then lifted one if them as he glanced back toward the doorway of the bedroom.

"What are you talking about?" he said slowly. Garp knew something, and the old Marine had an irritating tendency to withhold information.

"Sounds like ya know damn well what I'm talking about, Hawk-Eyes." His jaw set at a rigid angle, gritting his teeth, Mihawk considered for perhaps the thousandth time just pulling the transponder from his ear and tossing it out a window. "Your associate. I'd be willing to bet your old bounty that she's not doing the best right now."

"Is this a business call or are you truly this insistent on wasting my time?"

Mihawk cringed at the sound of Garp's laughter in his ear.

"Little of both," he said, amused. "Word came down to me that my grandson may have formed an alliance with Fire Fist Ace in Arabasta a couple days ago. Around...the thirteenth, I believe. Something I asked you to keep an ear out for personally. And it's not really like you to not know what's going on around the Grand Line."

"As I said, I'm busy," he said through his teeth. Mihawk had no intention of standing around being insulted—particularly not with you in your current state. "My apologies if I haven't been babysitting your grandson closely enough for your liking."

"I can handle my own family affairs," said Garp. The amusement dropped from his tone as he went on. "This is more of a personal call. Your associate. I'm checking in. I imagine this hasn't been a good week for the girl." Mihawk remained silent, his eyes shifting to the open bedroom doorway once again, waiting for Garp to continue. He had no intention of letting on to anyone in a place of authority just how much he had come to care for you—not when they could very easily use it against him, threaten you to gain further control over him. "The sixteenth will mark ten years since the day she witnessed her home destroyed."

And today was the fifteenth.

That put quite a few things into perspective.

Mihawk leaned back against the wall behind him, pinching at the bridge of his nose as a slow sigh left his lungs.

"She's barely moved in three days," he said finally, quietly to ensure his voice didn'treach your ears—if you were even capable of listening right now. "Or spoken."

"Aye, I figured." Garp let out a heavy sigh himself. "I don't like to admit the failures of Marines any more than any other of my comrades, but...what Admiral Vesper did ten years ago was an insult to what we're supposed to stand for. I'd have seen the man executed a thousand times over for it if I could have. It was a goddamned massacre. All but, anyway, since he left her alive. I can't imagine how the poor girl even sleeps at night, honestly."

You didn't sleep well. Mihawk had noticed that from the start. Your hours of unconsciousness were frequently plagued with nightmares that you claimed not to remember, but he was sure you had to remember some of them. He was sure of it from the distance that lingered in your eyes some mornings as you sipped a cup of coffee or tea, from the way you spaced out and barely heard a word anyone spoke to you.

"I would like the coordinates of the island," Mihawk said after several long seconds, still rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

"There's nothing there. Her village was destroyed. It's just a rock in the water at this point."

"I don't care."

He rolled his eyes when Garp gave a snort of laughter—but the man did at least rattle off the coordinates without any hesitation, as if there were a map sitting right in front of him.

"N 22°6'5.3535" by W 159°33'55.7474". I'll give you a minute if you need to write it down."

Mihawk definitely hadn't expected the vice admiral to have the coordinates all but memorized. He sighed, ducking around the corner into the bedroom where you still lay motionless several feet away. He crossed to the desk, and leaned over it, lifting a pen and pressing it to a pad of paper.

"Again," he said shortly, and he quickly noted down the letters and numbers as Garp repeated them. And he added, just as shortly as he set the pen down, "Thank you."

Garp gave a short laugh. "White roses and blue orchids." Mihawk's brow furrowed as he crossed the room, glancing at you before slipping out the door again, ascertaining that you still hadn't moved an inch. "Those were her favorites."

"Sounds as if you were fairly familiar with this pirate."

"Oh, quite a few men were. She wasn't called The Siren for no reason." He sighed, and chuckled a little. "But yeah. I guess I was more familiar with Helena than most."

Mihawk barely had a moment to wrap his head around the connotations of that claim before Garp spoke up again.

"If you're at Kuraigana and you take that eyesore you call a boat, you'll have about a twelve hour trip due East," he went on. "Probably best get going if you plan to make it there tomorrow."

And with that and nothing else, the call ended.

Mihawk pulled the transponder from his ear, staring at it for a moment in mild alarm, before pocketing it again, glancing toward the bedroom door to his right.

Garp was familiar with your grandmother. He couldn't help but wonder whether you were aware of that.

Now wasn't precisely the best time to ask, however. He had to find some way to coax you out of bed, to get you dressed and—

And you had, at some point, rolled onto your other side, so when he entered the room again you were facing him. Your eyes locked onto his as you lay there on the four poster bed with your hand tucked between your cheek and a pillow, and Mihawk stopped abruptly in the doorway.

"We have a job, I take it?"

For a moment, Mihawk remained silent, standing at the threshhold and simply staring at you. This was the first you had spoken in days with the sole exception of the occasional single-word reply. His eyes passed quickly over you—and then he gave a brief nod.

"Yes," he said, crossing the room to the wardrobe at your side of the bed.

He wasn't sure how you would react to the truth of the matter, but he had a sneaking suspicion that you would resist, and he preferred not to even erect that bridge, much less cross it. Ten years had passed and you had gotten absolutely no closure—however much it would hurt, you needed this.

"You'll need to bathe and dress," he said, pulling clothes out for you and setting them across the foot of the bed. "We'll leave within the hour."

You nodded, your eyes shifting away from his as you sat up, letting the covers fall away from you and standing. You were wearing one of his shirts, unbuttoned with nothing but a pair of black panties underneath, and had it not been for your despondent state at the present he wouldn't have been able to resist tearing them off of you and pushing you right back into bed.

Instead, he watched you pick up the clothes he had set out, head into the adjoining bathroom, and close the door quietly behind you.

This wasn't like you. None of it was. Your proneness to dry remarks and comebacks, your snide little smirks that infuriated and enticed him in equal measure—there had been absolutely none of it for days now, and it was getting under his skin like nothing else had in years. He took a seat on the bed, kicking off his boots in mild frustration and reclining back against the headboard, staring at the closed door you had just disappeared through.

Folding his hands over his stomach and listening to the sound of running water at the other side.

Waiting.

Thinking.

It would be both unfair and unsafe, he decided as you emerged from the bathroom several minutes later, not to give you some hint, some clue of his intentions. You were already dressed—at least half dressed, your shirt hanging open over a lacy black bra, a towel hanging around your shoulders to catch the water still beading in your damp hair. You paused in buttoning your shorts, meeting his eyes as he pointed at the edge of the bed next to him.

"Sit," he said, his tone light but commanding—halfway for the sake of observing your reaction.

You would often snap that you weren't a dog, roll your eyes at him, intentionally try to aggitate him; but now you simply sighed a little and did as you were told, taking a seat at the edge of the mattress, your hands resting at either side and your head declined to stare down at your knees.

"Here."

You glanced at him briefly when he held out a hand, and you placed yours in it after a moment. He tugged you down to him, across his chest, curling his other hand in your hair, searching your eyes and your face for anything.

And finding nothing. Not sadness, not anger, just a blank numbness that gave the impression you weren't even there. Despite the weight of your body, despite your forehead resting lightly against his, you were as good as a ghost.

He moved a hand to your waist, and your breath hitched in alarm when he flipped you onto your back, moving both of his hands to yours at either side of your head, entwining his fingers with yours to keep you there—to keep you from bolting, as you were so prone to doing when anything about your past came up.

"Were you planning on telling me what's going on, little one..." said Mihawk, lowering himself to his elbows, his forehead to yours, giving you nowhere to look but his eyes. He moved one hand over, brushing a thumb lightly across your bottom lip, "or do you prefer me hearing it from our Marine friend?"

Your eyes widened just a little at that—and your breath hitched again when he moved his thumb to your cheek and pressed his lips to yours in a brief, deep kiss. It had been days since he had gotten a single taste of you, and your lips were much too tempting to resist.

He felt your grip briefly tighten on his hand before pulling away, close enough that he felt the warmth of your slow, trembling sigh brush across his own lips. "Ten years tomorrow, isn’t it?" he asked quietly.

Your gaze shifted away in an instant, your eyes slipping shut. "It's my problem," you said quietly. "Not yours."

"You wasting away in bed for three days straight makes it very much my problem." You bit your lip for a moment. Swallowed. "We've had this discussion before. And not very long ago." A small shudder crept through you when he released your hand, trailing his fingertips down the length of your left arm, where your white sleeve hid the marks you had put there over the years yourself, marks of defeat. The freshest wound there still had yet to heal fully, and he could feel the bandages wrapped around your arm just above your elbow through the thin material of your shirt. "Hiding things does neither of us any good."

You gave a short nod, your eyes remaining shut, your breathing the slightest bit uneven as his fingertips brushed across your cheek and returned to your hand, slipping between your fingers. "S...sorry," you forced out in a whisper. "It's just...not really..."

"Don't apologize." You opened your eyes at this, meeting his gaze. "But next time something of this magnitude comes up..." A slow sigh left your lips as his brushed at the edge of your jaw, near your ear. "You'll tell me."

You gave another small nod.

"Good girl."

His eyes drifted down your body, your smaller form pinned beneath his, his fingers drifting across the bare strip of skin between the folds of your unbuttoned shirt, brushing over the soft lace at the center of your bra, barely grazing the edge of your breast. In any other circumstance he wouldn't have hesitated for a moment to tear it away from you right that second—but now wasn't the time. As much as he detested not being in control, that had to be on your terms for now.

So he left you with one last slow, deep kiss, his hand moving to wrap around your waist under your shirt and pull you against him for a moment, for as long as he could stand to, before parting from you and standing from the bed.

"Finish getting yourself ready," he said, pulling his own half-buttoned shirt over his head and off and laying it at the edge ofnthe bed. "We'll be traveling for a little over twelve hours, with one stop on the way. The sooner we leave, the better."

You didn't say a word as he crossed the room, dropping the shirt into a hamper by the wardrobe, but he heard you shift on the bed behind him. Heard the matress creek as you rose and crossed the room slowly, your bare feet a whisper against the cold stone floor, stopping just behind him.

He paused in taking down his long overcoat as your arms wrapped around him, your cheek pressed against the back of his shoulder.

"I am sorry," you repeated quietly. "I...I didn't know it would be this..." Your breath shook a little as you took a step closer, as he looked over his shoulder and saw only the crown of your hair from the way your head was turned. "It's been almost ten years, I shouldn't be...."

Mihawk sighed, letting go of his coat as he felt you trembling against him. This was still something he was entirely unaccustomed to—he had seen you in this vulnerable a state only once before, only a few short weeks ago, when he had caught you pulling the blade of one of your daggers across your arm. When you admitted you had been doing so for the better part of ten years—a tally mark, a physical reminder for every mistake you made.

After a moment, he took your wrists in his hand, pulling your arms away.

He turned to face you, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you against him, resting a hand near the crown of your hair to cradle your head against his shoulder, leaning back against the wardrobe.

"Have you considered that that's what happens when you spend a decade blaming yourself for something that was beyond your control?" he said lightly.

Your breath hitched and stuttered, your shoulders shaking as you struggled against the torrent of emotion you had been fighting off for more than three days. Fighting within your own head, leaving you so exhausted that you could do little more than lay in bed and stare at the wall.

"I—if I had stayed hidden like she told me to, she—she'd have—"

"No." It was a hard truth, but it was one you needed to hear. "In all likelihood, you both would have been killed amid the destruction." A small whimper escaped you as he moved his hand down, cupping your jaw lightly to lift your head. Your eyes snapped shut immediately. "Don't do that," he sighed, shaking his head. He lowered his own, resting his forehead against yours. "Look at me."

You clearly hesitated, swallowing, before allowing your eyes to slowly open, meeting his. He brushed his thumb lightly across your cheek, his eyes shifting for a moment to your lips as they trembled a little.

"I can replace most of the things I have in my possession." His sharp yellow eyes moved back up to meet your gaze, keeping his voice quiet, as gentle as the caress of his thumb across your skin. "You, my little bird, are not one of them." Mihawk moved his other hand to your shoulder, slowly pulling your shirt down to expose your left arm, his fingers grazing over the bandage wrapped around your delicate skin, across the scars. "I won't stand to watch you hurt yourself, be it with your blades or by any other means."

He saw as well as heard your breath hitch in your chest, your brows furrowing as your gaze softened.

And then your hands slipped from his shoulders, meeting at the nape of his neck as you tilted your head up to press your lips firmly to his.

You were impossible to resist, your breath shaking amid the fierce kiss. He pulled his arm tighter around you, tugging your shirt down your other shoulder, tossing it away onto the floor. His hands wrapped around your arms as he pushed you back toward the bed, pressed you back into the mattress as he bent over you.

His lips drifted away from yours, curling his fingers in your hair and tugging at the roots to turn your head and give him better access to your soft skin.

"I thought—" You gasped, arching your back as he pushed his hand up your waist, under the soft fabric of your bra. "You said—we need to leave soon—"

"It can wait," he growed into the crook of your neck. The soft moan that left your lips as his thumb brushed across your nipple was like music to his ears. "You've made me wait nearly four days." Perhaps it wasn't fair to phrase it in such a way—but it was the truth of the matter. He turned your head, his eyes burning into yours as he murmured against your lips. "Do you have any idea how much I've craved you?"

It seemed with that you had no further protest, no further questions—you simply gripped a handful of hair at the nape of his neck and crushed your lips to his, arching your back and moaning breathily into the passionate kiss.

He curled his arm under your back, deftly unhooking your bra, and had it ripped away from your body in seconds, shifting you further back onto the bed and trailing his lips down the column of your throat. He had no intention of punishing you, of making you wait—not this time. No, his only focus now was purely your pleasure; making you forget, if only for a brief spell, everything that had been tormenting you.

He lifted you off of the bed to pull one of your nipples into his mouth, his eyes shifted up to watch your head fall back against the comforter, your soft moans filling the sprawling bedchamber as his tongue swirled around the sensitive protrusion. Shifting to your other, a slow sigh leaving him as you arched your hips to grind against his knee between your thighs.

If you wanted more, then, oh, you were going to get it.

He trailed his fingertips down your stomach, quickly unfastened the buttons at the high waist of your shorts, and pushed his hand into them, under the elastic waist of your panties, spreading apart your folds.

Once more he pressed his lips into the crook of your neck, then again just below your ear.

"Yes," Mihawk breathed against your delicate skin as a soft cry left your lips, reveling at the shiver that crept through you, the way your clit twitched and throbbed under his touch. "Break for me, my darling."

You turned your head and pressed your lips to his, drawing in a sharp breath as your hips rolled slowly under his touch, your nails digging into his shoulders. Your breath left you in a soft whimper as your tongues swirled together between your lips amid the deep kiss, his dragging across the roof of your mouth before drawing back, your eyes glazed over in lust as your gazes met.

"More." Your soft, breathless whisper against his lips was almost enough to drive him into a frenzy—your fingertips trailing down the hard lines of his abdominal muscles, stopping at the buckle of his belt. "Please."

And that was enough.

He hated losing control, but goddammit, you made it utterly impossible for him to retain it.

In an instant he slipped his belt loose, shoving his pants down his hips as you kicked your shorts away. His gaze drifted down your body slowly for a moment, admiring every inch of you as if you were the finest work of art lying beneath him, just waiting to be vandalized and ruined.

He shifted you a bit further back on the bed, grasping one of your thighs and pressing it down against your chest.

The way you arched your hips when he thrust into you—the way your eyes rolled back and a quivering moan passed through your lips as the warmth of your tight, slick channel wrapped around him—the way you clung to his neck as he thrust intonyou again and again, your eyes glued to his and your nails digging into bis skin—to say he had been craving this, craving *you* would have been a grievous understatement. It was more than that now, an intrinsic *need* that he couldn't shake, one that he had felt so deeply with no one but you. Without even being consciously aware you had become an addiction—your body, your touch, your moans and whimpers and sighs and gasps, you.

You were wound so tightly from the brief teasing that barely a minute passed before your hips arched high against his, a deep, breathy moan leaving your lips as your thighs clenched around his hips and shook, as your walls clenched tight around his cock. He pulled himself up onto his knees, pulling you up with him, holding you against his chest as he pressed a hard kiss to your lips, groaning quietly into your mouth.

One of his hands found your hip, grasping your soft flesh hard enough to bruise as he tore his mouth from yours, eyes brimming with lust as he growled one quiet word against your lips.

"Again." He pressed his lips to yours again briefly, gripping the nape of your neck. Pressed his lips to your neck, your chest, lowering his hand to push one of your breasts up, kneading at the soft flesh as he guided your hips to roll onto him again and again, before you had even recovered from your intense orgasm. "I."

And again and again, almost as if you were made for the sole purpose of coming undone under his touch. Every one of your wordless moans and breathless whimpers fueled him, drove him wild, his lips trailing across every inch of your skin he could reach—across your chest, the soft swell of your breasts, down your smooth neck and across your shoulders.

Until he couldn't the any more, until the tension building in the pit if his stomach was too much to bear—until he gripped a fistful of your hair and pulled you down hard by your hips, crushed his lips against yours in a hungry kiss and thrust into you hard, shoving you down onto your back and pinning your hands over your head as he completely lost himself within you, his breath shuddering into a low groan that was drowned out by your breathless moans.

Your hips rolled together slowly on the crest of your shared euphoria, your breath leaving you in soft whimpers as his grip on your hands loosened, allowing you to lower one to brush your fingers back through his dark hair. A deep sigh heaved from his chest as his lips parted from yours, and he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him to lay across his chest.

His fingers combed down through your hair as you lay your forehead in the crook of his neck, both of your catching your breath. Mihawk lowered his head enough to brush his lips to your temple, his voice a soft murmur in your ear. "You're going to be the death of me, little one."

You swallowed, laying your cheek against his shoulder, your eyes closed as your soft fingertips caressed the back of his neck, the light touch sending a slight shiver down his spine—as did your breathless, whispered reply.

"I love you."

It wasn't something either if you said often. It had remained more or less of an unspoken understanding between the two of you since he first said it himself a few weeks earlier—and maybe that was why it seemed to have so much of an impact when the words were spoken aloud.

He turned his head and brushed his lips to yours, pulling his thumb across your temple to brush your hair behind your ear.

"I...love you."

The words still felt strange rolling off his tongue—strange, unfamiliar, but not wrong by any means. He tilted his head until his forehead touched yours, closing his eyes. It was the truth, a truth that was difficult to admit after years of solitude, but one that couldn't be left unspoken.

If Mihawk was to expect truth from you, he couldn't withhold it himself.

For sometime he just held you there against him, his arm curled around your back, his thumb brushing slow circles against your waist...and then he spoke.

"We're not going on an assignment." Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his in question. "Twelve hours east of here," he said quietly, slowly, "is the island where you grew up—no," he interjected, when your eyes widened and you began to pull away. He pulled his arm tighter around your back, his other hand at the nape of your neck, curling in your hair to keep you from pulling away. "We're going. You need to." The pain that dawned in your eyes was almost enough to make him relent—but he wouldn't. He couldn't. He shook his head. "You know you need to."

You swallowed, your gaze falling away from his. "I...I don't know if I can..."

"You can." He brushed his lips against yours, fingers combing through your hair, and you lifted your gaze back to his. "You..." He brushed his thumb across your cheek, his eyes boring into yours, "...are the strongest woman I have ever met—don't do that," he added in a lightly chiding tone when you rolled your eyes. He curled his hand around your chin. "You'd have to be strong to have such a chokehold on me, little one."

You rolled your eyes back over to his at that...and you gave a small, quiet chuckle, nuzzling your cheek against hid shoulder. "Touché." Your eyes flickered away for a moment, but returned to his quickly. "I just..." You swallowed, and shook your head. "There's nothing there. Just...a rock in the water."

Your claim echoed Garp's eerily—but the claim echoed just as empty as his had. The mere thought of that rock made your eyes fill with emotion, made your voice break. That rock was the final resting place of one of the most infamous pirates that had ever sailed the Grand Line—the woman that had raised you. Your trainer, your caregiver, your role model.

Your grandmother, the Siren.

"There's a lot more there than just a rock. I think we both know that." You swallowed again...and, after several long seconds, you nodded. Your eyes slipped shut and your breath hitched, and he combed bis fingers slowly through your hair. "We'll rest for a bit, and then we'll leave."

"Y...yes." You gave a short nod, and a slow sigh, your eyes opening to meet his again, full of renewed resolve. "Okay."

His thumb brushed across your cheek, his eyes glued to yours. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you, but pain was often a necessary catalyst in healing. He sighed slowly, his forehead touching yours.

"I love you."

Your eyes glued to his, you echoed his murmured words without a second thought.

"I love you."

#opla #dracule mihawk #mihawk one piece #one piece fanfiction #mihawk opla #fanfic #one piece #fluff #opla fanfiction #smut #mihawk #mihawk x reader

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anatomyoflove · 6 months

Text

Jjba Vento Aureo dying in their arms || Angst Headcannons

【 Headcannons 】

╭┈───────Triggers— Death, sad sthoff 】

「 BRUNO BUCCIARATI 🦢」 ▷ The group has been attacked by multiple stand users on a mission (This was before Giorno has entered Passione) ▷ Bruno and [Y/n] came out with a plan to lead all of them and to be thrown out of the cliff ▷ It didn't end well, as they underestimated the stand ▷ The stand ends up badly injuring both ▷ Causing [Y/n] to fall on the cliff ▷ [Y/n]'s stand had to do with something with alternate universes ▷ Bruno couldn't hold on to her anymore as he too was badly wounded, and the continuous attacks of the stand kept going as he was holding her. Leaving it more difficult for him to keep his eyes open ▷ [Y/n] reassured Bruno to let go as she knew that he couldn't go longer ▷He stayed silent, and gritted his teeth, furrowed his brow, stiffened his post, and tightened his grip trying to pull her up, but he was to his limit, he was badly wounded. ▷ [Y/n] was the one who let go, but before she did she said that it was okay because in the different universes she's been through she saw them having happy endings with him, and that she was sorry that it's not in this universe.

「GUIDO MISTA 🔫」 ▷ The group ventures through the waters, with Narancia finally catching up to the boat, and with Fugo standing still on the island. ▷ "We'll be fine" Mista brought up, reassuring [Y/n], that he always does that, he was always so caring. Even when she was way behind the line, he'd wait for her, he had a soft spot for her and she didn't know it ▷ As they travel back to Venice, they were attacked ▷ It was a water stand causing everyone to be immediately vulnerable ▷ The boat was immediately damaged, [Y/n] didn't know how to swim and as everyone fell off the boat, [Y/n] struggled to stay up ▷ Mista immediately went after her, however [Y/n] was the first target of the Water stand, ▷ She tried fighting back with her stand but the deeper she went the harder it was to breathe ▷ The same goes for Mista but his concern fueled him to go deeper and to at least get a grip of your hands was enough for him to take you back to the surface ▷ [Y/n] died of drowning before the stand did a final attack on her making sure she was dead ▷ As soon as the remaining Passione members defeated the water stand. ▷ Mista Carried [Y/n]'s body to shore and then rested her head on his shoulder as he hugged her from her shoulders as they watched the sunset as a final goodbye ▷ "You like sunsets right?"

「 NARANCIA GHIRGA 🛩️ 」 ▷ [Y/n] was assassinated in her sleep. With now their group being labeled as traitors for saving Trish ▷ A stand user was originally supposed to kill Giorno, with him being the new member of the organization and not being recognized easily by the other members, [Y/n] was unfortunately mistaken and got killed in her room before she could even react ▷ The next morning, Bruno, Giorno, Abbacchio, and Mista surrounded [Y/n]'s room. ▷ Narancia just woke up and decided to see the fuzz in the hallway ▷ "What's happening?" he rubbed his eyes as he tried to take a peek, it was just a blanket covering [Y/n] except that her arm was hanging down, along with blood dripping ▷ The four other members slightly bowed their head knowing already the context. ▷ Narancia ran in the room and took off the blanket to reveal the corpse, he started shaking the body ▷ "Wake up [Y/n], stop messing around" he started sweating profusely, he was nervous ▷The body was cold yet he kept shaking it, telling her to wake up and stop messing around ▷ He turned to Giorno and clapped his hands together in a praying position, begging for Giorno to bring her back. ▷He then begged towards the other members to wake her up and do something however everyone stayed silent knowing there is nothing to be done. ▷Narancia hugs the cold [Y/n] before they gave her a burial, and even at the funeral Narancia stayed staring at the tomb for hours

「GIORNO GIOVANNA 💛」 ▷ While in a fight with a stand, a falling building was unfortunately caused crushing some of the members, luckily most of the Passione survived with both major and minor injuries ▷ [Y/n] was not so lucky ▷ Giorno was the first to figure out that they were missing one person ▷ He immediately went back in the fallen building and pushed chunks of rocks, and cement ▷ There he saw [Y/n] lying down with no movements being detected ▷ Giorno tried healing her back up, but the body was hollow, there was no life in it anymore ▷ "Giorno" Bruno called from behind, implying that she wasn't gonna be back. ▷ Giorno kept pushing it, till he finally stopped, and accepted it. ▷ He stared for a few seconds at the hollow body, before he grew a field of flowers, roses, and sunflowers around the body, covering it and giving it a comfortable burial at least.

「LEONE ABBACCHIO 🎧」 ▷ In Sardinia, as Leone waits to get the image of their boss, [Y/n] sticks with him as the rest run off ▷ "I miss a warm bed" [Y/n] commented, before stretching, she liked annoying Leone because she knew that he got easily irritated with her talking about all sorts of things ▷ "Shut up" Leone told her to be quiet, she chuckled in reply ▷ Nearby kids wanted to get the soccer ball stuck out of the tree, and the noise was irritating him ▷ He finally told them to be quiet before hesitating and getting the ball ▷ "I'll do it" [Y/n] volunteered as she put the pieces together, she then climbed up to give it back to them ▷ As the little boys began running further away, the last boy eyed Leone ▷ [Y/n]'s stand (that had to do with auras) immediately detected a negative one about him, causing her to push Leone out of the way and push herself aside but not far enough for King Crimson to impale her within seconds ▷ It was quick and short, that Leone immediately went after the mysterious kid but then he suddenly disappeared. ▷ Leone didn't hesitate to grab her body and moved to a different place. ▷ Leone hugged the body closely to him as he hid behind the lighthouse ▷ "You're such an idiot" he mumbled, but grief was what reflected in his eyes, he knew that it could've been avoided if he was the one who got the ball, just not her. ▷ He blames himself for her death

╭┈─────── A/N: no Y/n's were harmed in making of this fanfic

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jamesshawgames · 1 year

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Relics 3 Release Announcement!

Relics 3: Ashes for Gold has been released!

In Europe’s darkest hour, an even deeper darkness is stirring. One hero stands against the triumph of absolute evil. You.

It’s 1940, and the long-feared war has broken out in Europe. Our intrepid archaeologist is working as a spy for the British, undertaking daring operations to strike at Nazi interests across Europe. But soon a new threat emerges. The Nazis have obtained a stockpile of a devastating ancient weapon, and in order to activate it they are scouring the world in pursuit of long-lost Archives which can teach them how to use it. You must get there first, overcoming the odds to beat the forces of evil and prevent them from unlocking powers with which they can sweep aside any opposition and conquer the world. Can you beat the odds stacked so heavily against you, or will you fail and plunge the world into a thousand years of darkness?

Relics 3: Ashes for Gold is the epic final instalment in the Relics Trilogy, and the sequel to Relics of the Lost Age and Relics 2: The Crusader’s Tomb. It is an exhilarating 580,000 word interactive adventure novel by James Shaw, where your choices control the story.

Step into the weathered boots of a swashbuckling 1940s archaeologist-turned-spy and travel widely in a painstakingly-reconstructed vision of the world at war, facing overwhelming odds at every turn, armed only with your fists, your wits and your motley collective of memorable friends and allies. Do you have what it takes to save the world again, one last time?

Play as male, female, or non-binary; gay, straight, bi, poly, asexual, or aromantic.

Continue to develop your romance from Relics of the Lost Age or Relics 2: The Crusader’s Tomb, or embark on a new relationship with any of the seven ROs in the series.

Fight memorable villains in a race against time to prevent the forces of evil from conquering the world, against the terrifying backdrop of world war.

Ride out into the Nevada desert in the footsteps of a legendary Old West outlaw, scour the sands of Egypt for the secrets of the pharaohs, investigate occult mysteries and Nazi traitors amid the dreaming spires of Oxford, search for sunken pirate treasure in the Caribbean Sea, unearth Inca enigmas in the wild Andes, and go deep into enemy territory in wartime Japan.

Experience epic gunfights, visceral brawls, and wild stunts in vintage vehicles.

Make choices that will determine the future of the world as you close in on an ancient weapon of unimaginable power.

The game is FREELY AVAILABLE on Itch.io, at the following link: https://jamesshawgames.itch.io/relics-3-ashes-for-gold

If you want to play Relics 1 and 2 to get up to speed, they are currently available through Hosted Games.

#relics 3 #release announcement #itch.io #interactive fiction #hosted games #choice of games #relics series #relics of the lost age #indiana jones #uncharted #tomb raider #the mummy

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thesharktanksdriver · 7 months

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Determination! to where the sand blows and where the heart goes (platonic)

Made this for foreshadowing and fun

Decided to do a poem kinda format just for experimenting and symbolism

The next determination! Will take awhile to come out due to my finals coming up so I made this instead.

Wish me luck yall

Once upon a time, a long….Long time ago, Mother spoke of sand

She grew up on a sandy island you know? A large one where water was scarce and rain was a blessing.

She said that the place was beautiful but she never quite felt at home there.

She never was one for the sandy dunes that was the ever-expanding horizon

Sand

Golden particles in the hundreds of millions scattered on the ground, piling up to the size of castles and threading through the air.

“Sand is the crushed up hopes and dreams of wanderers” she told you one day at the beach.

Said material pooling her hands before she let it slip between her fingers and scatter back on the ground.

The golden dust sparkling in the sunlight as she continued.

“It’s uncaring and apathetic to our cries. It’s both soft and course, it’s terrible and it’s beautiful”

As you walk the desert you reflect on her words and find the truth in them

You remember a spring island with sand as soft as flour beneath your feet but now the sand you walk on scorches you’d soles.

Sandcastles were fun but not climbing a mound of sand as big as a castle is a chore.

Your throat is parched and your skin is burned and rubbed bare

Hands coated in sweat that stings your cuts

Despite being in the dunes of shattered hope you keep moving forwards

Down into a valley

Down into the depths of a cave that you instinctually somehow know better than your childhood home.

You can’t even remember that house

You can’t call it a home anymore

It’s forgotten to time and your mind

The open world is your home now

The sea is your bed in which you lay

Ever Drifting

Ever dreaming

This place is made of sandstone and dust and ancient ideals

Intricate carvings decorates the tomb, blood, sweat and tears clearly poured into the effort of doing all of this.

Of chiselling into the stone that leaves their lungs stocked up in dust that chokes them

Of planning out the entire piece that all 4 walls and ceiling connect to one another in artistic harmony

Of using precious stones, diamonds, rubies and sapphires to be set in place to represent the stars

It’s all too beautiful to describe as you slither deeper down into this place

This temple to a god unknown to you (but your not unknown to them)

Glowing stones Illuminate this place

Made into the shapes of 4 pointed stars on the walls that guide your path

You don’t notice they fizzle out behind you as if your the activator of their light

You don’t notice a lot of crucial things in this place

Like for instance why you know which tiles are meant for traps and you don’t see the writing quite literally on the walls that you would understand despite the fact you’ve never seen that language before.

But it doesn’t matter

It makes things more funny for them in the end

Knowing how so much was presented to you but you stubbornly ignored it because of your determination to continue onward

It’s why they liked you

Why they chose you

Why it was fate

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves here, you continued forwards

Deep deep down the spiders thread you go

Whirling and twirling down into the abyss

Will you reach the end?

You don’t know

Not when hawks could snatch you up at any moment in the dark

But your accustomed to that fate

Of having your little spider legs cracked and snapped in half before getting up again

It’s what you did best

So you keep twirling down your web

Descending deep down

The only light being provided by the stones that shine like the glint of silk

Keeping going down the rabbit hole little spider

And see where it goes!

Will you find time?

Or will you find peace of mind?

It doesn’t matter in the end

Not after all your journeys so far

Time is a loop and you’d see it countless times so far

But that’s fine in the end

Perhaps you’d have it no other way since you get to see and meet new friends

So keep going little spider

Deeper in the dark

Fight your fear and shine bright with your spark

Keep going little spider

Or rather Little pearl of the sea with great big starry eyes

You shoulder the world like atlas but why?

You are but a child in mind, body and soul yet the years fly by and you say your not anymore

Things will change little spider who weaves the fate of everyone but their own

Little pearl In the great big sea that floats amungst the waves

Little spark of a match that lights the flames of the revolution

Little hope for the hopeless sinners who pray for redemption

Little star In the night sky that shines the brightest despite its size

Your eyes trail up to a statue at the bottom of the temple, alone and barren in the golden sand that pools around it

And in yellow glowing stone read

“Bright little one, don’t become like the sand you tread. Stay strong. Stay determined little starcatcher”

And you wake up, eyes hazily staring up at the rocking ceiling of wood as your hands clutch at the feather duvet that shields you from the gnawing cold. You blink….and you blink again as you slowly rise and get out of bed.

Everything feels surreal even as you eat breakfast as the men around you all hustle and bustle with talking and drinking. You pick at your food, fork stabbing into a piece of strawberry whilst your eyes stare down blankly at it.

Your still not fully there after that Dream, how can you be?

With a sigh you finally take a bite, you don’t taste the sweet juice of the strawberry coat your mouth, you taste nothing. Just mush you chew down on to make into more mush that you swallow down. You barely feel like you can stomach it, barely feel like you’d should’ve gotten out of bed at all.

It feels like your energy was drained in both a literal and mental sense.

Like everything was sucked out of you and spat out.

Like-

“You alright there little captain?” And like that your brought back to reality as the familiar sound of Roger makes your head snap up. He’s sitting beside you, the usual joyful smile replaced by one of wordy as you stare up at him.

He already knows the answer

He can read you like an open book or the palm of his own hand

But he still asks to see if you want his help

Need his help

Lazily you shake your head. You can’t bother to put in the effort of doing much more and he understands whole heartedly. To be honest he’s surprised your not like this all the time considering all you’ve been through.

He smiles and it reminds you of the sunshine from just rising above the horizon line. Beautiful and bright and joy and warm and understanding.

Your lifted into his arms without needing to ask.

His arms cradle you and the world seems to disappear. Safety and security wrap around you like a blanket, warm and cozy as you seem to melt into his hold. He laughs, jolly and loud in the way that makes you smile as he peers down at you with worry and care.

You fall asleep in his arms and wake up in his cabin tucked away on a fainting couch. Head cushioned by plush tufted velvet as you burrow into the warmth of it and the jackets draped over your shoulders like a blanket.

You feel warm and safe

You feel….at home

Tired eyes gaze up to Roger who works at his desk, you smile and close your eyes once more

Missing his coughing fit then after.

#platonic #determination!#gol d roger x reader #one piece x reader

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love-and-monsters · 4 months

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Lich Girlfriend

7,863 words, F Lich X GN reader

You have been searching the desert to find the city that may hold a powerful magician- and the cure to the curse that is plaguing you. But what you find there is different (and more wonderful) than you were expecting.

The world was quiet and still, baked under the unrelenting heat of the desert. You sweated under your clothes. They were light and breathable, but they covered every inch of your skin. The only exception was the thin strip of open area where your eyes peeked out, squinting against the desert sun.

It was stupid to travel during day in the desert. You knew this- you weren’t stupid, as much as your actions seemed to prove otherwise. No, you were desperate. You had less than a week. The stars drifted into alignment yesterday- they weren’t going to stay that way forever. Or for long. They would gradually shift away from each other again, and it would be hundreds of years before you could try again. Or, well, until someone else could try again. In hundreds of years, you will be dead.

Less than a week to comb the desert. Less than a week to find the tiny fragment that marks the entrance to the old Ancient Merrin tomb. If you couldn’t…

You shuddered. Better not to think about it.

You marched on, even as you got dizzier and more tired. Your rations were low- you knew your body just well enough to give yourself the food and water required to not pass out. Every time the dizziness threatened a little too much, you took a drink or a morsel of food. You slept as little as you can manage. Yes, you should have been taking care of yourself, since a weak explorer is a dead explorer, and a dead explorer is no use to anyone- but what was the point? Either you held out long enough to last the week or it didn’t matter.

The setting of the sun and the appearance of the stars and moon sent a thrill of terror through you. Once it was dark enough, you set up a makeshift camp and checked your map and star charts. Further out of alignment today, perhaps a bit faster than you would have liked, but within your estimations. Five days left. You grabbed a few hours of sleep before dragging yourself up and heading out again, lamp clenched in your hand.

Later, you would think about how grateful you were that you passed this area at night, that somehow your travel times lined up so it happened that way. It was only the flickering shadow cast by your lamp that revealed the irregular patterns in the sand. The entire effect was subtle. Barely there. But you could see that the sand had divots in it, lines like it was lying across something with lines carved in it.

You dropped to your knees and start to dig.

It was hard work- as soon as you pushed some sand out of the way, more slid in to take its place. You turned, bracing your back against the shifting slope to stop it, but the hole is unstable. You dug anyway, working with big sweeps of your arms. The pit got deeper, bit by bit, until your hands impact something hard. Emboldened, you clawed at it, trying to follow the edge. It was flat, like a table, though clearly much bigger. You struggled to dig and move at the same time, trying to follow it.

You followed it for only a few feet before it dropped away underneath you. You fumbled, suddenly skidding on pure sand. One of your hands scrambled for the edge and you found it- it dropped off suddenly, at a perfect right angle. Another few moments of digging revealed a wall, heading further down into the sand. You were on top of a building, and you’d just stepped off the roof.

Down, then. You followed the side of the wall down into the sand. It was both easier and harder digging down- the sliding sand of the surface grew more compact the further you went down. That meant the sand was no longer sliding into the hole so much, but it also meant it wasn’t so easy to brush aside. Your arms trembled from the effort, and the deeper you went, the greater the risk of the entire thing collapsing on you grew.

Finally, finally, the wall shifted in texture and shape- an arch. A doorway, set against the wall of the building. You clawed forward. Any doorway would work. You didn’t need it to be fully clear. Just enough to get in.

You scraped and scratched at the top of the arch. The building was as full of sand as the rest of the desert, and the more you dug, the more sand poured out. The sun was rising again, shimmering across the sky. You braced yourself and dug and dug and dug. Finally, finally, there was just enough space for you to push your body through the entranceway.

For about half of the entrance, you were squirming on top of a mass of sand. And then the sand vanished and you plunged to the ground, nearly destroying your nose in the process. You groaned, gingerly getting back up. You’d been expecting the drop, but it has still caught you off guard. You wiped a little bit of blood off your face and glanced around.

The building looked more like a tiny entranceway- it wasn’t much bigger than a few feet across, with an abandoned desk sitting against the wall. Across the room, there was a massive opening, sending the warm light of dawn across the stone floor of the otherwise-dim building.

You turned to look over your shoulder. The entrance you’d come through was dark and rippling, like there was black water beyond. You shuddered. You couldn’t go back through it, though if you were right, that wouldn’t matter. And you were certain you were right now.

The light, loose clothes you wore fluttered in the light breeze from the outside. You approached the opening. It was much cooler here than the desert, and beyond the entrance was a cobbled road, lined with grass and trees. The entire thing was verdant and lush, and there were people walking around, buying things from a market. It was certainly lively and bright, for a place that was under the desert sand.

You stepped forward, approaching one of the people. It was a man holding a child on his shoulders, presumably his daughter. You waved to him. “Hi! Listen, I’m new here- do you know where-”

He didn’t react at all. You tried a few more times, even waving your hand in front of his face. He stared right through you, without the tiniest hint of a reaction.

A nasty thought occurred. You reached out and tried to grab his arm. Sure enough, your hand went through him like he wasn’t even there. No response. He just continued toward the market, bouncing his daughter on his shoulders.

Okay. Hypothesis. Time to test it out. You marched over to one of the market stalls. “Hey!” Not a twitch from the merchant. “Hey! Can you hear me?” You waved your hand in front of her face. She continued speaking to her client, handing them a ripe orange. The client didn’t turn toward you, either. Final test: you reached out and grabbed the merchant’s wrist. Or, at least, you tried to. Because your fingers went right through it. Again, no reaction.

Hypothesis confirmed: these were not real people. They were, at best, ghosts. Imprints of the people who had once lived here, but had all died. The fact that there were several children around made you a little uncomfortable. At worst, they were illusions created by magic to fill the place and make it feel alive. Probably created by someone’s memories, and you were pretty sure you knew who it was. The issue was, how were you going to find them?

You took a look around. The outdoor market was surrounded on all sides by buildings, made out of some pale substance, maybe sandstone. Most of them were relatively tall, with great, hollowed ceilings. Possibly like some form of air conditioning, for when it got warm. It was somewhat warm, though not as hot as it had been in the desert.

But in the distance, you caught sight of what you were looking for. It was a building not too much taller than the ones around it, but certainly more ostentatious. There were even splashes of color across it, marks of tasteful red and white against the pale orange of the stone.

You headed across the market, ignoring the gentle murmur of the people, and ignoring how difficult it was to actually avoid people in a busy market. Your elbows were constantly going through other people, and while there was no sensation, it was weird to see your arm simply vanish into someone else’s chest.

The crowd diminished the closer you got to the building. In fact, no one seemed to be getting within a couple hundred feet of it. Your suspicions solidified into a prediction: what you wanted, you were going to find in this building.

Of course, the doors were tightly closed. You examined them for a moment- they were large, heavy, and bolted shut. Grimacing, you dug out your kit and started to work. Three minutes, more or less, to open it. Longer than you’d wanted, and there’d been a nasty snap of magical energy as well. Whoever was in the building knew you were here.

This building, like the one you had woken up in, was dark. You’d left your lamp outside, so you were left to stumble through the building with only the light of the doorway illuminating the path in front of you. Unfortunately, that became more difficult the further you went into the building. There were the occasional windows, which allowed a slice of light to flow in and create a marker for your progress, but they were well-spaced. There were metal holders on the wall, which certainly must have been used for lamps, but none sat on the walls now.

Despite that, the building wasn’t dusty. It seemed less abandoned, and more temporarily unoccupied. That made you nervous- sure, you had set out to find the owner of the building, but you weren’t interested in getting jumped by them. Every shift in the shadows or faint scratching of movement sent you jumping or spinning in an effort to catch whoever was there.

No one had actually snuck up on you within the fifteen minutes you’d spent exploring the building, but that had only served to make you more nervous. Squinting in the dark, you stumbled across what must have been the lead to the main tower of the building. An upward staircase, which led in a blocky spiral several feet up. You stepped onto it- there was a tingle of magic as you did so. All of the buildings were magic, of course- maybe they had been even before the sealing of the town, in order to reinforce them. Now, however, you were wondering if it would do the opposite- fail on purpose and send you tumbling down to the hard, stone floor as soon as you were high enough for it to be fatal.

You only hesitated for a moment. It didn’t matter. Death was the only option if you turned back. Might as well take the risk of moving forward.

The steps were angular, rather than a smooth spiral, with short lines of staircase interspersed with a larger, angular turning step. Somehow, that made it even more dizzying than your standard spiral. By the time you noticed the next floor in font of you, you felt rather nauseous.

You stepped forward onto the platform, forgetting to be cautious in your misery and it crumbled under your feet.

There was a split second where you were able to think ‘I should have expected this’ before you dropped. You fell for a total of two seconds before you stopped.

It was a strange stop- there were two ways to stop falling. One was by hitting the ground/coming to a sudden stop. Coming to a sudden stop while falling was just as deadly as impacting a solid surface, if you were going fast enough, and you wouldn’t have been able to register that you’d stopped through the haze of broken-bone pain. The other way was drifting gently to a stop, which would have saved you.

This was strange because you’d come to a stop suddenly, but with no pain or smashing. Not even the mild whiplash discomfort of being in a carriage that had stopped too suddenly. One second you’d been falling. And then you hadn’t been.

You lifted your eyes, as they were the only part of your body you could move, to focus on the platform above you. It was a bad angle. Part of the platform blocked your way. But you could see a gaunt, pale woman covered in a robe. Robes typically hang off one’s body, as that’s nearly their entire purpose, but these robes in particular seemed to be trying to swallow her.

It would have been polite to speak, but your mouth and throat were locked up by the spell holding you in place. So you couldn’t plead your case- you just needed to hang there, waiting for your judgement. Half of you expected to be dropped unceremoniously.

But it didn’t happen. For nearly a full minute. Which is a lot longer than it sounds like, when all you can do it look at the ground and think about how bad it would hurt if you started falling. If it hadn’t been for your inability to do so, you would have screamed when you started moving. Even if the way you were moving was up.

You were dumped on the floor in front of her. She was tall, and even with the robe covering her like a humanoid sack, you could tell that she was skinny. To a nearly skeletal extent.

(That would be your second clue. The first was the state of the city.)

“Why are you here?”

Her voice was almost normal, except for a weird rasp. It wasn’t a normal rasp. You would have described it as a buzzing like an insect’s wings- you later learned that thaumatic energy doesn’t vibrate the same way air does, and that can cause some unusual vocal qualities.

“I-” you choked out, because adrenaline also had terrible effects on vocal cords. “I was looking for… for the city of Sol.”

“I am aware,” she said, her voice roiling with impatience. “If you were not seeking, you would not have found. I. Am asking. Why.” You got the sense she would throw you right back off the edge if you didn’t answer well. “Because it’s supposed to have preservation magic. Magic to stop decay.”

There was a pause. “The terminology is correct,” she says, and you felt a flicker of satisfaction. Unless you were very wrong, that was a note of appreciation in her voice. “Not immortality. Preservation.”

“Immortality won’t help,” you said.

“I assume you mean for reasons other than it not being real,” she said dryly. “You cannot evade death. Not eternally.”

“It won’t help because it won’t stop what’s happening. Do you know what happens to something when it dies?”

Her eyebrows went up and vanished under the hem of her robe. She had the air of someone expecting a trick question. “They… get buried?”

“Yes. Most of the time. Sometimes cremated. Sometimes something else. But that’s usually only with people or pets. But everything that dies, to some extent, rots.” You took hold of your loose clothes, still draped over your body, and tugged a large section aside. Across your stomach, in a patch no deeper than your skin, there was a patch of mold.

Her face showed no reaction. It was impressive. Usually the smell alone sent people reeling. It had taken over a week for your to get used to it enough to stop vomiting every time your shirt shifted.

“Quite impressive, for someone who’s still living,” she said. “Typically that would only happen to a fresh corpse.”

You dropped the fabric back in place. “It won’t die. Every fungicide, every poison and medicine I can get my hands on has failed. Immortality won’t help- that would just make me live on while it eats me. I don’t want to be conscious while it takes me over.”

The woman nodded. “You have some awareness of what it is, then?”

“Do you?”

“More or less. A very rare condition. Very rare. Vanishingly so.”

“Good,” you said through gritted teeth. “I’m glad I’m lucky enough to get one of the rare ones.”

She didn’t acknowledge you speaking. “It is a naturally occurring curse. I expect you stumbled into a natural pool of magic, maybe no more than a couple centimeters in size. It went off and triggered…” She gestured to your side. “That. An eternally-growing fungus, one that will grow faster as it gets bigger. I assume it will reach your internal organs eventually, once it breaks down your skin enough, which will likely kill you.”

“I can’t get it to die. Even if I found a way to live with it, it would eventually just consume me anyway, and I would have to live through the agony of it eating through my organs and getting into my brain. Nobody is able to undo natural curses- they don’t make sense. But if you have preservation magic- it stops the growth. It wouldn’t kill the fungus, but maybe it would stop it. Prevent it from taking root any further, just until I live out my natural lifespan.” You swallowed. “Please.”

She looked at you. Her gaze was icy, assessing. Her jaw shifted. She spoke. “My advice to you would be to find a particularly desolate area to die in, so it does not spread further once it consumes you. Alternately, you could set yourself on fire. Immolation would likely destroy it, though attempting to burn it out of you without complete destruction would probably be a fool’s errand.”

She was turning to leave by the time she finished speaking and, desperate, you called “Wait!”

The word was accompanied by a lunge forward. You weren’t thinking- you just wanted her to stop leaving, and that was usually best managed with a certain level of physical force. Your arm ended up clamped down on her wrist. It was the safest area to grab- none of the intimacy of hand holding, but also grabbing an extremity didn’t make her feel like you were trying to tackle her.

But as soon as your hand clamped down, you knew something was wrong.

It didn’t go through the robe. That was real enough, if also unbearably rough. If she’d had skin, it would have been horrible to wear. But she clearly didn’t have any, because your hand clamped down further than it should have until you were holding onto robe wrapped around something hard and brittle.

You’d never held a human bone before. But you’d held animal bones. And you’d looked at enough human anatomy sketches that you could be reasonably certain you were clinging to the bone of a human forearm.

There was a long, horrific moment. Then you forced your neck to move up, up, up. To look into the face still mostly shadows by hood.

The shadow wasn’t enough to hide that the skin of the face was now rippling and flickering, like an illusion spell when it was disrupted.

A tiny squeak passed through your lips. Fortunately, it was followed by words. “You’re a lich.”

“I’m glad you’re clever enough to figure that out,” she said. It was interesting to watch someone talk with a flickering tongue and lips. “Let go.”

You did so. You also kept talking. “But that’s even better- you preserved your body after death and bound your soul to it, that means you can-”

“It means nothing.” The illusion had settled once you’d stopped holding her, but now it dropped away in its entirety. You blinked. She was skeletal, of course, a mass of bones held together with glowing green tendons. Her eyes were two spots of light in her sockets, both of them focused on you. “I did not preserve my body. It rotted. What remains is protected by magic and repaired by magic, but not preserved. The city which you claimed was preserved? It is illusory. My magic can protect the buildings from the elements, but the people are, as I am sure you have seen, nothing more than smoke and light, filling out their tasks as I remember them. Nothing here is preserved.” The eye lights flickered, like she was closing them. “I can do nothing for you.”

Your side itched. You didn’t move to scratch at it anymore. You hadn’t since the first time, where the skin had come away in chunks. “You have magic. You’re powerful enough to create illusions over the entire city. You were powerful enough to make yourself a lich! There must- there must be something!”

Raw desperation cracked your voice and she seemed to draw in tight at that, though there was no way to read the facial expression of a skull.

“I cannot undo the curse.” Her voice was still raspy, but there was a softened touch of kindness to it now. “I will not turn you into a lich.”

“Not cannot,” you said, clawing for something. “Will not.”

“Will not, because my magical energies are going somewhere else. And I cannot teach you. It takes years to generate the magical might to even attempt the spell. Years you do not have.”

A year, is what you had. Maximum. Might be less, depending on if it kept you alive when it reached your brain- “I came all this way,” you said, the wave of terror that had been reaching over you finally cresting.

She didn’t draw in a long, slow breath, since liches didn’t do things like breathe. But the pause suggested she might have wanted to. “You can stay. I won’t turn you out. But there is no help. I suggest you get used to that.”

The lich headed further into the tower. After a moment, you followed. “What’s your name?”

She stopped. Turned her head back. The glamour was starting to flicker back into place. “Name?”

“If I’m going to be staying, I want to know your name,” you said.

There was enough of a glamour in place for you to see the upward twitch of her lips. “Amarys.”

The living accommodations of a lich are sparse, mostly owing to the fact that liches do not live, and therefore need little of the things humans use to maintain that state. She told you to take what you could find from the houses. All of it was quite dusty, and you stuck to taking the things that were in trunks or out of use. They may have been illusions, but it was just weird to take things from the people.

Making a pillow pile was more comfortable than sleeping in the rough, even if there was no mattress of proper bedframe. Technically there were bedframes in the other houses, but you wanted to stay in the same tower as the lich. As Amarys. It felt safer, even if she’d said she couldn’t do anything.

Liches didn’t need to sleep. You could hear her thumping around upstairs. It was sort of comforting, the sound of a real person doing things. Your side itched. You fell asleep comfortably anyway.

Amarys didn’t mind it when you followed her around. She simply accepted your presence with a nod when you showed up, and wasn’t upset when you wandered off without so much as a goodbye. It was a good setup for you. For hours at a time, you would wander through the magic library, examining tomes on natural curses and magic plants and animals. Unfortunately, it seemed like Amarys had been telling the truth when she’d said that she had no way of curing it. There was precious little information on the subject. Mentions of curses, yes, but the author usually only noted them long enough to also note that there was nothing interesting about something so irreversible.

(You would have thought that would make it more interesting, but apparently it was generally considered ‘not fun’ to beat your head against a wall for days straight. Perhaps when you were doing it, sheer panic had made the whole thing a bit more bearable.)

The lich allowed you to watch as she worked as well, though it was a bit like watching someone solve math problems repeatedly- rather impressive to watch, and it was clear she was doing a lot of things with a lot of thinking behind them. You just didn’t know what any of the thoughts were. Magic was a subject more interesting than math, but also one that was much more complicated and, well. Even the allure of summoning a fireball whenever you wanted wasn’t enough to get you to study. That’s why people had invented matches.

“What was the first spell you learned?” you asked on your third day there. You’d spent the better part of a couple of hours watching her. She didn’t ignore you, in that she told you to get out of the way before something exploded.

“Interesting question,” she replied, masterfully giving a complete non answer.

“In what way?” you prodded when no other words were forthcoming.

“Most of the time, I would expect ‘what are you doing?’” There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice, and some weariness at people who clearly couldn’t understand genius when it was right in front of them.

“Because I probably wouldn’t understand it if you told me,” you said. She actually looked at you, then, with an expression of respect- if you were going to be an idiot, best to be aware of it.

“My first spell,” she said, “was a heat spell.”

“Really?” you said. First spells were usually light, sometimes sparks or fire. Something flashy and obvious. It helped kids feel like they were doing something cool. Heat was relatively unusual. It wasn’t obvious or showy- usually it was just practical. And then, hastily, because practical first spells weren’t always done under the best of circumstances, “You don’t actually have to talk about it if you don’t-”

“It’s all right.” She stopped working and braced herself against the table. “It was to keep myself warm, yes. Here.”

“Right here?”

She smiled a little. “Not in this exact spot. The building didn’t exist. It was actually closer to the point you would have entered the city from. I was freezing- midnight, you know, is unkind in a desert, and I was young. I created the heat spell, and slowly learned more from there. Not all on my own, of course. I studied in several other cities. But I came back here, eventually. I think I had a certain level of nostalgia for it- it was my magic that created the first building here.”

Your brain caught up with the implication. “You’re the founder of the city?”

She smiled, preening a little. “Yes.”

“That was… But the city was lost over a hundred years ago-”

“And I am a lich. Effectively immortal,” she said. “I wasn’t when I founded the city, of course, and I found other ways to extend my lifespan before taking this solution. But it was the best way to protect everyone.”

“Protect everyone? But then why is it-” You bit your tongue in the nick of time. Not a good question. Not to the person who was providing you with the last comfort you’d get before- well. Before.

Her body flickered a little, so you could see the glowing green of bone beneath her skin. “I lasted a long time. But nothing is forever.”

She turned and started back up with her experiments. You didn’t ask her anything after that.

The next morning, you approached her with something of a more urgent question. “I’m running low on supplies.”

She stared at you. “You didn’t bring enough?”

“I brought plenty. I just couldn’t bring them all in with me. I figured if I was going into a preserved city, they would have things to eat there. I didn’t expect the illusions.” You’d tried to take fruit from a cart, just as an experiment. Most of them had been illusions. One hadn’t. It just also hadn’t been fruit. Well, presumably it had been fruit at one point, before making the slow transformation to a pile of rotten sludge. “And I didn’t bring much more than I needed for a couple of weeks. I didn’t expect to be out here for much longer than that.” She considered for a moment. “I can help.” With great reluctance, she moved away from her table of magic devices. “Come with me.”

You followed her down and out of the tower and through the back part of the city. The back part of most cities was usually the back part, but this one seemed nice. Well-lit, with fewer buildings and more plants, and then the few buildings there were parted to reveal rows of fields. Or what had been fields at one point. They were a bit overgrown. An apple tree stood at the far end, hanging heavy with fruit. As you watched, you noticed that all of the field was in bloom, as overgrown as it was. The varieties were from all over the world, even exotic things like pumpkin and cacao. Wheat and onion and other assorted things.

“The cows and chickens and sheep died some time ago,” Amarys said. “But there might be some cheese in storage. Wine as well, and salt.” She gestured to the field. “Take and eat as you will.”

You dug in, grabbing a few apples and other ready-to-eat fruits to munch on as you examined the crops. Clearly they were magically maintained, but you weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It took only one trip back to the library to get a hoard of cookbooks and the you were off.

You cooked in the tower kitchen, and you were happy to do so. Cooking hadn’t been something you’d done in a while, since you’d been traveling and surviving on dried food or grabbing something to eat at a street market on rare occasion. Getting to cook was almost novel, and using interesting new recipes only added to the experience.

It was only after you’d been cooking for nearly an hour that you noticed Amarys standing in the doorway. You nearly jumped out of your skin. “You- damn, I didn’t even notice- how long have you been-?”

Amarys smiled. Her disguise was still flickering, so you could see her teeth through her cheeks as well. “Some time, though I was hoping not to disturb you. Your carrots are about to burn.”

You took them off the stove. “I wasn’t bothering you or anything, was I?”

“No,” she said. “The opposite, in fact. I could smell what you were cooking and it drew me here.” She looked around the room. Maybe you were misinterpreting, but you could have sworn that she had a look of wistfulness on her face.

“I’d offer you some, but…” You trailed off. You were pretty sure liches couldn’t eat.

“Quite impossible for me,” she said, confirming your suspicions. “But it is nice to watch, sometimes. And the smell is delightful.” You gestured to the table. “Don’t feel obligated to stand on ceremony or anything. I’ll be done in a minute.”

She did so, gathering her robe around her as she settled down. You carried your dishes over to the table as they were completed and spread them out. Perhaps you’d been overambitious, considering that you wouldn’t eat all of it at once, but it wasn’t like you were going to get many more feasts.

Amarys leaned forward, sniffing. “It smells wonderful.” “Thanks! I mean, some credit has to go to the person who created the food, of course,” you said, gesturing to Amarys. She ducked her head in a slightly-bashful acknowledgement of your words.

“Perhaps we shall say it’s a team effort,” she decided. You dug in, blissfully savoring the flavors. It was good, though whether that was due to your cooking prowess, the quality of the food you’d been provided, or if you were just easily pleased after spending ages on the road.

It was a bit weird, eating with someone who wasn’t. She spent a little bit looking over the food, examining each dish with interest. Then she’d just started to watch you, which was a little strange. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen this,” she said. “A long time since the kitchen’s been used. Over a hundred years.”

“It’s well-maintained,” you said.

“Yes, physical preservation is not always so difficult. And I admit, most of the areas in this building have greater levels of care than some others in the city. I never thought they would be used, but…” A slightly pained look of happiness came over her face. “I am pleased they have been used.”

“I’m glad I was able to use them.” Your side prickled, as if to remind you that you weren’t going to be able to for much longer. It was getting bigger. You could feel it traveling deeper than your skin, every day. It didn’t hurt, exactly. Not most of the time. \

Amarys watched you eat for a little longer. She opened her mouth a couple times, but never said anything. She just watched you.

It was just as you were finishing and preparing to clean up when she spoke. “Allow me.” She lifted her hands and closed her eyes. You could still see the glowing points through her illusory eyelids. Green light flickered around the table. The plates and utensils floated away. One of the plates passed by your nose and you could see the surface gradually getting cleaned it did so. Everything slipped back into the drawers they had come from, cleaner than when you’d retrieved them. The food itself vanished and Amarys lowered her arms. She didn’t seem to be breathing heavily, but her illusion was flickering and faded, which seemed to be a better indication of exhaustion for her.

“Are you all right?” you asked.

She drew herself up and her illusion stabilized. Mostly- it was still faded enough that you could see bones through her skin. “Fine. The food is stored in the icebox, if you would like to reheat it. Doing practical magic like that simply winds me for a bit.” Her illusion strengthened again, leaving her perfectly solid. There was a bit of a pause, where Amarys looked at you. Was she waiting for you to say something or working up the nerve to say something to you?

“Thank you?” you tried. Amarys sighed, quiet and gusty.

“I am grateful for your thanks, but I do not require it,” she said. “I… am actually attempting to thank you. Poorly, I should think, but I am.” You started a little. That was… not what you were expecting. “Why are you trying to thank me?”

Amarys lowered her head a little. “Time works differently for the undead. I am not affected by it the same as others. A human, kept in isolation for even a single year, would go mad. I am not quite human, and I do not experience the same things. I have been alone for a very long time. It did not drive me mad, because I don’t think I can be driven mad in the same way. Or, at least, not on the same time frame. I didn’t even realize I was lonely. I worked and worked so much and then… Well. I never looked up to realize that there was no one there.

“Until you arrived. And… I suppose you can get used to anything, given long enough, and I’ve had quite a lot of time. But it only takes one little change to make the bearable… not. And it took your arrival to make me realize that I had been terribly lonely.”

You’d been listening in silence, but this felt important to respond to. “I- I’m so sorry-”

She held up a hand. “No. I am not asking for an apology. Just listen.” She lowered her hand and took a beep breath. She didn’t need to, you knew, but perhaps it was steadying nonetheless. “Do you know why this city is called what it is?”

“The City of Sol?” You thought for a moment. “Because of the desert sun, right?”

She smiled. “Not quite. I think I heard too many mysterious adventure stories when I was young, because I was a bit too clever in naming the city. I named it this way because, well… It’s not Sol. It’s Ssol.” She carefully pronounced the extra S. “Backward, that’s the City of Loss.” Her posture drooped a little. “The destruction of my city was magical in nature. Not my own magic, but something I should have seen coming. A magic burst from inside the Earth. Rapid, and devastating.”

You winced- magical bursts were rare, natural phenomenon. Usually, they made people sick for a few days while their natural magic reasserted itself from the disturbance- for one to literally wipe out an entire town… That was a once in a thousand years level of power.

“As it was, the burst nearly unwound me. I was catatonic for a bit over a decade. And when I awoke, everything I had built over centuries was gone. The city stood, but the people did not. I was in pain, lost and alone. And so I created spells. Spells that would maintain the buildings, empty as they were, maintain the land, hide the city from most people, and would create… shadows. I could not create a spell that would replace the people, but at least now, when I looked out my windows, I did not seem to be alone.”

She lowered her head. “But I was alone. Always. And no matter how much energy I dedicated to the spells, there was nothing that could bring them back.”

You put your hand on her shoulder, sympathetic as you could be. She closed her eyes for a moment, pain flickering over her expression. “I said earlier, I could not make you a lich, as I did not have the energy to do so. That was… correct. I am using a lot of my own magical power to maintain this place. The experiments, the things I am trying to create in order to bring everything back to the way it was, can be even more draining. But having you here, even for the brief time, has made me realize…”

She paused and closed her eyes again. You thought about telling her not to bother, that you could leave, not make her think about this anymore. But you recognized that this was important to her. And no matter how uncomfortable seeing her in pain made you, you would stay and let her say her piece.

“I am dead. I spend my time with ghosts. And as much as I have convinced myself I can bring them back, I cannot. I must not linger in the past anymore. I must… move on. And I will move on. With you, if you will allow it.”

She looked at you. Her eyes were brown. You could see the green light glowing in the center of her pupils.

“I am going to make you a lich.”

The preparations for lich-hood were extensive. She examined the fungus in your side, eventually excising whole chunks. “A lich doesn’t need to have their original body,” she explained. “The magic is an aspect of the soul, you understand- it only needs a place to be housed. It prefers the body it knows, of course, but if the fungus clings to you even after death and reconfiguration, you’ll need to hop somewhere else.”

“Do I get to pick?” you asked.

“Yes, to an extent. I’ll want to prep a couple extras anyway. I had some extras.” She smiled. “I had a bird.”

“A bird?” you repeated as she cleaned your side.

“I thought it might be interesting to fly,” she explained. “Liches can fly regardless, but like a bird… I thought it would be particularly cool.” She laughed. Mirthless. “I suppose it’s ironic. I picked an animal that could fly only to chain myself here.”

“Because you loved everyone here. Not a chain. An anchor. Ships need them, so they don’t drift. Maybe it was important to have them. You’re not chained here and breaking away. You’re just… raising anchor.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

The analysis of the fungus took a while. You stayed near her as she worked. She spoke on occasion, and sometimes it wasn’t even to ask for something.

“If we can work quickly,” she finally determined, “you have the option of keeping your body. In some ways, the positioning is fortunate. If it was on a bonier area, like an arm, it may have simply adhered there. Though I suppose that could merely have been cut off and the curse may not have spread. Or you would be a lich with one arm.” She shook her head a little, to refocus. “But it is only tied to your physical form. Deeply, too deeply to be carved out, but it hasn’t touched bone and that will be all that’s left once you become…” She paused, then turned her head and gave you a faint smile. “You’ll be able to change your appearance, you know. When you become a lich. It’s all an illusion.” She paused. A cool, boney hand touched your face. “But I do… I rather hope you’ll keep this one.”

And then she pulled away, doing another experiment, another thing to save you, and you felt like you were burning and overjoyed all in the same moment.

The preparations took time, a long time. But they were, eventually complete.

“It will be easier, since I am doing it for you,” Amarys said. “But it will still hurt.” She’d mentioned this before, but it wasn’t a terrible idea to mention it again. “And it will feel different than hurting. I suggest you find your own anchor, something to tether yourself to.”

You nodded. “I have one.”

Amarys didn’t ask. She kept going. “It will take a long time to wake up. The magic will destroy the body quicker than usual, but it will take over a month for everything to settle and for you to wake up.”

“And then I’ll be nothing but bones,” you said. You tried to make your voice humorous, but you couldn’t hide the undercurrent of terror.

“You’ll be magic holding some bones together,” Amarys said. “You’ll be wonderful.” She took your hand, squeezed. “I will be there for you the whole time.”

“Thank you.” Her magic buzzed against your skin. You closed your eyes to feel it better. Soon, you would be like that. “How do we start?”

There was a complicated hexagonal figure drawn across the floor. It was designed to keep the summoned magic contained, as well as instruct the magic on what to do. Even when inert, you could feel the power of it lifting the hairs on your arms and the back of your neck.

“Step into the circle,” Amarys said. You did so, moving to the center. There were a couple of things lined up outside the circle, potential bodies if yours didn’t work out. A dog, a mannequin, and a book. She had told you stories of liches who’d found their souls housed in books. There as hope for a transfer later, but it was better to wait until you were stable in one form, and if you initially ended up being stable in a book, then you would be there for a little while.

You really hoped you didn’t get attached to the book.

“Breathe easy,” Amarys said. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” She smiled. You could see her bones faintly through her skin. It was oddly reassuring.

The magic swelled around you. It pressed against your skin, attempted to bulge away from the fungus on your side. Amary’s brows drew together in concentration just before her body flickered away. The city groaned. The little noises of people had faded the moment the spell started. It would collapse in the wake of the spell, Amarys fleeing with the last scrap of energy and your body. She would get you out of there, and hunker down while you recovered.

Just as the magic swelled to an overwhelming crescendo, you saw a glimpse of Amarya again. She was in her skeletal form, with magic swirling over her, forming the indistinct shape of a human over them, glowing green and ethereal.

Beautiful.

That was your last thought before the magic closed over you.

It was warm. Pleasantly warm, like a summer’s day. And dark. You were pretty sure your eyes were open, since your eyelids didn’t seem to exist, but it was still pitch black. There was a feeling like floating. Or being rocked. And maybe someone was humming? You wanted to close your eyes to focus more on the sound, but you had no eyelids. The sound was drawing closer and it was beautiful, humming right into your soul…

Something creaked and a thin beam of light appeared. The beam widened until you were surrounded in light, and then your eyes began to adjust.

You were in a building, the walls made of clay. It was modestly decorated, with a cluster of magical artifacts scattered across the floor. But you only looked around for a moment before focusing on the person above you.

Amarys was leaning over you. Her illusion was still faint, giving you a clear sight of her skeleton through her skin. But you could still see that she was smiling.

“There you are.” She eased a hand into the box (the coffin, presumably) and helped you up. Your body had been wrapped in deep purple cloth, but your arms and hands had been exposed. You could see your skeleton, wreathed in the pale, sunshine-yellow of your magic.

“I’m alive,” you said- or tried to say. You weren’t experienced enough to speak properly without lips.

“Take it easy,” Amarys said. “We’ll work on that later.” She rested her hands on your face. You could still feel them, though it wasn’t the same as feeling skin on skin contact. There was something deeper- the contact of her magic against yours. Like your souls were brushing together. Sharp tingles rolled along your body.

“Oh,” Amarys said as she drank in your face. Her eyes gleamed with magic and emotion. “You’re beautiful.”

Your magic swirled in eddies of delight. Amarys leaned in and the contact of magic against magic sharpened to something bright and overwhelming and wonderful. There wasn’t a kiss- there were no lips to have one with. But the magic that flowed and combined was more intense and intimate than any kiss you’d ever had.

#exophilia #monster lover #female monster #female lich #lich #monster romance #original writing #fantasy romance #lich girlfriend

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