#thread; dawn goes down to day

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter three

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: a terrifyingly familiar presence breaches your last safe space, and now a simple and heartfelt gesture becomes a violation. in the aftermath, fear finally makes you reach out for help.

⤿ warning(s): stalking, panic attacks & unhealthy coping mechanisms.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.7k

The day begins the same way the last three have: 05:30, kettle on, one level tablespoon of Assam spooned into the infuser. While the water climbs toward a boil you unlock your phone, already braced for what waits. A fresh number—there is always a fresh number—has delivered its dawn bulletin:

Left at 05:01 yesterday.

Early bird. Porch light flickered twice—loose bulb?

Navy coat looks sharp against the fog, pretty girl. 

They never mention the hospital, never a word about ORs or co-worker names. The watcher keeps to the edges of your private life, and somehow that makes the trespass worse. You capture a screenshot, block the number, and delete the thread. The image joins dozens of others in the hidden laptop folder named Archive—date���stamped, time‑stamped, waiting for the moment you finally believe the police will do more than shrug.

Four‑minutes steep exactly. Mug warmed. First swallow. Routine: a ladder you climb every morning. Eggs scrambled ninety seconds, plate rinsed, shower seven minutes. Before dressing, you check the tiny motion‑sensor camera you mounted inside the apartment entryway two nights ago; its LED blinks a steady red reassurance. The matching camera on the fire‑escape window does the same. No motion alerts overnight. Still, you test the deadbolt twice and angle the hall chair beneath the knob until you return.

The drive is identical to yesterday’s and the day before—same streets, same mirror checks at every light. No car follows twice, but you look anyway. At 06:50 you badge through the employee entrance. Stepping into hospital feels like sliding into armor: fluorescent lights, antiseptic bite, the hum of vents. The messages have never followed you here.

You adjust your usual gray scrubs and square your clipboard. Pre‑op checklist in your left hand, suture cart in your right, you call out “sponge count zero” with the same crisp authority as always. But small hesitations creep in: rereading the cefazolin vial, tapping the clock twice to verify time‑outs. 

Margot’s eyes track each pause. She eventually corners you by the blanket warmer.

“Nightmares?” she asks, voice low.

“Just the usual insomnia,” you answer, pinching your lower lip. A nervous habit. Your smile feels brittle, but it holds.

Fin notices too; his jokes grow louder, as though volume can fill the quiet shadow clinging to you. Jules slips extra Hershey Kisses into your scrub pocket. Even Dr. Garcia joins in by firing off sarcasm like covering fire whenever an intern looks as if they might ask why your phone stays face‑down on the desk, silent yet weighty.

Slowly but surely, the afternoon bleeds into evening. 

You finish vitals, sign the narcotics log, and at 19:04 bypass the stairwell that leads to the roof—no silhouettes against twilight tonight. Instead you head straight for the lot, head down, keys ready.

The cameras in your apartment greet you with their steady red eyes when you arrive. Door locked, sweep performed—closet, shower, under bed—all clear. Only then do you change into a soft purple T‑shirt and loose pants. You have long since stopped parading around in your underwear. 

The phone buzzes the moment the fabric falls over your head. New number:

Purple again. My favorite.

You freeze. Curtains closed, lights low—and still they see. Screenshot. Block. Delete. You drag the dining chair beneath the doorknob and place the kitchen scissors back on the nightstand, steel glinting like a talisman. Then, a mug of valerian tea, strong enough to taste like soil, goes down in three determined gulps.

Lying in bed, you count the protections: two cameras, one chair brace, scissors within reach, every screenshot archived. Routine is armor. Repetition is a prayer. You breathe in for four, out for eight, the same cadence you teach anxious PACU patients, and tell yourself that as long as the messages stay outside the hospital walls, the armor will hold.

Sleep comes in splinters, broken by phantom creaks and imagined footsteps. At 02:47 you wake up, heart sprinting, and check the camera feed: empty hallway, silent fire escape. Dawn is only a few hours away. Soon the kettle will hiss, the tea will steep for exactly four minutes, and another text will arrive—about a porch light or the time you start your car—but never about scalpels, never about sponge counts.

Despite the hour, you’re halfway through wiping down the already‑clean kitchen counter—busywork to quiet the apartment’s hush—when your phone vibrates. For once the screen doesn’t show an unknown number.

It’s Jack.

Haven’t seen you on the roof in a bit. Everything okay?

The text lands like a gentle hand on your chest. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat, thumb hovering. Finally you type back:

I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Three dots pulse, then: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

He doesn’t mention anything about the hour or how you should be asleep and not messaging back. You’re grateful. 

Sunrise tea, you confirm, and set the phone facedown.

Pacing the kitchen, you notice how full the fridge is: a dozen nearly‑dated eggs, chicken thighs you’d planned to roast, wilting cilantro, limes, onions, and two unopened cans of black beans. You haven’t cooked a proper meal since the messages started; take‑out cartons and tea have been enough to survive. Now the sight of real food sparks something steadier than dread—a need to do, to give.

An apology, you decide, should be edible.

You wash your hands, set the chicken on the board, and fall into the rhythm your muscles remember: trim fat, score skin, rub with salt, cumin, smoked paprika. Onions sizzle in the cast‑iron, releasing a sweetness that chases the apartment’s stale anxiety. Beans simmer with serrano and garlic; rice toasts before absorbing broth. Cilantro stems thunk under the knife; lime zest perfumes the steam fogging the window. 

When everything’s done you portion a generous serving into a sturdy glass container, your favourite one: rice pilaf on one side, glossy black beans on the other, two pieces of golden‑skinned chicken nestled on top. Into a tiny jar goes some honey‑lime dressing. You label the lid in block letters—Jack—and slide the meal into one of your spare tote bags. 

The apartment smells of cumin and toasted garlic, of normal life. The cameras still blink red, the chair still braces the door, the scissors still gleam, but cooking has threaded warmth through every corner. You finish the last dish, the one’s that’s for you, dry your hands, and stand for a moment in the quiet kitchen, breathing in the proof that you can still create comfort instead of just barricades.

Tomorrow at dawn you’ll climb to the roof, hand Jack the container, and share five minutes of sky. Routine will tighten around you again, one careful knot at a time—but tonight you fall back asleep with the scent of lime and cilantro on your pillow, and relief, thin but real, settles in your chest like steam escaping a cooling pot.

. . .

You arrive at the hospital just past sunrise, thermos in one hand, tote slung over your shoulder, and—for once—a real, living sense of calm beneath your ribs. Not the fragile kind you usually glue together with caffeine and a tight jaw, but something gentler, something earned. You even caught a pocket of golden morning light in the parking lot, the kind that made the hospital look almost soft at the edges. 

Dr. Miller catches sight of you just as you pass the nurse’s station. He’s leaning against the counter, coffee in one hand, chatting with a pair of interns, but pauses when he sees you. His eyebrows lift, and he gives a slow, amused smile. “Well, you look dangerously close to content. Should I be worried?”

You huff a laugh, smoothing your coat as you badge in. “Don’t start rumors, Dr. Miller.”

He points at the canvas tote on your shoulder. “Big plans?”

You nod once. “End of shift.”

He doesn’t ask more, just grins, and you take that grin with you like a good omen. The rest of the day moves at a steady clip: vitals to log, meds to verify, a code yellow that resolves without anyone crying. You let yourself coast on the rhythm of it, not in that desperate, overcompensating way you usually do, but in a way that feels like a return to something—like an exhale. 

You slip into the lounge at 18:45, already imagining the click of the container’s lid, the familiar smell of the garlic and cumin, the soft weight of it in your hands as you climb the stairwell to the roof. You open as the lights inside flickers to life, cold and blue, attention on the glass container exactly where you left it, lid on, untouched. 

Except—no. Something’s wrong.

The lid is snapped shut, perfectly aligned. The container looks full. But it isn’t. You can feel it before you even lift it—something in the tilt, the balance. Your stomach lurches as you peel the lid off  and confirm what you already know. The food is gone. Not spilled. Not disturbed. Not even a forkful left to scrape from the edges. Just... empty. Clean. Wiped down.

A rare mix of anger, rare but hot, pulses against your ribcage, but before you can storm out and demand answers, you feel the paper crumpled under the container. Your breath stops. It’s your note—the one you’d carefully taped to the top that morning: NOT FOR GENERAL CONSUMPTION. HANDS OFF GREMLINS, it reads in your blocky caps. But now that line has been crossed out in thick, decisive strokes. And underneath it, slanted and dark and horrifyingly familiar: 

That was great, thanks pretty girl.

The world tilts. Your lungs forget how to work. You’ve seen that name before—only in texts, never spoken, never written. Anonymous. Cryptic. Repetitive. A whisper against your spine on nights when the lights were off and your phone lit up with unknown numbers. But this—this isn’t a text. This is here. This is your space, your name, your cooking, your boundary, and someone has walked right through it with ink-stained hands and a stomach full of what you made with care.

A hot flush crawls up your neck, floods your ears. You stagger back a step and catch yourself on the counter. The container slips from your hand and hits the lounge table with a muted thud. The silence in the room turns sharp. 

Then, you shove the fridge shut. The door clangs and rattles in its frame. The room feels like it’s shrinking, like the air has gone sour, too full of other people’s breath. You snatch the note and crush it in your hand. Your teeth clench so hard your jaw pops. You don’t remember turning, but you’re already out the door, slamming into the corridor.

Fin is halfway down the hall with a tablet in hand. He startles and drops it when you barrel past. “Boss? Are you okay—?”

You don’t hear him. You don’t answer. The world has narrowed to one screaming thought: Find Gloria. Now. You need the Chief Medical Officer, need her badge, her keys, her authority. She can pull the security feeds. She can call the police. She can make this stop.

You’re moving before you think to move, feet pounding the tile, vision blurring at the edges. You don’t realize you’re shaking until your elbow clips the corner of the nurse’s station and jolts you. Jules tries to intercept you, her mouth forming your name in alarm, but you dodge past. Margot reaches out, grabs your arm, and for a second your momentum dies.

“What happened?” she demands, voice low, sharp, anchoring.

You look at her. You try to speak. Nothing. Just breathless silence. Then, rasping through a throat too tight to breathe, you say, “Need Gloria.”

She gets it instantly. Her eyes go cold. She lets you go. Already calling instructions behind you as you sprint toward the elevators.

Your fingers hurt. You look down and realize the note is still balled in your fist, crushed so tightly your nails have dug half-moons into your skin. The static in your head has turned into a roar. You feel cracked open, like your worst fear has been confirmed and now all your secrets are leaking out of you for the world to see. All this time, you thought if you could just hold on—just stay composed, stay ahead, stay vigilant—you could keep this from touching the parts of your life that mattered. But now it has. Now it’s here. The hospital was supposed to be your safe place, your fortress. But someone breached it.

The elevator doors open. Thankfully, nothing but an empty gurney is inside. You step in without hesitation, eyes fixed forward, spine locked. You don't even blink when the doors slide shut.

You get out the seconds the doors open and round the corner toward Administration so fast the world blurs, shoulders locked, chest heaving, pulse hammering in your ears so loud it drowns out thought. You barely register the sound of a door opening until a figure steps out from the consult room ahead—short but solid, dreadlocks brushing her shoulders, clipboard hugged tight to her chest.

You collide before either of you can brake.

Papers scatter like startled birds. A pen skitters across the tile and bounces under the nearest corner.

“Whoa—hey!” Kiara grabs you, steady hands catching your elbows before you fall. 

“Slow down, honey,” she says, trying for lightness. “What—”

Then she sees your face.

Whatever was holding you together unravels in a blink. Your eyes fill, your mouth opens, but nothing coherent makes it past your lips. The crushed note slips from your hand, landing between you. The marker-scrawled name glares up from the paper like a fresh wound.

Kiara’s clipboard hits the floor beside it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes.

Her arms come around you before you can bolt or speak or even breathe. And the second she does, the sob rips out of you—gut-deep, involuntary, raw. You bury your face against her soft sweater and shake, fists twisted in the soft cotton, the fabric quickly going damp with tears. Your legs threaten to give. Kiara cradles the back of your head like she would a grief-stricken mother in a quiet room, voice low and steady in your ear.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay. Breathe with me. In, two, three…that’s it. Out, two, three.”

You try. You try to follow her rhythm even as your chest jerks, lungs refusing to cooperate, every breath full of glass. The hallway seems to narrow around you, fluorescent lights too sharp, voices too distant, the floor too unsteady beneath your feet. 

You gasp, trying to speak—Gloria, fridge, note—but your tongue won’t work. The words hit the back of your throat and collapse.

Kiara doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask. Not yet. 

She bends, scoops the note up from the floor, her arm never leaving your shoulders. Her eyes flick over the overwritten scrawl. Her expression goes from gentle to granite.

“Okay,” she says, voice gone iron. “We’re taking this to Gloria. Right now.”

It’s almost scary how easily she connects the dots without a single ounce of context. For now, you can only nod, your body still trembling, your mind clawing for control that just isn’t there anymore. But you’re not alone. Kiara keeps an arm firmly around you as she pulls her phone from her pocket, dials with one hand, presses it to her ear.

“Gloria? Yes, it’s Kiara. I have an urgent security issue. Clear your office.”

A pause. Then a quiet “Thanks.” She ends the call, squeezes your arm, and begins steering you gently toward the elevators.

“She’s waiting. Margot’s on her way too,” Kiara tells you as she guides you through the hallway. 

You nod again, unable to speak, but this time it’s not empty. The words aren’t caught in panic—they’re being held for you, steadied. And for the first time since the messages started, since the stalking began, since the fear turned chronic and tight and unseen—something inside you loosens.

Not gone. But held.

Held by hands stronger than your own.

divider credit

[rindzaki]

Bunny in heat

Synopsis: In recent days, Xavier’s affection has become especially noticeable. It can be called not just tenacity, but an almost tactible thread that binds you together. At dawn, when the first rays of the sun barely penetrate the curtains, you feel his presence. He's right here, ready to accompany you around the house. When you go to the kitchen for a cup of morning coffee, he follows you, step by step. If you sit down to work, he sits down comfortably next to you, putting his head on your knees. He smells you everywhere, asks for kisses and hugs with such persistence that sometimes it seems as if he is suffocating without your touch. It's like he is become a magnet that follows you everywhere.

warnings: nsfw minors dni. Sub! bunny hybrid Xavier, soft dom! reader. Gn reader (cock or strap), anal sex. in heat. breeding kink. lactation. praise kink. possessive behaviour, begging. anal plug.

Xavier blinked slowly, as if he was struggling to perceive the light penetrating through the high windows of the bedroom. Despite the scorching summer sun, which brought unbearable heat to the ground, his body is covered with chilling trembling.

He's unbearably cold, and he buried himself under a heavy blanket, trying to warm up. His face is distorted by a painful grimace, his fluffy ears are pressed against his head, his eyes are half closed with fatigue, his lips are compressed, and his forehead is covered with drops of sweat. From the pain in aching bones and trembling muscles, he moans quietly.

He's holding a cup of ginger tea that you made for him before going to work. Steam rises from a hot drink, warming his face when he takes a small sip. Xavier found out in the morning that he’s in heat, but he didn't tell you, because he didn't want you to think and worry about him during your mission.

Having fallen off the edge of the bed, he began to rise slowly, feeling every pain, but ignoring it. Gathering the remaining strength, he systematically moved towards the pillow cabinet.

Xavier carefully placed the pillows so that they form the walls of the future nest. He added soft blankets to create extra comfort and warmth. When the nest was almost ready, he went to dig through your clothes trying to accurately determine your strongest smell in them.

His hands tremble when he goes through your clothes, sticking his nose into the collar, deeply inhaling the smell that has always been associated with safety and comfort... whining left his lips, because the next moment the slick poured out of his hole, getting his pants. His eyes looked down, only choking from the sight of the bulge in the front of the pants and the shirt wet with two waterfalls from the lactation.

Having thrown off all his clothes, he climbed into the nest. His hand slowly descends to the wet hole so that his clumsy fingers can satisfy his itchy need. He feels a storm of emotions raging inside him. His breathing becomes more frequent and intermittent, his eyes are full of prayer and passion, he is waiting for your permission to touch himself to finally satisfy this irrepressible desire.

But you're not here. He gathered his will in his fist, trying to keep himself from temptation, but it hurts him so much. Xavier is your good boy and he won't touch himself without your permission. He whined with his face in the mattress, tears pouring from his eyes.

"P-please...hurry up."

You came to the door, a soft smile appears on your face when you think about how you will come in and hug your bunny. You mess around a little bit trying to find the keys in your pocket or bag and finally open the door. And from the very threshold you have a strange feeling. Usually Xavier is always waiting for you, meets you at the door with a bright smile. You take off your shoes and go further into the apartment, looking carefully.

You call him by name, but in response only a deaf silence. The thought flashes in your head that he may be sleeping.

You carefully approach the bedroom door quietly opening. Even in the dim light, your eyes easily distinguished his twisting figure. The naked plump thigh was raised up, twitching slightly in nervous anticipation. Between his perfectly round buttocks, there was a flashing hole from which a shiny stream of slick flowed out. It looked ready to fill and stretch, framed by red skin and pulsating muscles.

You couldn't take your eyes off his chest, which filled with milk and turned into perfect hills. They seemed so soft to the touch. The caramel-pink nipples were hard, and milk slowly flowing from them, streams down his skin. Every drop sliding down increased the feeling of unbearable tension. His breasts seemed to be begged to be free from this sweet burden, causing you to want to help.

The image of his blushing face, drenched in tears, was unbearably touching. He squeezed the sheets so hard that his knuckles became white. Tears flowed down his cheeks, leaving wet paths on his skin.

The hair stuck to his forehead, and you stretched out your hand and carefully removed the strands, your heart jumped when your fingers touched his burning skin. Your hand slides gently over his fluffy ears, and he began to tremble. He made a quiet moan. A puddle of glass eyes appeared behind the veil of trembling eyelashes and looked around in a stunned look before they focussed on you with round puppy eyes and trembling inflated lips,they were a temptation for you to kiss and suck until they swelled.

Xavier suddenly let out the needy howling, reaching for you. The discomfort of not touching his partner was depressed at the moment when he was in protective warm hands and pressed against your chest. Relief spread over his trembling body like a tsunami as soon as he touched the skin and he immediately hugged your neck, pressing against you. In his touch, there was a feeling of urgency, which was caused by his heat.

"[Name] P-please please…[N-name]. Take me! I need you inside m-me!- breed me! I w-won't spend a d-drop! Promise!…J-just please fuck me. Please!"

You focussed on calming him down, ignoring your erection, although he probably felt it touching him.

"Shh.. It's all right, baby." His body trembled in your arms as he inhaled deeply, as if your smell was his life. He pressed tightly against you.

"P-please don't leave me, please, I'll do anything, don't leave me!" He was soping, squeezing your shirt as if you were his only need in the world.

Xavier couldn't think clearly. His mind was shrouded in a fog of desire and passion. His teeth dug into your neck with such force, as if he was desperately trying to take possession of you in some way. You felt a hot wave run through your body, and at the same moment you reacted sharply. You turned him over, pressing him to the bed, being on top. Your lips persistently crashed into him, and he immediately answered the kiss, moaning. He pressed against you, spreading his hips, making sobs and whining, incoherently begging you to fuck him.

"Such a good little bunny for me," you mutter in a quiet, affectionate voice, making his hips spread even more. Your breath is hot on his skin.

You bring two fingers to his hole, slowly and carefully, so as not to scare away this moment. His body responds instantly, his muscles tense, and you see his hole shrink and relax, anticipating your touch. Precum slowly flows out of the tip of his dick, forming drops that erotically flow down, leaving a wet trail.

Xavier looks at you with a pleas in his eyes and, suffocating, begs: "Pleaseee!...Name, d-drink my milk. only f-for you-aaah. Please! It hurts!" His voice trembles, he feels despair. You feel his body tense, his dick pulsating from the accumulated tension. You lean towards his chest. Your lips wrap around his nipple, and you start sucking gently, feeling his body bend towards your lips. His breathing becomes heavy and intermittent when you start moving your fingers inside him, stretching and preparing him for more.

You feel the taste of his milk, diligently continuing drinking. His hands are trembling, clinging to your shoulders. The sweet taste of his milk stays on your tongue, and you bend over to kiss him. Your lips meet, and you share this taste with him. He answers greedily to a kiss, his tongue tastes its own taste.

You put your fingers away, watching his body respond to it. He looks at you greedily, his eyes are full of expectation and desire.

You slowly raise his hips, bringing yourself closer, feeling the warmth and tension coming from him. With one hand, you point your dick to his hole, and start slowly entering. You could feel his nails dig into your back, leaving hot, burning marks on your skin.

His body begins to tremble from the intensity of the feeling of fullness, and suddenly he cum. His orgasm overwhels him, his dick pulsates, throwing out hot streams of sperm. He moans, his body bends, and you feel his muscles shrink around you. A wet liquid flows out of its hole, adding to the overall picture of discharge and satisfaction. He chokes, clinging to you, and you see how waves of pleasure cover him.

He repeats your name, as if it was a prayer, as if you were his god. His voice trembles from every sensation, from every push of pleasure. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I’m yours..." he repeats, every time his body shudders with a wave of orgasm. You realize that at this moment he completely and undividedly belongs to you.

From the fact that he squeezes you so hard, you also reach the peak. You cum deep inside him, filling him with your sperm, and his body responds to it with a new surge of pleasure. His stomach swelled, a small hill appeared.

His body suddenly softened, and he lost consciousness, his head fell involuntarily on the pillow, his breathing slowed down. You gently pull out of him, feeling a part of your sperm begin to flow out of his hole. You took the plug out of the locker near the bed and carefully insert it to keep all the liquid inside him.

You know that he always does that: Every time you fill him up, he inserts a plug and doesn't pull out it all day.

"I will keep them warm," Xavier usually says, gently stroking his swollen stomach. His fingers gently touch the skin, as if he took care of your seeds, like something precious. He likes to feel your sperm inside him, to keep it in himself as something expensive and valuable.

Even when you're not around, Xavier continues this ritual, smiling and taking care of his stomach. His fingers gently massage his skin, and he whispers to himself words of love and devotion. You know that this is his way to keep a part of you with him, to feel your closeness and care even in your absence.

You look at his serene face and swollen stomach, wondering if he can really get pregnant from it. You gently cover him with a blanket and sit next to him, knowing that when he wakes up, he will ask you for it again.

[black-dhalias]

hiii!!! I saw your request were opened and got really excited lol

can I request a Legolas x reader having an angry love confession with a happy ending? U can add as much angst or fluff wanted !

I hope your day goes well <3

Until Dawn

Legolas X half-elf!half-human!Reader

The clatter of hooves and voices cut through the stillness of the late afternoon. You glanced up from behind the bar, pausing mid-wipe of a glass, your fingers tightening around its rim. Travelers were common in this stretch of the woods, but not ones with such purposeful strides or cloaks woven with the threads of old legends.

The door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept in with the first of them. A tall figure stepped through—and your breath caught.

Silver-blond hair. Eyes like starlight through a winter sky. Legolas.

You didn’t realize you’d frozen until he looked at you, recognition flickering across his face like sunlight on rippling water.

“You,” he said softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I had wondered if the stories were true.”

“What stories?” you asked, setting down the glass carefully.

“That the half-elf who once sang Dwarvish drinking songs and shot arrows through the dark of Mirkwood now runs an inn... and claims to be done with the road.”

You huffed a laugh, masking the sudden twist in your chest. “I made a promise to myself. No more goblins, no more dragons, no more running for my life. Just quiet, warm beds and decent ale.”

The rest of the Fellowship trickled in—Aragorn with his wary grace, Gimli grumbling about the cold, and a pair of curious Hobbits looking like they’d never seen such a place before.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” you admitted, voice softer now, carrying only to him. “I thought you stayed in the Woodland Realm.”

“I left,” he said. “There are greater shadows moving now. The kind that threaten all lands, even quiet glades like this one.”

You met his gaze, the old bond between you sparking back to life as though no years had passed.

“I’m not the same as I was,” you said quietly.

“No,” he agreed. “You’re stronger now. But the world still needs you.”

You turned your back, pretending to straighten a bottle on the shelf. "The road nearly broke me, Legolas. I don't know if I have it in me again."

A pause. Then his voice, low and sure: “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just share a meal with us. Rest. Then listen to what the world is asking.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, then turned back to face him. “One night,” you said. “No promises.”

He smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

And somewhere, in the quiet beneath your ribs, something old and restless stirred.

As the last of the Fellowship settled into the great hall, shedding cloaks and weariness like autumn leaves, you quietly made your way to the front door. The bell above gave a faint chime as you opened it and stepped into the dusky twilight

You looked out at the fading sun, your jaw tightening as you reached up and flipped the wooden sign to closed. The familiar scrape of it swinging into place felt heavier tonight. You didn’t want your usuals wandering in, recognizing faces from stories they'd only half-believed, or—worse—asking questions you’d buried under hearth and routine.

When you returned inside, your two staff members were waiting by the counter, mid-laugh over something. You didn’t smile.

“Here,” you said, pressing coin into their palms, “Head home early. Lock the back on your way out.”

They exchanged glances. One opened her mouth to protest—you never sent them off this abruptly—but you shook your head with a tone that brooked no argument. “Not tonight.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, with hesitant nods, they slipped away. As their footsteps faded, the inn fell into a deeper quiet. It was just you and the Fellowship now.

You lit the hearth anew and began preparing a meal: roasted root vegetables, venison stew, fresh loaves warmed over coals. The motions were old, soothing—until a familiar footfall approached behind you.

“I remember when you could barely cook a rabbit over a fire,” Legolas said lightly.

You didn’t turn. “And I remember when you were insufferable.”

“That cannot be true,” he said with a faint laugh.

Your hands stilled over the chopping board. You breathed in through your nose.

“I was not the one who kept dwarves as company.”

You exhaled slowly. The knife in your hand trembled.

“Don’t.”

His grin faded instantly.

“Don’t bring them into this,” you said, voice hoarse. “I live with their ghosts every day.”

Legolas was silent for a long moment. You resumed chopping, though your cuts were no longer even. Each thunk of the blade echoed too loudly in the warm space between you.

“I thought you might want to remember them,” he said softly.

“I do remember them. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Kili, grinning as he handed me his last dried pear. Thorin, bloody and dying in the mud, telling me—” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your fist to your mouth. “You don’t get to walk in here and open that door, Legolas. Not like this.”

A long silence stretched. You kept your back to him.

Finally, he said, “I am sorry. Truly. I didn’t come to wound you.”

You swallowed, forcing the knot in your throat down, back into the place where you kept it buried.

“I know,” you said at last.

He didn’t leave. But he didn’t press. You felt him step closer, and for a moment his presence was a comfort—but still a dangerous one. A reminder of who you were. Of what the road takes.

And still… it stirred something in you. Something old. Something that had once burned with purpose.

You set the knife down and stared into the hearth.

The inn was warm now, the fire casting golden light over old wood and tired faces. The Fellowship ate in relative quiet, grateful for the food and for the brief peace. You worked behind the bar, polishing mugs and pretending not to watch them.

But you felt it. The way some of them looked at you with curiosity, as if trying to place you—not just as an innkeeper, but as someone... else.

Frodo was the one who finally broke the silence.

“You were in Bilbo’s journal,” he said gently.

You looked up, a mug still in your hand. “Was I?”

He nodded, setting down his spoon. “There was a drawing—almost like a sketch from memory. A half-elf woman with a braid down her back, and a scar across her temple.” His eyes flicked to the faint mark just beneath your hairline, still visible in the flicker of firelight. “He said you moved like moonlight with a blade. That you fought like someone trying to outrun the end of the world.”

You didn’t speak at first. You returned to your task, cloth circling the rim of the mug, slower now.

“Aye,” you murmured at last, “That was a long time ago.”

Aragorn watched you then, thoughtful, but said nothing. The room held a breath.

Frodo’s voice was quiet. “He wrote about how you fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. Said you moved with the grace of the Eldar—but when you struck, there was something in it... a fury, raw and burning. Like the world had wronged you.”

You paused again. Set the mug down.

“He wasn’t wrong,” you said, your voice steady, though your eyes flicked to the fire. “I lost my brothers that day. Kili... and Thorin. Perhaps not by blood, but in every way that matters.”

“I’m sorry,” Frodo said, with the quiet sincerity only someone still young in the world can offer.

You nodded once. “We all carry ghosts. Mine just sit closer to the skin.”

Legolas, across the room, didn’t look at you, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade—as though remembering the same battle. The same blood.

“I remember that journal,” he said quietly. “Bilbo called you Eluneth—Moon-blessed. Said you were the only one who could outdrink Bofur and outrun a Warg in the same night.”

That pulled the faintest smile from you. “He embellished.”

“No,” Gimli grunted, lifting his mug, “He didn’t. Bofur still complains about it.”

A small ripple of laughter lightened the air, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your fingers curled around the bar’s edge.

Frodo tilted his head, studying you. “If you were part of Thorin’s Company… why did you stop?”

You looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders tensed with questions and quiet burden.

“Because I gave enough to the road,” you said simply. “It took my youth, my friends, and my peace. I thought if I built something steady, something safe… maybe the world would leave me be.”

“And has it?” Aragorn asked, his voice low.

You met his gaze. “You tell me. You’re sitting in my hall with war on your heels.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

You picked up the next mug and began to polish again. “Eat while the food’s warm. Sleep while the roof holds. Tomorrow, the world finds you again.”

And as you turned away, your voice softened to a whisper meant only for yourself.

“It always does.”

The inn had gone still. The fire burned low, its glow casting soft shadows across the stone hearth. The mugs were cleaned, the food cleared away. The Fellowship had long since retreated to their rooms or bedrolls, lulled by warmth and weariness.

But you sat alone in a worn chair near the fire, half-empty bottle of mead at your side, boots kicked off, legs curled beneath you. One hand rested on your knee, the other held a cup you hadn’t taken a sip from in a while. You stared into the flames, jaw slack, thoughts thick with the weight of old wounds.

The softest creak of floorboards stirred your awareness, but you didn’t look up. You knew who it would be.

Legolas appeared like a memory made flesh, moving without sound until he stood just beyond the firelight, arms loose at his sides, hair unbound from travel.

“You always drank honey-mead when you were thinking too much,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.

You raised the cup, but still didn’t drink. “And you always appear when I least want company.”

He tilted his head, undeterred. “Then I’m exactly where I need to be.”

You sighed, glancing sideways as he stepped closer and took the seat opposite you. For a moment, he just watched the fire with you, like you were back in some forgotten camp beneath the stars.

“I was thinking,” he began, tone light, “about the first time I saw you. You were being dragged into Thranduil’s halls, soaked to the skin, shouting at Glóin for getting you caught.”

You snorted softly. “He did get us caught. He sneezed. Loudly.”

“I remember.” He smiled wider now. “And you, snapping at the guards in three different languages before turning that fury on me.”

“I didn’t know who you were.”

“You called me a pompous tree-weasel.”

You choked on a laugh and finally sipped your drink. “Sounds like me.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming with some old, private amusement. “But I watched you. Even then. I couldn’t place what you were—elf and human both, but more than either. You didn’t carry yourself like someone trapped. You watched the halls like a soldier would. Like you were already planning how to get out.”

You didn’t answer. The fire cracked softly between you.

“When you escaped with the dwarves,” he continued, voice lowering, “I told my father I saw you leap into a barrel like it was a warhorse. And later, in the woods—when you fired into the trees to cover their retreat—your arrows flew like mine. No hesitation. No fear.”

Your jaw clenched. “You don’t have to say these things.”

“I’m not saying them to flatter you.” He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees. “I’ve met warriors across all the ages. Elves, men, even the proudest Dwarves. But I never forgot the look on your face that day. You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting not to lose anyone else.”

A beat passed. You looked into the fire, and for the first time that night, your voice wavered.

“I loved them. Not all of them—but enough to bleed for. To die for.”

“I know.”

“I would have taken Thorin’s place in that final charge,” you said quietly. “I would have stood before Azog myself if I thought it would’ve bought him another breath.”

Silence wrapped the room again.

“I think that’s why I watched you,” he said. “Because I knew—if I blinked, I’d miss you burning.”

You met his gaze now. And there it was: the truth of it, sitting between you like a long-unspoken vow.

“I’m tired, Legolas,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what I have left to give.”

He reached out, not touching, just resting his hand close to yours on the armrest. “Then don’t give anything. Not tonight. Just sit with me. Let the ghosts rest for a while.”

You looked down at his hand, then at the fire. And though you didn’t say it, you didn’t pull away either.

In the silence that followed, there was no war, no crown, no past. Just you, and the elf who never stopped watching.

The fire had burned low, now little more than glowing embers nestled in ash. The bottle beside you was empty, your cup untouched for hours. Legolas had fallen asleep in the chair across from you, arms folded, head tilted slightly to the side, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it in battle or daylight.

You watched him for a while, feeling a strange pull of comfort and sorrow. He always looked younger in sleep. Less of a prince, more of the curious elf who had once tried to understand why you, a half-blood stranger, would ever choose to walk with dwarves into death.

But sleep didn’t come for you—not anymore.

The silence wrapped itself around you like a too-tight cloak, and slowly, the weight of memory began to stir.

There’s a flicker in the fire and suddenly you were laughing again. The clamor of a camp at the edge of Mirkwood, Bofur’s wild song about mountain goats and bad ale ringing in your ears. Kili throwing a twig at you because you said he couldn’t grow a real beard yet. You’d thrown it back, striking him square in the forehead.

“Tell me I’m not the prettiest one in this company,” he had said once, arms spread dramatically. “Go on, say it. You can’t, can you?”

You had smirked, braid half-undone, fingers calloused from the bowstring. “You’re lucky you’re not my type.”

He’d clutched his heart as if you’d shot him, then winked and walked off into the trees.

The warmth twisted.

Another flicker—and you were in Erebor.

Blood in your mouth. Thorin’s hand in yours, his grip weak, eyes clouded with too much pain.

“I was wrong,” he said, voice rasping like wind through broken stone. “I see it now. I see you.”

You had begged him to hold on. Promised him that the sun would rise, and that he would see the mountain whole again. But his breath had rattled in his chest—and stilled.

You had sat there for a long time, knuckles white around the hilt of your blade. Kili lay not far. Fili, already taken.

Only silence answered you.

You pressed your fingers to your eyes, willing the sting away, but it clung, thick as smoke.

“I should’ve stayed,” you whispered, barely audible. “I should’ve done more.”

The ghosts didn’t answer. They never did. But the ache of their absence filled the room all the same.

And yet...

There were other memories too. Softer ones. Bifur teaching you Dwarvish insults you were far too proud of. Balin telling stories until sleep took him mid-sentence. Bombur slipping you extra rations when you looked pale. Thorin, once, catching you singing in Elvish to calm your nerves and saying nothing—just sitting beside you, silent, as though listening to a memory he couldn’t name.

And Legolas. Always watching from the edge. Distant at first. Then fascinated. Then something else.

The present curled around your shoulders again, and you looked over at him, still fast asleep in the chair, the rise and fall of his chest steady.

You reached for the blanket draped over the nearby bench, quietly laying it across him. He stirred but didn’t wake.

As you sat back down, hands loose in your lap, you whispered into the dim room:

“I don't know if I can face another war. But maybe… I don't want to be the last of us, either.”

You didn’t sleep that night. But for the first time in years, you didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.

Dawn crept in slowly, brushing the sky in pale blue and soft gold. Birds sang tentative notes outside your shuttered windows, but the inn remained hushed.

The hearth was cold now. The chairs had been returned to their places. Tables were wiped clean, mugs polished and shelved, the rooms above emptied of guest linens. The scent of firewood and rosemary lingered, but your inn—the life you had built to keep the world out—was closed.

Literally.

The sign on the door now read “Gone traveling. Indefinitely."

When the Fellowship awoke, one by one, they descended the stairs expecting breakfast and soft beds to still be theirs. Instead, they found you standing near the door, your pack slung over one shoulder, traveling leathers worn like a second skin, bow strapped to your back, and a dagger resting easily at your hip.

Sam blinked in confusion. “Are you… going somewhere, miss?”

You gave a nod, small but sure. “Aye. With you.”

Frodo froze mid-step. “You’re—what?”

“I packed light,” you said, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Can’t say I’m thrilled about sleeping under stars again, but…” You trailed off, eyes briefly scanning the group before settling on Legolas.

He was already watching you.

There was no surprise in his face. No shock like the others. Only a quiet calm. Like a note held long and true finally finding its resolution.

“I knew it,” he said, lips tugging into a faint smile.

Aragorn stepped forward, brows knit. “What changed your mind?”

You met his gaze evenly. “Nothing. Everything. I remembered that the world doesn’t stop turning just because I pretend it has. And if it falls while I sit behind a bar, what did I survive for?”

Even Gimli seemed speechless for a moment. “Hmph. Well. If you’re coming along, I hope you still remember how to march.”

“Better than you remember how to bathe,” you quipped.

That drew a snort from Boromir and a laugh from Merry and Pippin, breaking the stunned silence.

As they gathered their things, still murmuring about your choice, Legolas stepped closer, his voice low for only you.

“You were never going to stay behind,” he said, almost gently.

You looked up at him, your voice steady. “No. But I had to believe I would, until I didn’t.”

He nodded once. “Then let us walk forward. Together this time.”

You studied him a long moment, then gave a small, wry smile.

“Try to keep up, princeling.”

You pushed open the door, letting in the crisp morning air. The road waited, as it always had.

But this time, you didn’t face it alone.

The quiet had ended.

The road to Moria had been long and steep, but nothing compared to the cold weight that settled on your chest the moment you passed through the threshold of the once-great dwarven realm.

Darkness clung to the air like dust, and even your elven blood couldn’t soothe the dread coiling in your gut. These were not halls of glory now, not the shining marvel Gimli had spoken of with such pride.

They were tombs.

Your steps echoed too loudly as you walked. The Fellowship moved in a hush, each bootfall and breath drawing the stone’s attention like an unwanted guest.

Gimli had fallen silent long ago.

You watched him, the way he held his axe tight to his chest like a lifeline, eyes wide as he passed shattered archways and collapsed pillars. His gaze darted toward dark corners, as if hoping—aching—for a familiar face to emerge.

But none came.

And then you reached the Chamber of Records.

The skeletons lay still where they had fallen. Weapons rusted. Dust thick on old shields. It was not war that filled the space now, but mourning.

Gimli moved to the tomb at the center like a man in a dream. You followed without meaning to.

He brushed aside what little remained of a helm and whispered a name: “Balin.”

You froze.

Balin.

Old, kind, sharp-eyed Balin—who once told you riddles on long rides and always made you take the last bit of stew. Balin, who had held your hand when Thorin died, his voice cracking as he promised to carry the king’s memory home.

Your throat closed.

“He was the best of us,” you murmured.

Gimli’s shoulders shook. “He was our hope. Our history. And now—he is dust.”

You stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“He believed in this place,” you said. “And if he had known it would take him, I think he would have come anyway. That was the kind of dwarf he was.”

Gimli didn’t speak, but he nodded once, tightly.

“I thought the ghosts I carried were mine alone,” you continued, voice softer. “But grief… it finds us all. And when it does, it binds us.”

He turned to you, eyes wet and fierce. “Do they ever stop speaking to you? The ones you lost?”

You hesitated, your gaze falling to Balin’s tomb.

“No,” you said. “But sometimes, they stop screaming.”

A long moment passed between you—two remnants of the Company, survivors of a story carved in blood and stone. Then Gimli nodded again, slower this time, and placed a rough hand over yours.

“Thank you,” he said.

You squeezed back. “We’ll carry them forward. As we always have.”

Behind you, the Fellowship waited in silence. Even Legolas, usually still and watchful, looked at you now not with curiosity, but understanding.

The grief had found you both. And for this moment, you bore it together.

They came like shadows with blades—goblins pouring from the walls, the ceilings, the dark. The tomb of Balin was barely behind you when the Fellowship was forced into motion, swords drawn, feet pounding over cold stone.

You loosed arrows until your fingers ached, each one flying true—some finding skulls, others throats—but they kept coming.

“RUN!” Gandalf’s voice cracked through the chaos, ancient and fierce.

The Fellowship fled, boots striking the echoing halls of Moria. Behind you, the goblins shrieked, relentless, swarming like ants through the cracks in the stone.

The drums of war pounded.

Dum. Dum. DUM.

You passed dark pits and crumbling bridges, pillars shattered by time. You didn’t dare slow. You barely breathed.

And then came the heat.

A low rumble.

A deeper shadow.

The Balrog.

It wasn’t just fire. It was rage made flesh, born from the ancient pits of a forgotten world. You stopped when you saw it—just for a heartbeat—but Gandalf didn’t.

He turned on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, staff in hand, sword gleaming like starlight in the dark.

“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”

You didn’t want to leave. Every part of you screamed to stay.

But Aragorn pulled Frodo. Boromir shielded the hobbits. Legolas grabbed your arm as you hesitated, your eyes locked on the wizard’s back.

“Go,” he said. “Now.”

You stumbled forward, breath ragged, until you stood with the others at the far end of the bridge. Just in time to see the Balrog crash forward—flames licking the stone as it advanced.

And Gandalf—brave, maddening, kind Gandalf—stood alone.

“You shall not pass!”

The blast of light from his staff shattered the dark for one blinding moment. The Balrog faltered—then fell, crashing into the abyss.

Relief struck—until the whip lashed back, curling around Gandalf’s ankles.

You saw his eyes then. Not fear, not regret.

Resolve.

“Fly, you fools—!”

And then he was gone.

Silence fell.

And it screamed.

You didn’t remember how you escaped the mountain. Only that your feet moved and the world blurred and somehow, sunlight burned your eyes when you emerged from the tunnel.

The Fellowship collapsed to the grass and stone. Frodo sobbed quietly. Sam sat staring at the dirt. Gimli hung his head in shaking silence.

You stood apart from them.

Legolas approached, hesitant. “We must move on—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice sharp.

He paused, his expression faltering.

You turned to him, and for the first time in years, your grief burned through the surface like wildfire through dry wood.

“I have already lost Balin in this cursed mountain. And now I’ve lost Gandalf too.” Your voice cracked. “And it’s only just begun.”

Legolas reached for you—slowly, gently—but you stepped back.

“I don’t know how much grief I have left to carry,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what’s left of me when it runs out.”

He didn’t speak.

You looked down at your hands—scarred, steady, stained by years of blood—and saw the ghosts rise behind your eyes.

Balin, laughing over a campfire.

“You’ll never beat a dwarf at riddles, lass, but I’ll enjoy watching you try.”

His eyes always twinkled like he saw more than he said.

Gandalf, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder as you trembled in Erebor’s aftermath.

“Even the fiercest fire cools, child. But your spirit—it will forge something new from these ashes.”

You had believed him then.

But now… now the fire only took.

You sat down hard in the grass, legs finally giving out, and stared at the distant sky. The others were quiet. No one had words left.

Even the sun, warm as it was, couldn’t thaw what had been lost.

The Golden Wood greeted you in silence.

The moment you crossed into Lothlórien, it was as if the weight of the world loosened, only slightly, from your shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with magic—ageless, slow, and watching. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden beams, illuminating the green and gold leaves like fire frozen mid-dance.

The others seemed to feel it too. Their steps grew quieter, breath deeper. The grief from Moria still clung, but here… it was dimmed.

Muted.

You stayed near the back of the Fellowship, your presence quiet and inward. Even Legolas, who normally hovered close, let you be—watching you with unreadable eyes.

Then came the soft sound of approaching boots across leaf-laden ground.

You turned at once, bow half-lifted—then lowered it instantly.

“Haldir,” you breathed.

The elf smiled, and it was like watching a tree in spring—still, serene, but warm beneath the surface.

“I thought the wind smelled of old fire and bowstring,” he said. “I dared not believe it.”

You stepped forward without thought, and for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—your posture softened. Haldir’s hand found your shoulder, and yours settled on his forearm, a brief clasp of warriors, friends, kin.

“I did not think I’d see you again,” you murmured.

“I often think the same,” he replied. “And yet, here we are.”

There was laughter in his voice—gentle, low. It stirred something in you that had been buried under stone and blood: memory. Of laughing beneath moonlight. Of shared patrols. Of long talks in old trees about the stars and the silence between them.

With Haldir, there was no past to bleed from. Only stillness. Understanding.

Legolas watched from a few paces away.

He did not speak. But his jaw tightened slightly as your laugh, soft and fleeting, reached his ears—something he hadn’t heard in days. Not since Moria. Not since Gandalf’s fall.

You barely noticed him at first. Only when Haldir led the Fellowship toward the inner woods did you catch the way Legolas lingered back, gaze not on the trees—but on you.

Later, as you stood beneath the trees, hands brushing bark that had seen centuries pass, Legolas finally approached. You didn’t turn.

“I didn’t know you were close with Haldir,” he said.

“He was my first real friend,” you replied, voice distant. “Before the Company. Before Erebor. When I didn’t know which world I belonged to.”

Legolas was quiet for a beat. Then: “You laugh more easily with him.”

You turned to him slowly. “Because he doesn’t ask me how I feel. He knows.”

There was a sharpness in your tone—not cruel, but edged by truth. Legolas flinched, just barely.

“I have tried to be patient,” he said. “To understand.”

“I know,” you said. “And I… I don’t fault you for it.”

You looked away, gaze lost in the gold-lit forest.

“But everything hurts, Legolas. I can’t breathe for the weight of it. Balin, Thorin, Kíli, Fíli—Gandalf.” You shook your head. “I don’t know how to laugh with you. Not yet.”

He said nothing, only studied you with eyes full of sea and silence.

You stepped away. “Give me time. I still want to be near the light. I just don’t know how to stand in it.”

And you left him there, beneath a barren tree—where even the sun seemed reluctant to intrude.

•••

The sky over Helm’s Deep was heavy, dark with the promise of death. Rain lashed the stone walls and wind howled through the crevices like a warning too late to heed.

The keep bustled with urgency—armor strapped on, arrows sorted, blades handed out with shaking hands. You moved among the chaos with steady steps, your cloak already damp, your bow newly strung. You had prepared in silence, your choice already made long before the gates had shut.

Legolas found you as you stepped out from the inner keep, near the passage leading to the women and children. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the sword at your hip, the set of your jaw, the steel in your eyes.

“You’re not going,” he said, water running down his cheeks like tears he would never let fall.

“No,” you replied simply.

“You’re meant to be with the others—”

“With the helpless?” you cut in sharply. “You forget who I am, Legolas.”

“I forget nothing,” he hissed, stepping forward. “But you were supposed to survive this. Do you not understand what’s coming?”

“I do,” you said. “And I’ll face it.”

He looked at you, truly looked at you, as if seeing the shadow of every battle you’d ever survived and fearing this one would be your last.

“I’ve already watched you fall once,” he said, voice low, taut. “When you lost them. Kíli, Thorin, Gandalf. You say you don’t know how much grief you have left—but do you know how much I have? How much more I can bear if you fall too?”

You looked away, breath catching.

“I’m not a memory to protect, Legolas. I’m not something fragile to lock away.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not fragile. But you are—” he stopped, jaw clenched, the words fighting their way out. “You are important. To me.”

That gave you pause.

The rain softened. For a moment, the world blurred around you, only his face in focus—his pain, his fear, his heart laid bare in the spaces between sentences.

“I’m still going,” you said, more gently this time.

He nodded, slowly. “Then I stay with you. On the wall. Not a step behind.”

You gave a quiet breath of what might have been a laugh, or a sigh. “Then try to keep up, princeling.”

He almost smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

As the horns of war blew in the distance and the thunder of Uruk-hai boots echoed closer, you stood together on the ramparts. He watched the enemy. But sometimes, you felt his gaze shift to you—sharp, quick, as though checking you were still there.

Still standing.

Still his.

The night deepened. The sky wept.

Beneath the thunder and screams of wind, the walls of Helm’s Deep trembled. The Uruk-hai approached like a black sea, endless, armored, merciless.

You stood on the battlement beside Legolas, scanning the dark, arrow ready. His expression was unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his quiver. Every so often, his eyes flicked to you—not in doubt, but in worry worn raw.

Then came the horns.

Not the harsh blares of the enemy—but something ancient. High. Clear.

Hope.

The gates creaked open and light spilled in—silver cloaks, golden armor, moonlit helms gleaming beneath the rain.

Elves.

And at their head—Haldir.

You froze, a breath caught in your throat, disbelieving.

He moved like moonlight through mist, every step purposeful, calm amidst the storm. And when he saw you on the wall, his smile broke through the rain like dawn.

You descended the stone steps as he approached. The moment you reached him, you embraced—not as warriors, but as those who had feared they'd never meet again.

“I hoped,” you whispered. “But I didn’t dare believe it.”

“Lothlórien does not forget its own,” he said. “We came as soon as Galadriel sent word.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You always arrive when I need you most.”

A flicker of amusement touched his features. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Nearby, Legolas stood still as stone. His gaze hadn’t left you.

He watched the ease in your voice, the soft warmth you rarely showed. The way Haldir touched your arm when he spoke, the familiarity in your closeness. A part of him hated it—hated that Haldir saw a version of you he feared he no longer could reach.

Later, as the elves took positions and soldiers prepared for the siege, you and Haldir stood beneath the battlements, heads bowed close in quiet conversation.

He looked at you, studying your face. “There is pain in you.”

You nodded. “There always is.”

“But there is strength too,” he said. “Even when you forget it.”

You offered him a tired smile. “That’s why I keep you around. To remind me.”

Haldir placed a hand over yours. “And I always will.”

Above, Legolas stood watching, eyes narrowing just slightly.

He had never been jealous of Haldir’s grace, his skill, his rank. But this—the effortless way Haldir stood beside you, anchored you—this unsettled something in his chest.

Not because Haldir had it.

Because he used to.

The horns sounded again—closer now. The enemy was nearly upon you.

And still, you stood beside Haldir. And Legolas waited, bow in hand, fire in his heart.

The night would be long. Blood would fall like rain.

But not before Legolas promised himself: Whatever the morning held—he would be the one standing beside you when it came.

The sun rose, but it did not warm you.

The battlefield stretched beneath it like a scar—black blood soaked into the mud, bodies sprawled across the ruined stone and grass. The air reeked of smoke, steel, and silence.

You stood where Haldir had fallen.

His body had already been taken, wrapped in elven cloth and carried with reverence by the survivors of Lothlórien. But you had stayed behind, rooted, staring at the bloodstained spot where he had died defending the wall at your side.

He had smiled at you, even as the blade struck true.

And you had screamed—only once—but it had broken something in your throat.

You hadn’t spoken since.

You didn’t hear Legolas approaching until his hand wrapped gently around your arm.

“You should rest.”

You didn’t move.

He stepped in front of you, his face pale beneath the dirt and ash, his eyes rimmed red—not with tears, but restraint. “You fought with honor. He did too.”

Your voice was a rasp. “You pulled me back.”

A beat of silence.

“Yes,” he said. “You would have died.”

“I was ready to,” you snapped, stepping back from him. “We were overrun. I was going to cover the retreat and you—” your voice broke, rage surging into the hollow place grief had carved—“You should have let me go!”

Legolas flinched as if struck.

“I could have died beside him. I should have—” your voice cracked, your fists clenched, “—instead you dragged me back, again, and I’ve lost another piece of myself—”

“Because I can’t lose you too!” he shouted, voice sharp and cutting through the morning like an arrow loosed in fury.

You froze.

He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, all the composure of an elven prince burned away by the fire of emotion long held back.

“I watched you grieve them all,” he said, voice quieter now but trembling. “Thorin. Kíli. Fíli. Balin. Gandalf. Haldir—gods, even Haldir. And every time, I saw something break in you.”

He stepped forward, unflinching. “And I stayed quiet. I stayed patient. I gave you space because I thought it’s what you needed—but I—” he faltered, then whispered, “I love you.”

The words hung between you like a war cry stilled in the air.

“I have loved you from the moment you argued with me in the Woodland Realm, stubborn and wild and brave. I watched you fight beside Kíli and Thorin. I watched you mourn them, one by one. And still, I loved you.”

Tears had slipped down your cheeks before you realized they’d come.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he said. “Not when I’ve already watched you die in pieces.”

You stared at him, all the fury ebbing into pain.

“I don’t know how to be what I was,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to be,” he said, stepping closer. “Just be with me. Whatever pieces you have left—I’ll carry them too.”

You let out a shuddering breath.

And finally, your forehead dropped to his chest, the storm within you breaking. His arms wrapped around you, steady and warm.

There were no promises. No healing words.

But in that moment, grief found company. And that was enough.

The final battle was chaos.

Fire lit the sky in sickening hues—red, orange, and gold twisting like dragons of ruin above the field. Screams tore through the clamor of clashing steel. The very earth trembled beneath the weight of death.

You had lost sight of Legolas.

Not for long—barely minutes—but it felt like a lifetime in the heart of war.

You fought like instinct made flesh, your blade slick with blood, arrows gone. The battlefield blurred around you, faces unrecognizable, only movement and threat. But when you spotted the flash of silver-blond hair through the smoke, something within you slammed into place.

Legolas.

He was on the rise of a broken wall, drawing his bow, loose and precise—until the enemy swarmed behind him. You screamed his name—he didn’t hear it—and your legs moved before your mind did.

A troll's iron mace came down, fast and merciless.

You hit him hard in the side, sending you both tumbling behind a shattered wall of stone as the blow cracked the earth where he’d stood. You rolled, breathless, until you landed hard, half atop him, body shielding his.

There was silence.

Then—

“I’m fine,” he rasped, blinking at you, winded.

“Don’t say that,” you breathed.

Your hands were braced on his chest, blood—thankfully—was not his. But the fear was.

You were shaking.

“You could’ve died,” you whispered. “You should have—”

“But I didn’t.”

You stared down at him, and for one unguarded moment, you let the horror in your chest bloom. “I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

His breath caught. His hands came up to gently hold your wrists. “You won’t.”

Tears stung your eyes—hot, unwelcome. You pressed your forehead to his, trying to steady your breathing as the sounds of war surged around you once more.

“Still here,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”

You closed your eyes.

You hadn’t made him any promises. You still weren’t sure if you could. But you could hold him close for now. You could fight for his life like he had fought for yours.

For once, it was not about loss.

It was about not letting go.

The White City gleamed beneath the morning sun, banners fluttering high above the citadel. Flowers carpeted the stone, thrown by joyful hands, the scent of hope and new beginnings thick in the air.

Aragorn stood crowned and robed in light, the roar of the crowd still echoing down the mountainside.

You watched from the edge of the crowd, quiet.

For the first time in an age, there was no battle ahead. No blood under your fingernails. No grief hiding behind your teeth.

Just stillness.

And you didn’t quite know what to do with it.

You lingered until the sun began to lower, until the crowd thinned, until the laughter dimmed to celebration-song in distant halls.

And then he found you.

Legolas.

He approached without armor, dressed in white and silver that caught the dying light, golden hair gleaming. He looked like he’d stepped out of a song—ageless, beautiful, unreal. But when he smiled at you, tired and small, he looked only like himself.

“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he said gently.

“I didn’t think I would either,” you admitted.

You stood side by side in the garden, the flowers beneath your boots crushed underfoot, the sounds of merriment muffled by trees and stone.

“It’s over,” he said. “And we’re still standing.”

You let out a soft breath. “Somehow.”

You looked at him then—really looked. And for the first time, there was no fog of war, no heavy grief veiling your gaze. You were just… you. Bruised. Whole. Tired. Alive.

“I thought if we made it here, I’d know what to say,” you murmured.

Legolas turned to face you, head tilted. “And do you?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But I know what I feel.”

His eyes searched yours, and you saw it there—hope, held back so long it looked like sorrow.

“You pulled me from the edge,” you whispered. “Again and again. Even when I didn’t want you to.”

“Because I love you,” he said, quiet and sure, no hesitation now.

You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “Then you should know... I’m not whole. I may never be.”

“I don’t need you whole,” he said, leaning in so your foreheads touched. “I only need you with m.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth of his skin grounding you. Your hand found his, fingers threading between his own, and this time—you didn’t pull away.

No promises.

But something stronger.

A beginning.

[swizzlemynizzle]

Hello! I loved your george series so much!

Could I request a fluffy willne fic? Maybe a friend's to lovers or maybe an influencer trip and there's only one bed, that sort of thing, just really cute/cringe type of sweet 🫠🤗

Thankyou!!

-🦆

I kind of got sidetracked writing this and I’m not entirely sure it matches the request 😂 I hope you like it anyway!

Masterlist

One Bed, Two Idiots - Willne

The birds are chirping like they’ve got a vendetta. Some manic little dawn chorus ensemble that’s definitely out to ruin Y/N’s morning on purpose.

“You’ve got to be actually fucking kidding me!” she snaps, flinging another hoodie across the room like it personally offended her.

“Woah, babe, just breathe,” Sabina soothes on speaker, voice all honey and calm from the other end of the line. “It’s got to be somewhere.”

“Not helpful right now, Sab!” Y/N practically growls, yanking open a drawer she already checked twice.

The suitcase hits the floor with a dramatic thud as she empties it entirely, folded clothes unraveling like they’re mocking her too.

“I’m going to miss the flight,” she whispers, voice wobbling as tears start to burn behind her eyes.

Sabina pauses. “Okay, okay, keep looking—I’m calling Will. He’s on the later flight anyway, yeah? If worst comes to worst, you go with him.”

Y/N doesn't even respond before the line goes dead. She drops to her knees, the carpet beneath her soft and unhelpful, and presses her palms to her face. Her passport. Gone. Just... vanished. She’d had it two days ago, she swears. She’d even triple-checked, proud of herself for being prepared for once in her chaotic little life.

A shuffle down the hallway pulls her from the spiral.

“Heyo?” Will’s voice floats in, cheerful and warm and entirely too sunny for someone who's just turned into a human hurricane.

He steps into her doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair still wet from the shower, that usual mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’m here to save the day.”

“You’re disgustingly chipper,” she mutters, glaring at him from the floor. “I’ve been up since five losing my entire identity.”

He snorts. “Alright, dramatic. It’s just your passport.”

She lifts her tear-bright eyes to him, exasperated. “I literally can’t get on a plane without it, Will.”

That softens him. His face shifts, the joking drops just a bit. “Hey. It’s okay. We’ve still got time. Let me help, yeah?”

And he does. For over an hour, the two of them tear apart every inch of her flat, hunting through shoes and makeup bags and even the fridge (because, as Will says, “You once put your phone in the microwave, nothing’s off the table.”).

Finally, finally—

“Aha!” she yells, emerging from the bathroom like a victorious knight brandishing a tiny burgundy book. “It was in the bloody sink drawer!”

She laughs, the sound light and ridiculous, and Will can’t help laughing too—even if he’s mostly laughing at how her hair’s all over the place and how proud she looks for defeating herself.

“Genuinely can’t decide if I’m impressed or deeply concerned,” he teases, eyes dancing.

“I contain multitudes,” she declares, smug.

In the Uber, she’s bouncing with adrenaline, singing along to the driver’s bizarre 80s Eurodance playlist and doing awkward shoulder shimmies in her seat. Will steals glances at her in the rearview mirror, pretending he’s not completely gone. She’s radiant in the way that only someone who’s just survived a mini breakdown and come out victorious can be. And when she catches him staring, she doesn’t call him out—just smiles, that slow, soft smile she only does when they’re alone.

At the airport, they’re halfway through weaving toward the gate when a crowd of school kids cuts in front of them—an ocean of red jumpers and backpacks the size of small houses. Without even thinking, Will reaches back and grabs her hand, threading their fingers together as he tugs her along behind him.

She freezes for half a second, just long enough to feel his hand, warm and solid and slightly calloused, close around hers.

“Come on,” he says over his shoulder, like he hasn’t just short-circuited her brain.

She follows. She doesn’t let go.

On the plane, he tucks her carry-on above her seat and flops down beside her with a self-satisfied grin.

“So,” he says, stretching his legs out. “Be honest. You were hiding your passport in your bathroom drawer on purpose, weren’t you? Trying to get some alone time with me?”

Y/N scoffs, elbowing him in the side. “Yes, Will. I masterminded an entire emotional meltdown for your company. You got me.”

“Not the worst plan,” he hums, cocky. “I am great on long-haul flights.”

She’s about to fire back something sarcastic when the plane jolts violently, lurching in a way that shuts everyone up at once. Her hand flies to his thigh without thinking, nails digging in slightly.

He grabs her hand. Steady. Warm. A quiet, “You’re alright. Got you,” whispered just for her.

And she believes him.

——————

The emergency landing is announced just an hour into the flight. They land somewhere outside Istanbul just after midnight—an unplanned layover thanks to a mechanical fault that the pilot described as “a precautionary measure” and Will described as “absolutely bloody terrifying” once they were off the plane.

The airline herds the stranded passengers into a nearby hotel. It's got that faded glamour look—dim chandeliers, gold accents that probably haven’t been real gold in decades, and staff that clearly did not expect 200 grumpy tourists tonight. Still, the sheets look clean, and there’s only one room left.

Which, of course, has only one bed.

Y/N stares at the receptionist. “You’re joking.”

The woman gives her a tired smile and a very European shrug. “All other rooms are full. You are lucky to have this one.”

“Lucky,” she mutters, dragging her suitcase toward the lift.

Will, beside her, is too smug. “You did say earlier you masterminded this whole thing just to get alone time with me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. If I was masterminding anything, it’d involve cocktails on a beach and not sharing a pillow with your massive head.”

“I have an average-sized head, actually.”

“The hat you wore last week disagrees.”

The room itself is nice enough—low lighting, a soft duvet, and a balcony with a view of distant city lights flickering through the mist. But the bed is a double. One bed. A single, intimacy-demanding slab of mattress.

Y/N kicks off her shoes and groans, flopping face-first onto it. “I give up. Istanbul wins.”

Will chuckles, heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he returns, she’s lying sideways across the bed, one arm flung dramatically off the side like a Victorian widow.

He grabs the duvet corner and lifts it just enough to slide in next to her. “You alright, melodrama?”

She rolls her head to face him. “I just wanted to be sipping something tropical with one of those little umbrellas in it.”

“You can have a tap water with a toothpick in it. That’s the same thing, right?”

She snorts. “God, I hate how funny you think you are.”

“No, you hate how funny you think I am.”

A beat.

She laughs, quietly. “Okay. Maybe.”

The silence stretches, but it’s a nice one. Their legs brush beneath the covers, bare knees just touching. Neither of them moves away.

“Thanks again,” she murmurs. “For earlier. And, like… all of this.”

He tilts his head to look at her. “I didn’t mind.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “You’re easy to be around. Even when you’re throwing jumpers and crying about birds.”

She gives a sleepy chuckle. “The birds were being dicks.”

“I’m on your side, don’t worry.”

Their eyes meet, and there’s a second—barely anything—where the air shifts. Where it feels like something is very, very close to happening.

Will reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers linger just a moment too long.

“Your hair’s gone all fluffy,” he murmurs, soft and affectionate.

Y/N swallows. “Your fault for running your fingers through it earlier.”

“Could run them through again. For quality control.”

She laughs, cheeks going warm, but she doesn’t look away.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that hums with things unspoken.

Eventually, she shifts slightly closer, their faces a breath apart now. “If I kick you in my sleep, it’s nothing personal.”

“I’ll take it as a love tap.”

She grins, small and sleepy. “Shut up, Will.”

“Night, trouble.”

“Night.”

When the sun rises over Istanbul the next morning, it does so on two idiots halfway to the Maldives and even closer to something else entirely.

——————

Requests are open xx

[hisfavegirl]

Hey girl, I love your HOTD reactions sm! What about like how they would react if you did a VS or Skims collab for a Valentine’s day set or something??

HOTD Characters Reaction To Your Campaign With Skims

Aegon was in the middle of scrolling through his phone, lazily lounging on the couch when his screen suddenly froze.

The SKIMS Valentine’s Day campaign.

Your face. Your body. Draped in lingerie so sheer it might as well be a second skin. Red silk, lace, curves accentuated perfectly—a vision of absolute sin. The shot that made his blood boil the most?

You, on a plush pink bed, biting your lip, fingers tangled in your hair—wearing nothing but a dangerously tiny bra and lace garters. The caption?

“Indulge yourself this Valentine’s Day. ❤️ #SKIMSLove”

The likes and comments were flooding in, men thirsting over you in real-time:

“THIS is what I want for Valentine’s Day.”

“Bro, she’s actually unreal.”

“Forget flowers, I’m sending divorce papers to my wife.”

“I just know her man is LOSING HIS MIND.”

Yeah. He was.

Aegon shot up, phone clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. His jaw? Tight. His eyes? Dark. His entire body radiated possessiveness, his breath coming out in ragged bursts.

His first instinct? Call you. Right. Now. But then he thought—No. No, you fucking knew what you were doing. Posting this without telling him? Letting the entire world drool over you while he was just supposed to sit there and take it?

His next move? Damage control.

The internet absolutely lost its mind.

The moment Aegon dropped the video on his Instagram story, everything went insane.

The clip was short but devastating—you, bent over his bed, skin flushed, your bare back marked with his claim, trembling, moaning his name like a prayer, wrecked beyond comprehension. Aegon’s hand came into view, gripping your waist, his voice low and smug, whispering,

“Didn’t think I’d let that SKIMS stunt slide, did you, baby?”

The internet? BROKE.

Twitter/X Exploded:

“THIS MAN JUST ENDED THE ENTIRE MALE POPULATION WTF”

“Aegon Targaryen is the pettiest, most unhinged man alive and I respect it.”

“She posted SKIMS, he posted HER. This is WAR.”

“HOW is this allowed on Instagram? WHO reported it? WHOEVER YOU ARE, WE FIGHT AT DAWN.”

“Bro turned Valentine’s Day into a public execution.”

Instagram Comments on His Last Post:

“Sir. Some of us are SINGLE.”

“That’s it. I’m deleting my boyfriend.”

“Y’all seeing her LEGS SHAKING??? Nah this man is different.”

“I’m not okay. I will never be okay.”

“We were thirsting over her SKIMS shoot and Aegon said ‘bet.’”

TikTok Reactions:

POV edits of Aegon with captions like “When your man reminds the world who you belong to 😵‍💫🔥”

Audio clips of “I want what they have” over slow-mo replays of the video

Girls fake crying into the camera with captions like “Me realizing I’ll never be this girl”

Reddit Threads:

r/popculturegossip

“Aegon Targaryen just HARD LAUNCHED his revenge arc, and I’ve never felt so single.”

“This is the most unhinged flex of all time, and I need therapy.”

“So we all agree he’s the pettiest man alive, right?"

Instagram eventually took the video down—but it was too late. Screenshots, edits, and memes had already flooded the internet. Aegon had won the war, and the internet was never recovering.

The second Aemond saw the photos—you, draped in delicate lace, barely covered, staring into the camera with that knowing, sultry look—his jaw clenched so tight it could snap.

His phone nearly cracked in his grip as he scrolled through the thousands of comments under the post:

“Mother is mothering.”

“Aemond is officially the luckiest man alive.”

“The male species has been defeated. We are but peasants.”

“You’re telling me this woman goes home to HIM??? Jail.”

A deep, dark chuckle left his lips—but it wasn’t amusement. It was pure, seething possession.

His eye twitched, his breathing heavy as he saw the likes flooding in—from men. From verified blue checks. From random nobodies who had no business looking at you like that.

“The fuck is this, darling?” His voice was deadly calm, but the way he stalked toward you, phone in hand, told you everything.

“A campaign.” You blinked at him, innocent. “For SKIMS.”

“A fucking campaign?” He scoffed, throwing his phone onto the table as he cornered you. “So that’s what we’re doing now? Letting every goddamn man on the internet see what’s MINE?”

He was pissed. Jealous. Possessive. His fingers traced up your arm, then gripped your jaw, tilting your face up to him.

“Tell me, did you enjoy it?” His voice dropped lower, dangerously soft. “Did you like having them all drooling over you?”

His eye burned into you, jaw tight as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Because now you’re going to remind them who you belong to.”

Aemond never lost control—but tonight? You were in for it.

The second Aemond posted the video, the internet broke.

It wasn’t just a thirst trap. It was a declaration. A warning. A final nail in the coffin for every man who thought they had a chance.

The clip was grainy, filmed through the dim light of his bedroom—his signature aesthetic. You were wrecked on his bed, wrists bound, body shaking, barely able to form a word except his name—moaned like a prayer, like a confession.

And Aemond? His signature smirk could be heard in his voice when he murmured:

“This is what happens when you forget who you belong to.”

Instagram Exploded :

“IS THIS EVEN ALLOWED???”

“So we’re just posting full-course MEALS now????”

“The way she’s literally trembling… yeah, I lost.”

"‘This is what happens when you forget who you belong to’ BRO CAN WE BREATHE???”

“The SKIMS campaign was for US. This? This was for HIM.”

“Aemond said, ‘You wanna model lingerie? Fine. Now model MY BED.’”

“The way she’s just a mess for him… If my man doesn’t love me like this, I DON’T WANT IT.”

Within minutes, Twitter (X) was on fire.

#AemondTargaryen

#SheBelongsToHim

#TiedUpForAemond

#OneEyedKing

Trending. Everywhere.

TWITTER/X MELTDOWN:

“I HAVEN’T EVEN RECOVERED FROM HER SKIMS SHOOT AND NOW THIS????”

“This man really said ‘revenge’ and ENDED US ALL.”

"Aemond Targaryen is a MENACE. I hate him. (I’m lying. I love him.)”

“THIS IS THE MOST POSSESSIVE, FILTHY, UNHINGED, HOTTEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN. HELP ME.”

TIKTOK COMMENTS UNDER THE VIDEO:

Pinned by Aemond Targaryen : “Revenge is sweet, baby."

“My FBI agent just logged out. This is TOO MUCH.”

“This is NOT just a revenge post—THIS IS A WARNING.”

“Imagine posting a SKIMS campaign and your man drops THIS as a response… She WINS.”

“Her Skims photos were for US. Aemond’s revenge was for HIM.”

Meanwhile, Aemond? He just sat back, smirking at his phone as he watched the world come to terms with what they already knew.

You were his. And there was no escaping it.

Jace never had an issue with you modeling. Until now.

He was in a meeting when his phone started blowing up. At first, he ignored it—until Aegon sent him a link with nothing but:

“LMAO. You good, bro?”

Frowning, Jace clicked.

And there you were.

Draped in red lace. Skin glowing. Eyes hooded. Posing in a way that had every man on the planet foaming at the mouth. The SKIMS Valentine’s campaign had dropped, and you were the star.

The moment he saw the lingerie—saw the way your body looked in it—his jaw locked so tight it could crack.

And then he saw the comments.

“I just KNOW Jace is punching the air rn.”

“She’s too fine. If he won’t wife her, I WILL.”

“Jace, be so serious… How does it feel to lose?”

“Why does she look single in these photos???”

“Jace, if you fumble, I’m RIGHT HERE.”

The moment the meeting ended, Jace stormed out of the office, grabbing his phone and calling you immediately.

You picked up, cheerful—which only pissed him off more.

“You having fun?” His voice was low, dangerous.

You giggled. “Jacey, baby, did you see the campaign?”

“Oh, I saw it. So did the rest of the fucking world.”

You hummed, unbothered. “And?”

Jace ran a hand through his curls, breathing hard. He could see the photos in his mind—how every man was lusting over you.

His girl.

And the worst part?

You knew exactly what you were doing.

“And,” he growled, “you better be home when I get there.”

“Why?” you teased, voice all sweetness and sin.

Jace let out a dark chuckle. “So I can remind you who the fuck you belong to.”

One minute, people were thirsting over your SKIMS campaign, and the next?

Jace dropped a bomb.

A video.

A very explicit video.

You, bare, ruined, trembling on his bed. Voice completely gone. Every breath ragged. Body shaking violently. Jace’s hand on your ass, smacking every time you tried to move away. His voice? Dark. Dangerous. Possessive.

“Was it worth it, baby? Hm? Letting the whole world see you like that? Look at you now—can’t even talk, can’t even move. Next time you wanna tease me, remember who the fuck you belong to.”

And his caption? Head Shot.

“Since y’all were so thirsty for her SKIMS campaign, here’s what happened after. Enjoy.”

Instagram Comments :

“JACE, WTF IS THIS? I CAN’T BREATHE.”

“He saw the SKIMS campaign and said ‘bet.’”

“NAH, THIS IS BIBLICAL. HER VOICE? GONE. BODY? FINISHED. JACE?? LAUGHING IN HER EAR?”

“This man took it PERSONAL LMFAO.”

“I ain’t never seen a man HUMBLED this fast 😭”

“THE WAY HE’S WHISPERING TO HER AND HIS HAND?? Y’ALL. I NEED HOLY WATER.”

“Her body shaking and his palm smacking down… Yeah. Yeah. That’s a man.”

“Jace saw the SKIMS campaign and said ‘MY GIRL. MINE.’”

“You just KNOW he was PISSED when he saw those lingerie pics 😭.”

“She went from SKIMS model to Jace’s favorite meal real fast.”

“THE WHOLE VIDEO IS JUST HIM RUINING HER LIFE AND HER LETTING HIM 😭.”

“I need everyone involved in this video ARRESTED.”

“Bro uploaded this like a warning. Like, ‘you thought you were single in those photos? Here’s your reminder.’”

“HE REALLY POSTED THIS AS REVENGE FOR SKIMS. THIS IS A POWER MOVE.”



TWITTER REACTIONS : Trending Topics:

#JaceVelaryon

#JusticeForHerVoice

#SKIMSRevenge

#IsSheAlive??

Comments :

“Jace is actually insane for posting this. HER BODY IS SHAKING. HER VOICE IS GONE. AND HE’S JUST THERE, WHISPERING AND LAUGHING??? HELLO???”

“You KNOW he was mad about SKIMS cause why is this video a whole RESPONSE??? 😭”

“If my man doesn’t ruin me like this after I piss him off, I don’t want him.”

“Jace: ‘You wanna do a lingerie campaign and let men thirst over you? Cool. But they’re gonna watch you break for ME.’”

“Jace really saw those SKIMS pics, picked up his phone, and said: ‘hold my beer.’”

“THAT MAN POSTED A WHOLE MOVIE. AMAZON PRIME COULD NEVER."

TIKTOK REACTIONS: Viral TikTok Caption

“POV: Jace Velaryon took his SKIMS revenge to another level and now we’re all screaming, crying, throwing up.”

Sound: Cardi B screaming “WHAT WAS THE REASON?!”

“Y’all, Jace didn’t just claim his girl. He PLANTED HIS FLAG.”

“Her legs shaking and him laughing about it…? Yeah. I need therapy.”

“Jace’s hand on her ass, the way she arched, the way he smacked down??? I HAVE NEVER KNOWN PEACE.”

FINAL VERDICT:

The internet is absolutely UNWELL. Jace won. You? Finished. The SKIMS campaign? Irrelevant.

The moment Daemon sees the SKIMS campaign, his entire demeanor shifts. He had been lounging in his office, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone—until your face, your body, wrapped in delicate lace, fills his screen. His jaw clenches, his grip on the phone tightening as he watches you pose effortlessly, seductive and stunning, every inch of you made to be worshipped.

And so were the thousands of comments under the post.

“She’s an angel AND a sin. How is that fair?”

“I need her. No, actually, I’ll die without her.”

“Whoever her man is, I hope he knows he lost her to the world today.”

Daemon lets out a dark chuckle, but there’s nothing amused about it. His blood is boiling, his possessiveness clawing at his insides. Lost you to the world? They had no idea who they were talking about.

With a sharp inhale, he slams his phone down on the desk and gets up, pacing the room. His mind races. He knows you love teasing him, knows you like pushing boundaries—but this? This was a direct challenge. A test. And Daemon Targaryen does not lose.

Grabbing his car keys, he heads straight for you. No calls. No texts. You knew what you had done. Now? Now, you’d deal with the consequences.

The internet exploded within minutes of Daemon’s post.

No caption. No explanation. Just you, completely wrecked—your expression dazed, mouth parted as soft whimpers left your lips. His hand cradled your face, slapping your cheek with a teasing, mocking rhythm. And though his other hand wasn’t in frame, the wetness sounds that filled the video left no room for imagination.

Twitter/X:

“WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST WATCH???”

“Daemon just said ‘she’s MINE’ without saying a single damn word.”

“This man saw the SKIMS shoot and said ‘bet’ 😭”

“HELP ME I CAN’T BREATHE WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THE SOUNDS???”

Instagram Comments:

“Okay but the way she looks at him?? That’s not just lust, that’s ruin.”

“He posted this just to remind everyone he owns her and honestly? It worked.”

“WHO ALLOWED THIS TO BE ON MY FEED??? I have work in the morning.”

“I feel like I just saw something I shouldn’t have… and yet I can’t stop watching.”

TikTok Reactions:

Edits of the SKIMS shoot transitioning to Daemon’s video with captions like:

“She teased him, and he answered.”

“SKIMS said ‘sexy’—Daemon said ‘MINE’.”

Compilation of reactions to the sound alone, with people throwing their phones across the room or covering their faces in shock.

Reddit Threads:

“Daemon Targaryen just changed the internet forever.”

“The SKIMS campaign was a declaration. Daemon’s video? A WAR CRIME.”

“How do we recover from this? WE DON’T.”

While some were losing their minds over the intensity, others were spiraling at the undeniable claim staked in that video. Daemon wanted the world to know—you were his, and no amount of cameras or campaigns would ever change that.

Tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @ashblooddragons @callsignwidow

Thank you to @zaldritzosrose for letting me using your dividers ❤️‍🩹

[iratempestatis]

did someone ask for... XIAO REQUESTS??

*manifests in a purple glowy glittery cloud from a magic circle on the floor*

I have been summoned.

What about a scenario where Xiao is trying to get a gift for his s/o? have him not only maybe trying to craft something, maybe he wants the gift to be so perfect he goes around Liyue and the harbor to find the best wrappings, the best ribbons and the best snacks to go along with his gift?

Xiao SOOOO needs more fics these days 😩

"For You."

Xiao x gn!reader, 4k words.

Just a bunch of fluff, Xiao might be a liiiitle bit ooc but I tried my best <3. I had way too much writing this lmao, it's vv self indulgent. It did diverge a teensy bit from how exactly you wanted, anon, but I hope you still like it <3 Feel free to send more Xiao asks!

Xiao remembers the first time he got you a present.

It was nothing, really. You mentioned needing violetgrass to finish a commission one day. It'd made Xiao wonder why exactly an adventurer would need a medicinal herb in such large quantities, but he hadn't known you for long, so he didn't bother to figure out why.

You didn't talk to him much back then- only really knowing him because you were forced (yes, you!) to cohabitate with him while you found a residence in the harbor.

You were impetuous- not of faith and certainly not respectful, and it irked you massively when he'd step away whenever you greeted him, or silently turn his back on you and vanish. He didn't quite know how to articulate why without venting his frustrations to a stranger, so he never did.

He remembers you being violently sick during the colder months and still stubbornly trying to yank your bags out of a friend's arms, furiously sniffing and telling them you needed to do this.

Xiao knew for a fact you were diligent with your commissions- you liked Mora and you liked being comfortable. It couldn't be rent. He couldn't help but puzzle about it for hours, tucked away in the soft, cool damp trees on Wuwang hill until your shriek broke him out of his reverie.

After abruptly appearing before you (and scaring you more than half to death), as well as many hours of hunting the elusive herb made even more elusive by the chill, you had a nice basketful by evening.

“I wanted two,” he remembers you saying ruefully. He can't remember what you wore or even what you'd sounded like. Or if that was even what you'd said. But he remembers knowing you needed two basketfuls somehow, and you only had one, and your eyelids weighed down by disappointment, and the press of your lips.

He remembers putting a second basket in your balcony by dawn, and he remembers feeling a sudden rush of fondness when he found out you did it unexpectedly for a sick Baizhu, without his knowledge, expecting no fee. He remembers talking to you more when you lunged out of the shadows at Wangshu inn, to grab his arm and beam and thank him. He remembers the first time he touched you on his own- fingers gingerly reaching forward to pluck a piece of thread off your face. He remembers you disappearing for months on a long mission, only to return home and run straight into his arms, your newest glider fluttering on your back. Right there in his arms. He doesn't remember breathing. He remembers the way your fingers felt when they brushed against his in that moment, for the very first time. He remembers you asking if you could hug him, “just for a moment please,” and he remembers scoffing in surprise, then quickly saying yes.

But for the love of- god? Which god? He was a god and he didn't love himself too much. Morax? For the love of Morax, then, why couldn't he remember the things you liked?

He remembers everything you like and nothing all at once. Books? You have them. Brushes? Clothes? Would you even wear what he bought you? What if it wasn't your style? What if- maybe a bag? No, you never used bags you didn't buy. Something about the quality of the fabric. A handbag? Would you use it often? Probably not. Another glider? A glider made of his feathers, perhaps? Dear god no, that would be. Alarming. Snacks? You'd eat them. They're an addition, not the present itself. Furniture? A body pillow? You mentioned wanting a Ningguang body pillow. What the fuck is a body pillow?

He bites back the urge to throw his almond tofu at the wall. A gift for someone so precious must be one of equal value– but really, what could compare to your smiles, or the way you veered into him on walks, or the way you’d stumble to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Or your adorably frustrated expression when your cooking turned out not quite right? Every minute spent with you was spent carefully watching, memorising. He couldn’t bear the thought of forgetting even the smallest details.

He remembers his first gift to you- a silver hairpin, laden with heavy flowers of jade and quartz that chinked against one another at the slightest movement. He remembers the the way your eyes widened when you unwrapped it.

It frustrated him.

You were pleased with all his presents- you never seemed to prefer one over the other. The amulet he brought to protect you? With you in a pouch on every commission. The hairpin? You wore it on special occasions. The crystalflies he caught you on a whim were kept in a pretty glass container on your bedside table. You kept the flowers he brought you for months until even their potpourri turned to dust. What did you like better?

He swears by the skies he’s never been more frustrated- or desperate.

Your birthday draws closer by the minute and he’s determined to be the first to give you a present, even if it means… talking to people.

✦—————————————✦

He wishes Verr Goldet would stop looking so… Astonished. He knows he should be working! He’ll get to it right after he acquires your present… which would be?

“Perhaps- perhaps perfume?” she suggests, finally regaining composure. “They mentioned being fond of perfumes, although they usually don’t quite use it. Also…” She hesitates, then shakes her head with a smile. “It is good to see you home.”

He’s startled- he can’t help being so, not when she’s giving him such a sincere smile (that he unknowingly softly returns.) Strange mortal. Thanking her, he leaps off the balcony rails, unfurling wings of teal and gold. Perfume. Not the most inspired gift, but perhaps he’d come across something at the harbour?

✦—————————————✦

He does, unfortunately, come across something at the harbour. It’s an annoying little something (endearing on the days he feels more patient), slightly tall, vaguely maniacal. In a fun way.

Hu Tao has dragged him across every stupid stall on the northern side of the harbour. They’ve seen all sorts of absurd fish (even ones he thought were long extinct, good for them- or perhaps not, since they were soon to be a meal), clothes, china, children’s toys (he’s pretty sure you’d like the fat finch carving actually, so he gets it) and… perfume?

Hu Tao beams as she gestures to the man lounging in a corner of the harbour, asleep with an arm thrown over his wares. The wares happen to be several exquisite (regrettably empty) bottles.

He blinks. “Where is the perfume?”

“Huh? You want me to get you that, too?” A fly lands on her face and she swats it away. “I don’t really know where to get one you’d like. What sort of smells do you like? Can you even smell? I thought birds couldn’t smell?”

He sighs at the cascade of questions. “Some can’t, some ca- you digress.”

“Fine, but listen- aren’t the bottles so pretty?” She reaches for one and he’s forced to admit they are. The one in her hand is fashioned to mimic a gently sloped, round rock, with qingxin flowers acting as the lid. A bit unorthodox, but charming. “You can put whatever you want inside! Plus you told me you wanted a bottle of perfume, not a bottle with perfume-“

Well.

✦—————————————✦

That’s two gifts and neither is as he wants, nor perhaps as you’d want. He thinks back to the gifts you’ve given him- so intricate, so thoughtful. The best gift is still you, though, and the time he spends with you is enough to wash away years of anguish. When you fall asleep in his arms, the tension within him comes undone. This world has never treated him well, but its one benefaction was the vision hanging at your hip. He can’t help but trace it gently with his fingers, running his hands up and down your waist, so, so lightly. He’s grateful.

He wishes he could gift you even a fraction of the joy you bring him.

A whistle snaps him out of his thoughts. Yelan lowers herself to sit next to him on the cool stone steps going down to the harbour. Where did she come from? Was that blood-

“Soup. Tomato soup.” She pops the ‘p’ as she speaks. He can smell the blood. “No worries.” He does worry. She laughs when she sees his face. “It’s not mine, relax. What brings our hermit adeptus to the harbour?”

She reaches for the bag of purchases in his hands as he explains. “I’m here to get (Name) a present.” She turns the finch around in her hands, amused, and he continues. “I’m yet to come across anything significant. Do you have any… recommendations?”

Yelan tsks and stares at the hubbub below, deliberating. Xiao glances at the luxurious fur on her jacket rustle gently in the breeze and wonders how they ever became friends. His advent into the Chasm… well, he truly did think he would die, but he instead returned with closure and absurd company.

More or less anyway- Yelan is too busy to come visit frequently, but she’ll sometimes call him for no reason. To sample some dessert she bought, or to tell him a mundane story. He suspects it’s so she can keep an eye on his health. Sometimes, in his nightmares, he sees her stricken face when he teleported her out the Chasm, when she thought he’d never return.

“What are you thinking?” She raises an eyebrow. “It had better be something productive, not daydreams of (Name).”

“Those are productive,” he counters. “But forget it… suggestions?”

“Maybe jewellery?” She stands up and dusts herself off. “It’s a little cliché, but never a fail. And probably some perfume to put into that bottle… which I will go get, because… no. Actually, you should come too.” She grins.

✦—————————————✦

He’s never talking to Yelan again. The shop she suggested had some lovely ear cuffs, shaped like wings and flowers, clouds and daggers. Pretty. He got you a few pairs, which the shopkeeper seemed delighted about. Were they expensive, by mortal standards?

He peeks into the bag and watches them glitter through the glass case. Probably.

The thought of you wearing them makes him feel a bit lightheaded. You’re always at the very zenith of loveliness, so it always astounds him to see you turn more and more beautiful by the day. The ear cuffs would accentuate your charm wonderfully. He grins at the thought, then painedly coughs, recalling Ying’er. By Morax, she made him profoundly uncomfortable, then compounded that discomfort with every passing minute. Yelan found it hilarious and he admits, only to himself, he’d find it equally amusing if it was someone else in his place.

In any case, he now has a rather large bag of presents. A fat finch, jewellery, a pretty bottle containing gentle perfume extracted from the flowers of your hometown (he’s so proud of expertly dodging Ying’er’s questions on how he got them) and-? A coffin keychain?

He sighs and keeps it.

While he has all these offerings present for the god that reigns supreme in his heart… there is no centrepiece, no special present. When he asks Yanfei and Ping, they glance at one another and gleefully suggest a wedding ring, to which he gives a forceful no. He’d never want to make you celebrate two things in one day- after all, that’s one less day of merrymaking.

✦—————————————✦

Liyue Harbour looks so pretty in the night.

You remember a friend of yours telling you something once. Liyue Harbour makes you feel melancholy on the bad days, and warm on the good. She was right.

Sometimes, you have trouble deciphering what exactly it is that you’re feeling. And sometimes, you have trouble facing your feelings altogether.

As you trod through the gates facing Mt. Tianheng, you feel a pit softly open through in your chest. Inside of you, something stays deathly still, trying to ignore it, even as soft, powdery tendrils attempt to coax you inside.

It’s two in the morning, and it is also your birthday.

The shops and stalls are nearly all closed, with only some taverns open late into the night. They’ll close soon enough too, though. If you crane your neck enough, you know you’ll catch a view of the Pearl Galley, radiant and luxurious, a warm spot on the cool waves.

Sometimes Xiao walks you home after a long day. He’ll pause on the road while you receive your commission Mora from Katheryne, and you go take a walk along the harbour, buying groceries for dinner, him sighing as you find and inhale the unhealthiest snacks you can contrive, and scoffing when you offer them to him- even though there’s no force behind it.

And sometimes you sit on the edge of the port, watching the Pearl Galley take gentle laps around the port. Amusedly trying (and failing) to take a peek inside, wondering which socialite paid the lovely maidens aboard a visit.

But there’s no Xiao here today. He hasn’t visited in a while, and it’s your birthday.

You blink rapidly, eyes stinging. It’s okay. Birthdays happen every year and you’re not a child, you’re just tired after a long day.

“And besides.” You pat a stray dog as you walk past it to your home. “It’s so late. He’ll hopefully remember and wish me tomorrow?”

She answers with a whine and a wag of her tail. You chuckle.

“Stay right here. I’ll get you something.” You blow it a kiss, your temper buoyant once more. It’s so late, you can’t expect Xiao to-

“I already fed her.”

You nearly stumble (curse those mountains, your muscles are so goddamn sore) with how fast you whirl to face him. He’s right there, in soft, loose clothes. The lights inside the house come on as he gives your baffled face the smallest, softest of smiles. “Happy birthday, (Name).”

You bark a laugh as you rush into his arms.

✦—————————————✦

You’re not sure what exactly you did for this world to give you Xiao, the most beautiful of creatures, kindest of people, gentlest of hearts. You used to think his distance and clipped sentences were an armour worn to protect his jaded heart from the world. You were heartbroken yet skeptical when Wang Ping’an told you of it being the opposite- that he cares deeply for his people and is devoted to his duty. That he has much love to give, but never could on account of his karmic debt.

You don’t know what you’d do if not for your vision.

Xiao’s firm, calloused fingers softly massage your scalp. He offered to help you wash your hair when you mentioned being too tired and sore to do it on your own, so you’re now in your bathroom seated on a stool as he does it for you. One hand reaches down gently to prevent the foam from entering your eye as you ramble on about the day you’ve had. He frowns when you tell him you got nearly killed by a treasure hoarder, then looks almost impressed when he hears you befriended the schmuck.

“And he’s not a bad guy, really.” You boop his nose gently with a wet finger and it scrunches slightly. “He just didn’t have a choice, y’know? Anyway, I told him I’d help him get a job. He’s gonna stay over until he gets back on his feet, so be nice when you see him, okay?”

Xiao blinks rapidly. His eyelashes are so pretty. “Wait- are you certain you can trust him? Tilt your head back.”

You tip your head back and explain as he rinses your hair. “He’s just a kid, really. He’s new to this treasure hoarder schtick. And it should be fine, right? I’ll keep the valuables locked and let him have the guest room. Poor kid, do you think he’ll be able to wait on people? Maybe I could convince Chef Mao?

“He has his hands full with Shenhe.” Xiao snorts. “I don’t think he can take any more. Although if you want… I could take the child to Wangshu Inn with me. Perhaps he could assist Huai’an.”

You gasp in delight and beam at him. You swear you see his pupils dilate. “You’d do that for him?”

“For you.”

✦—————————————✦

Dinner was pleasant- all you could focus was inhaling anything and everything remotely edible present on the table. You were ravenous.

Even so, you couldn’t help but notice the anticipatory looks Xiao gave you, the little taps of his clawed fingers on the table. He didn’t say a word as you finished your meal. Just looked at you gently with those luminous golden eyes.

Stamping down your excitement was difficult despite your exhaustion. There was something Xiao was keeping under wraps, you could tell- he was just a bit unravelled, just the tiniest bit. Lips parted in slight anticipation, pupils dilated like a parakeets.

You look at one another across the table and he abruptly blinks and rises up, taking the dishes with him. Putting them in the sink, he turns to you slowly. You hear the dog bark at something outside, the clatter of her claws across the pavement but it feels as though she’s on land, with you underwater. When did Xiao get so close?

Your breath leaves you as his talon tipped fingers gently cradle your face, stroke your cheek. He laces his fingers with yours and brings them to his mouth for a kiss.

“Do you wish to rest?” He asks gently. As if he didn’t just rob you of your ability to form coherent sentences. “I had some presents prepared for you, but it’ll be morning soon. You ought to rest.”

Aha. So that was what he wanted to show you. He looks so shy at the mention of gifts- long eyelashes lowered, lips pressed together that you can’t resist beaming and landing a soft kiss on his cheek. He exhales.

“I want to see them now.”

He sighs, but he’s smiling, too. “Very well.”

He gestures for you to walk on ahead to your room and you do, sprinting across the hallway, invigorated at the prospect of- what.

Your bed is laden with presents.

It looks almost like an offering table- there are flowers interspersed among the gifts- an exquisite bottle of perfume is the first to catch your eye and you excitedly hold it to your nose. It smells like your favourite flowers. You turn to beam at him and he turns away, pink eared, and gestures to the rest.

There’s a coffin keychain (huh?), a fat finch carving the size of your face (you’ll cherish and protect that thing with your life), multiple small, velvety boxes with glass covers (you nearly scream. Is that the Mingxing jewellery crest? How expensive was this?) and something covered by a soft square of fabric, right in the centre.

It’s a feast for the eyes, you giddily think, taking everything in. You’ll definitely need to have a talk with Xiao about the expense- good lord, that ear cuff is embedded with three different jewels- but for now, you heart is so full you feel it’ll burst at the seems. And as you lift up the cloth to uncover what’s beneath, you’re very certain you’ll weep if you’re not too careful.

It's a box, made perhaps of wood, standing on elegant coral legs. With gems or resin or more coral, you can’t tell- there's a picture composed upon it, with you clinging to the side of a mountain before it, and Xiao right behind, holding out his fingers to receive what you hand to him. There’s the sunset too, behind both of you- a gorgeous mess of pink, white and scarlet, gold rays streaking across it, from the setting sun into the lavender dusk beyond.

It’s a bit roughly hewn, but it’s beautiful, and it’s yours.

It’s the day you really talked to one another for the first time, the start of something so precious to you that even the mere thought of losing it makes your heart physically ache.

You really are going to cry.

Turning to Xiao, you see the soft, anxious look in his eyes as he tries to gauge your reaction. He parts his lips to say something, but stops to let you go first. You shake your head and ask him to speak.

“I… am aware of it not being the best of presents.” (You wonder if he smacked his head into something today.) “It is… a box.” He coughs, glancing away, then faces you again and now you truly are in danger of bawling, with the way he’s looking at you. You bite your tongue and blink rapidly. Xiao gives you a rueful smile as he continues.

“I thought for a long time, but couldn’t fathom what you’d want most. I did not know what would constitute as a good present- but I remembered… when we first talked for length. Your unpaid commission. I’m grateful to Baizhu, for falling ill… I could never have dreamed myself capable of feeling such joy. Because of you.

“I just…” he trails off, eyes widening as the tears slip past your lashes, down your cheeks (traitors, they’re making such a fuss). He’s before you in an instant, cupping your face, drawing you closer, forehead pressed to yours. “I wanted to give you something to put your treasures in, where they could be safe. And I wanted to remind you… I will appear, no matter the circumstances, the moment you call for me.”

Your chest hurts.

“And,” he whispers, “if your burdens grow too heavy, simply turn around. Place them in my hands. I will carry them until you can once more. Just as you have done for me.”

And all you can do, really, is tell him you love him, clinging to his shoulders, wrapping him in a giant embrace. He jumps, then laugh, large wings and slender arms wrapping around you.

It’s morning by the time you finally fall asleep, presents on one side of your bed and you on the other, after listening to Xiao recount his day at the harbour. You snicker at his conversation with the Boss, laugh when you hear of Hu Tao’s shenanigans, cackle hysterically when he shakes his head in embarrassment and tells you of his time spent with Ying’er and Yelan.

But when he tells you of his conversation with Ping and Yanfei, eyes softening, wings tightening around you- of the time he spent bringing the box into being, with their help and his very own hands- you can’t help but get teary eyed once more. Wrapping your fingers around his, you bring them to your mouth to kiss every fingertip, each kiss interspersed with a whispered “I love you,” that he returns with a quiet, fervent murmur of his own.

As you both begin to doze off in one another’s arms, you hear finches in the distance, awakening before even the dawn. You trace your fingers over his face, gently, gently and kiss his cheek.

You wish you could articulate what he means to you- and what his efforts meant to you.

His presents were nothing in the face of his company, and his company nothing in the face of his happiness.

More than anything, your heart is full at the thought of Xiao- free of his duties for even just a day, meeting with friends to contrive a present for you. That he spent time with them, amused himself with their shenanigans, fell prey to their mischief. That he had a mundane day at the harbour.

By Morax, you love him. Perhaps next week you’ll clear out your schedule, and ask him to take you with him on another.

[darkbunnylove]

Poly!141 at the gym

Soap is that one GymBro™ that is respected by all because he outlifts nearly everyone at everything, but somehow also stays incredibly humble about it. “Oh that? Nah, you could totally do that too,” he says to a guy half his size, holding a 2kg dumbbell and vibrating with fear.

Basically lives in the gym. Goes whenever there’s a gap in his schedule. Runs a surprisingly balanced split (he took gym advice from a Reddit thread in 2014 and now quotes it like it’s the Bible). Cardio? Handled during drills and chasing down targets. The walk from the locker room to the squat rack is plenty.

Everyone likes him because he talks to everyone. Literally. You. The guy hogging the bench. The janitor. The vending machine. Every gym session starts with a cheerful, “Hey, mate, how many sets you got left?” and ends with a full-blown conversation about the newest pre-workout trends or the crushing weight of modern masculinity.

Gaz is the other GymBro™ and also hits the gym whenever there’s a spare moment, but unlike Soap, he’s usually there in the early morning because it helps him clear his head and start the day right. Probably did track or cross-country as a kid, so he actually likes cardio. Takes it very seriously, too. “You do realize your heart’s a muscle too, yeah? Gotta train it like the rest,” he says, likely even mid-sprint.

Also probably the only one out of the four who goes to the gym because his body is a temple, not because he’s battling a whole army of inner demons.

Friendly, but keeps to himself at the gym. Headphones in, locked in, not trying to bother anyone. But if your form is truly a disaster, he’ll absolutely say something.

Once accidentally signed up for a spin class. Secretly loved it. Now he goes twice a week for the white-girl music. Not like he would tell anyone, though.

Ghost definitely does some sort of hybrid training. Probably boxing, or Muay Thai. Scarily good at it. Like used to compete in high school good. These days, he just keeps it up to stay in shape. Only ever shows up late at night, when the gym is half-empty and dimly lit. Price jokingly calls it his natural habitat.

Definitely fighting some inner demons. Also the only person who can outlift Soap. Occasionally brags.

Not a big coffee lover, but absolutely has a caffeine addiction. Mainlines Monster White like it’s a medical requirement. Gaz is lowkey concerned but stays quiet.

Wears a black hoodie and joggers every single time with the hood up, of course. Never chats. Never smiles. People are lowkey terrified of him on sight, but mostly because between sets, he zones out so hard he ends up staring into the void.

Probably a phonk-enjoyer. Or Britney Spears.

Price either hits the gym at the crack of dawn or well into the late evening, thanks to his nightmare of a schedule. Usually catches Gaz on his way out or Ghost mid-brood. If he shows up at night, he’ll stay even longer than Ghost. 

Very solid split. Great all-rounder. Can crank out weighted pull-ups like it’s nothing and is the only one who actually takes stretching seriously. Does a lot of functional training too, like sled pushes and weighted carries.

Would actually be a phenomenal spotter… if he didn’t only show up when the gym is basically empty.

Does not listen to music. The haunting loop of “you should be doing more” on repeat is enough for him. Probably knocks out an entire set in silence, then just stares at the floor like it said something offensive.

Apart from trying to hit his protein goals the “natural” way, he owns exactly one shaker bottle. It’s survived three deployments and a house fire.

Can casually do pistol squats, but will only do it if practically bullied into it by the others.

Oh, and he's definitely the only one who actually wipes the bench after using it.

[sylusonychinus]

💖 Day 1 - Love When You're Submissive 💖

📌 Pairing: Rafayel x GN! Reader 📌 Requested by: @lyrisnightblood "Would it be alright to request MC × Rafayel angst for Valentine’s Day? (Would it be alright to ask for a gender-neutral MC 👉👈)"

For the angst: MC and Rafayel are engaging in CNC roleplay (nothing too explicit!), and MC ends up manhandling Rafayel a little too roughly—all pre-discussed beforehand. However, once MC realizes they’ve actually hurt Rafayel, even in a consensual setting, they immediately safeword and break down in tears, realizing that hurting him was the last thing they ever wanted. 😭💔

✍️ A/N: Hewwo! 🐾 Thank you for the request! Welcome to Day 1, and we’re kicking things off with some very, very smutty angst—WE LOVE TO SEE IT!!! 🔥💔💖

The air crackled with a strange energy. MC, clad in simple black, felt a nervous flutter in their stomach. Tonight was the night they and Rafayel would explore the boundaries of control in their relationship.

Rafayel reclined on the bed, his violet hair cascading over the pillows, catching the soft glow of the room’s light. His blue-purple eyes, sharp yet enigmatic, held a knowing glint. He was calm, composed—always in control, even when surrendering it. "Ready?" he murmured, his voice smooth, carrying that familiar blend of amusement and challenge.

MC nodded, their breath catching. They moved toward the bed, their steps measured, each movement deliberate. The dynamic they had planned demanded a display of power, a delicate dance on the edge of control. They circled Rafayel, their gaze intense, their touch a carefully orchestrated exploration—a firm hand here, a lingering caress there.

Rafayel exhaled softly, his lips curving into the faintest of smirks. "You’ll have to do better than that," he teased, voice low, testing.

MC pressed forward, responding to the challenge, but something shifted within them. The playful edge of their intent wavered, tipping into something deeper, less restrained. Their grip tightened, their movements growing too firm, too forceful. The moment tilted.

Rafayel's breath hitched—not in pleasure, but in pain. His body tensed, his smirk vanishing. "Enough," he commanded, voice firm, but controlled. "Purple."

The word cut through the charged air like a blade.

MC froze, horror dawning in their eyes. They had crossed a line. Their pulse thundered as they released him instantly, retreating as if burned. "Rafayel… I—I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

Rafayel pushed himself up, his expression unreadable. He took a slow, steady breath before his eyes met MC’s—searching, assessing. Then, his features softened. "You lost yourself in the moment. It happens." His voice was even, reassuring, but his usual effortless confidence had been shaken, if only slightly.

MC’s knees hit the floor, hands clenched. "I hurt you. I never wanted—"

Rafayel leaned forward, his fingers tilting their chin up gently. "You stopped. You listened. That’s what matters." His gaze, always so piercing, held something warmer now—understanding. "Control isn’t just about power. It’s about knowing when to let go and when to hold back."

The weight of guilt pressed down on MC in the days that followed. Rafayel, patient as ever, reassured them, his every action a quiet reminder that trust was not so easily broken. Still, the doubt lingered.

One evening, as they lay together in the quiet glow of the city skyline, MC finally whispered, "I don’t deserve you."

Rafayel turned to them, amusement flickering behind his gaze. "Oh? And why is that?"

MC swallowed hard. "I almost ruined everything."

A low chuckle escaped Rafayel’s lips. "You underestimate me. I don’t break that easily."

MC hesitated, uncertainty still etched in their features. Rafayel reached out, threading his fingers through theirs. "You think I hand over control to just anyone?" His voice lowered, teasing. "Trust goes both ways. And I still trust you."

MC searched his expression, and for the first time since that night, they let themselves believe him.

A slow smile tugged at Rafayel’s lips. "Besides," he murmured, voice dipping with its usual velvety confidence, "I think I could teach you a thing or two about control."

MC blinked, then let out a breath of laughter. "You think so?"

Rafayel smirked. "I know so."

As they lay there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the fear began to ease, replaced by something stronger. Their bond had been tested, but it had not broken. If anything, it had only grown deeper—an unshakable connection, forged in understanding and trust.

[rudyking]

Kook Hunting:

When Chloe, Yn and JJ's teenager daughter accidentally spills that Topper was trying to mess with her, JJ goes DEFCON one- at the least- after overhearing this.

The salty air of the Outer Banks hung thick and warm, carrying the scent of pine and the distant, rhythmic crash of waves. The late afternoon sun painted everything in hues of gold and amber, casting long shadows across the weathered wooden deck of the Chateau. Chloe, JJ and Yn’s fifteen-year-old daughter, sprawled on a faded blue beanbag chair, her laughter echoing across the yard as she bantered with Pope and John B.

Chloe was a delightful mix of her parents. She had Yn’s gentle eyes and sweet smile, but JJ’s mischievous glint and shaggy blonde hair that she constantly pushed out of her face, just like him. Today, she was recounting a near-disaster story involving a kite, a rogue seagull, and a very tangled fishing line, embellishing it with dramatic hand gestures and sound effects that had Pope rolling with laughter and John B grinning.

“And then, like, the seagull is squawking, right? And the kite’s doing this death spiral, and I’m just standing there covered in sand and seaweed, looking like a complete kook myself!” Chloe finished, punctuating her story with a flourish.

Pope, wiping tears from his eyes, managed to gasp, “Dude, you’re your father’s daughter, for sure. Pure chaos magnet.”

John B chuckled, nudging Chloe with his foot. “Speaking of kooks, did you see Topper at the Wreck the other day? Dude’s got a new boat, like, twice the size of his last one.”

Chloe shrugged, picking at a loose thread on the beanbag. “Yeah, he tried to show off, asked if I wanted to go for a ride.” She rolled her eyes, a touch of teenage disdain in her voice. “Like I’m impressed with boats.”

John B and Pope exchanged knowing glances. Topper Thornton, the epitome of a Kook Prince, and Chloe? It was a recipe for teenage drama, best avoided.

“He’s always been a tool,” Pope muttered, dismissing Topper with a wave of his hand.

Chloe sighed, suddenly becoming a bit more subdued. “It wasn’t just the boat thing, though. He… he was being kinda weird.”

“Weird how?” John B asked, leaning forward with a flicker of concern.

Chloe hesitated, twisting the thread harder. “Just… touchy. You know?” She mumbled, avoiding their eyes. “Like, trying to put his arm around me, and stuff. Saying things. About, you know…” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing slightly. “He was trying to get me to, like, go back to his place. For… stuff.”

Pope and John B’s easygoing laughter died down. A heavier silence settled over them. Pope’s brow furrowed with a protective instinct kicking in. John B’s jaw tightened.

Unbeknownst to the trio, JJ had just stepped out onto the deck, a plate piled high with grilled shrimp in his hand. He’d been inside, jamming to some old punk rock and getting dinner ready. He was in a rare, mellow mood, humming along to the music, looking forward to a relaxed evening with his girls and his best buds. He was about to announce dinner, but Chloe’s last few words hung in the air, sharp and jarring.

“Trying to get you to go back to his place? For stuff?” JJ repeated, his voice dangerously low. The playful tune he’d been humming evaporated, replaced by a sudden, icy rage.

Chloe’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in dawning horror as she saw her father standing there, his dimples vanished, his blue eyes now sharp and blazing. She hadn’t meant for JJ to hear. She’d been talking casually, assuming it was just between her and the guys.

Yn, who had followed JJ out with a bowl of salad, froze, her gentle smile faltering as she sensed the immediate shift in the atmosphere. She looked from JJ’s thunderous expression to Chloe’s stricken face and a knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach.

“Dad, no, it’s not…” Chloe stammered, panic rising in her voice.

But JJ wasn’t listening. His gaze was fixed on Chloe, but his mind was already spinning, images of some entitled Kook kid, handsy and predatory, flashing through his brain. His protective instincts, usually set to high, instantly cranked up to DEFCON one.

“Who was it, Chloe? Tell me right now.” His voice was like steel, devoid of any of the usual playful sarcasm.

Chloe’s bottom lip trembled. “It was… it was Topper,” she whispered, shrinking into the beanbag chair, wishing the earth would swallow her whole. She’d just wanted to sound cool, like she could handle it. Now, she’d unleashed the full force of JJ Maybank fury.

JJ’s eyes narrowed further. “Topper Thornton? That preppy little… He put his hands on you?” His knuckles were white as he gripped the plate of shrimp, which now looked utterly unappetizing.

“No, Dad, not really, he didn’t… it was just… he was being a creep. That’s all. I told him no. I left. It’s fine,” Chloe rushed out, desperately trying to minimize the situation.

But it was too late. The dam had broken. JJ was already surging forward, putting the plate of shrimp down on the table with a loud clatter that made everyone jump.

“Fine? Fine? Some Kook tries to get handsy with my daughter and you think that’s ‘fine’?” His voice was rising, laced with disbelief and fury.

Yn stepped in quickly, placing a calming hand on JJ’s arm. “JJ, honey, breathe. Chloe said she’s okay. She handled it.” She tried to inject a soothing tone into her voice, running her hand up and down his arm in a calming motion.

“Handled it? She’s fifteen, Yn! Fifteen! And some entitled little rich boy thinks he can just…” JJ sputtered, unable to find words strong enough to express his outrage. He started pacing, his shaggy blonde hair falling into his eyes. He shoved it back, agitation radiating off him in waves.

Pope, ever the voice of reason, tried to interject. “JJ, chill, man. Chloe’s right, she’s okay. Topper’s just a douchebag. We all know that.”

John B nodded in agreement. “Yeah, JJ, we got it. We were talking about it, making sure Chloe was alright.”

But JJ was beyond reason. His protective father mode had kicked into overdrive, fueled by years of Pogues versus Kooks resentment and a deep-seated distrust of anyone from the rich side of the island.

“Making sure she’s alright? Did you go find Topper and teach him some manners?” JJ demanded, his eyes flashing between Pope and John B.

Pope and John B exchanged a nervous glance. “Uh, no dude, we just… we just talked to Chloe.”

“Talked?” JJ exploded. “Talked? That’s it? He tries to pull some crap on my daughter and you just ‘talk’?” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “You guys are Pagans! I should’ve known I couldn’t rely on you for backup in a Kook situation.”

“JJ!” Yn said sharply, her voice finally gaining some edge. “Stop. You’re overreacting. Chloe is fine. You need to calm down.”

But JJ was already charging towards the stairs leading off the deck. “Calm down? I’ll calm down after I have a little chat with Mr. Topper Thornton. Kook hunting time, boys!”

Chloe, her eyes wide with regret and fear, scrambled out of the beanbag chair and ran after him. “Dad, no! Please! Don’t! It’s going to make it worse! I don’t want you to do anything! I’m fine, really! I swear!”

Yn sighed and massaged her temples. “Oh, Lord,” she muttered, turning to Pope and John B, a wry smile playing on her lips despite the tense situation. “Well, looks like our quiet evening just went up in flames.”

Pope and John B, though slightly apprehensive about JJ’s impending ‘kook hunt,’ couldn’t help but chuckle. This was classic JJ. Over-the-top, impulsive, and fiercely protective, especially when it came to his family.

“Kook hunting, huh?” John B grinned, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Might as well join the party. Wouldn't want JJ to get all the fun.”

Pope, still a bit more cautious, hesitated. “Guys, maybe we should try to talk him down first? This could escalate fast.”

Yn shook her head, a mixture of amusement and exasperation in her expression. “Honey, trying to ‘talk JJ down’ once he’s in ‘protective Papa bear’ mode is like trying to stop a freight train with a daisy. Best to just… manage the fallout.” She sighed again. “Alright, let’s go keep our resident kook hunter from starting an international Kook-Pogue war.”

They hurried after JJ and Chloe, who were now arguing at the bottom of the stairs. JJ was grabbing his keys, his jaw set in a determined line. Chloe was tugging on his arm, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Dad, please, don’t do this! It’s embarrassing! He’s just going to think I’m a baby if you show up and start yelling at him!” Chloe pleaded, her voice thick with emotion.

JJ paused, his anger wavering slightly at the sight of his daughter’s distress. He looked into her tearful blue eyes, so much like his own, and a flicker of his usual tenderness softened his features.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry, baby girl,” he said, his voice gentler now, though still rough around the edges. He cupped her face in his hands. “It’s okay. Daddy’s just… Daddy’s just going to have a little talk. Man to man talk. About respecting women. And daughters.”

Chloe sniffled, unconvinced. “But Dad, he’s going to laugh! He’s going to tell everyone! It’ll be so humiliating!”

“Let him laugh,” JJ said, a smirk creeping back onto his face. “Let him tell everyone. They’ll all know that messing with Chloe Maybank comes with consequences. And trust me, baby girl, consequences from your old man are not something anyone laughs about for long.” He winked, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

Yn, Pope, and John B finally caught up, Yn placing a hand on JJ’s shoulder. “Okay, maybe ‘kook hunting’ isn’t the most… diplomatic approach, but I get it. Just promise me, no throwing punches, okay? We’re aiming for a ‘stern talking to’, not a brawl at the yacht club.”

JJ grinned, his mischievous side peeking through the anger. “Stern talking to it is. With extra sternness. Maybe a little… ‘persuasive’ sternness.” He clapped Pope and John B on the shoulders. “Alright, Pagans, you’re with me, right? Operation: Leave Topper Thornton Petrified, is a go!”

Pope groaned but a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. John B was already grinning, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. Chloe, despite her initial horror, couldn’t help but crack a small smile herself. Even in her mortification, a tiny part of her was secretly, just a little bit, proud of her overprotective, wonderfully chaotic, and utterly hilarious dad.

As they piled into the Twinkie, ready to embark on their slightly ridiculous, and probably very misguided, ‘kook hunting’ adventure, Yn shook her head and laughed. “Oh, JJ,” she said, her voice full of affection and a healthy dose of exasperation. “You are absolutely impossible.”

JJ winked at her from the driver’s seat, his dimples flashing once more. “Impossible? Maybe. But I’m your impossible, babe. And Chloe’s. And that, my love, is the best kind of impossible there is.”

And as the Twinkie sputtered to life and roared off down the sandy road, leaving a trail of dust and laughter in its wake, Yn knew he was right. Life with JJ was never dull, never predictable, and sometimes, admittedly, a little bit crazy. But it was always, undeniably, full of love, loyalty, and a whole lot of chaotic, comedic, Outer Banks adventure. And for Yn, and Chloe, that was more than enough. It was perfect.

[dp-marvel94]

Real -Chapter 3

Summary:

While hiding from his parents in Gotham, an ill-timed encounter with his neighbor, Jason, has Danny pretending to be his own twin. Fortunately for Danny, the more he pretends the easier it gets. Until he is not pretending at all. Or: Danny names a duplicate and via ghost logic, said duplicate ends up becoming real.

First->Previous -> Next

Also on AO3

Jamie and Danny practice for several days. First just piloting a heavier, human body. Sometimes the clone just pauses to listen, getting used to the sound of a heart beating in his ears. Then there’s the ghost powers. Intangibility, invisibility, flight.

“Great job!” Danny congratulates silently, a small ecto-blast flickers between their fingers at Jamie’s command.

Jamie can even trigger the transformation into ghost form. And now, there is one more step.

“Here we go!” The clone raises his (Danny’s) arms. He pulls and stretches, his tiny cold spark pulsing. Wrapped in ectoplasm, the forming core strains to coalesce. Their shared body is ripe with tension, a rubber band just before the point of breaking.

Danny is flung back, suddenly back in control of his body. Jamie floats in front of him, upside down and grinning.

“You did it!” Danny takes his clone by the arm and swings him around.

Still, the separation does not last the night. A dozen threads connect them, energy trickling from Danny into his twin. Jamie’s forming core refuses to come together, to solidify into something real.

And yet, when Jamie appears human, he is heavier. His body is warmer, he breathes more often. And…

“Can almost feel it.” Jamie mutters, nodding off as he and Danny watch a movie. “Here. Jamie’s heart.” His hand rests on his chest.

“You know, you can use the first person. My heart.”

The clone opens his eyes, brow furrowing, not with confusion. But something Danny can’t quite read. “Jamie’s heart.” He insists.

Sleepy himself, Danny does not argue. Instead, he reaches for Jamie’s wrist, for the pulse that is almost there. “I can feel it too.”

Again, before morning dawns, Jamie’s physical form is gone.

Another day, another attempt to separate, another dinner with Jason.

“Have you guys called Duke yet?” The man asks, measuredly not pointed.

“No.” Danny blushes sheepishly. “I completely forgot. We’ll do that when we get back to the apartment…” He frowns, brow furrowed. “if I can figure out what happened to that number.”

Jamie pauses in lifting his drink to his lips. For a second, hesitance flickers in his eyes “It’s in the drawer near the sink.” He slowly answers.

“Thanks baby bro.” Danny says, offering a disarming smile.

His twin rolls his eyes. “Not a baby.”

“So you’re the older twin?” Jason asks.

“You could say that.” Danny shares a look with his twin, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Jamie gives a half-hearted chuckle. Danny can’t help but notice the anxiety twangling across their bond.

Back at the apartment when Danny goes to retrieve the number, his twin pointedly stands in front of the drawer, blocking it from opening.

“What is up with you?” The half ghost asks.

The other boy stares him down, scowling. After a long pause, he huffs. “You can’t call Duke.”

“Yes I can.” Danny rolls his eyes, reaching around his brother’s side. “Come on. Move”

“You can’t call him.” Jamie insists again.

“Look.” The older twin tugs on the handle. “I’ll call him and ask some about the Foundation. Just to make Jason happy. It’ll be fine.”

“No!” The clone insists more harshly.

“Why?” Danny spread his hands, growing exacerbated. “Why not?”

“Because… because…” His twin stutters.

The older sucks in a breath. “Why not, Jamie?”

“Because…” The younger’s brow furrows, nostrils flaring in frustration. “You call Duke, you ask about the Foundation. Then… then you’re asking them for help. But we can’t… because… because… Jamie isn’t real.”

“Yes, you are.” Danny argues.

“Jamie isn’t real on paper.” The clone grits his teeth. “No documents.”

“Okay, that is true. But-”

“The police will find out. Then the GIW and your… The Fentons.”

The words come with a wave of fear but Danny does not like himself be cowed clone’s feelings. “That’s not guaranteed. We’ll be careful. Just… get out of the way Jamie.” Danny grits his teeth right back.

“No.” Jamie remains stubbornly in place. “Why do you have to call him?”

“Jason will push again if I don’t.” The half ghost starts.

“No. Why?” His twin presses, harsh.

“Jason will-”

“Why?”

The question interrupts once more and Danny’s anger flares. “Because I don’t want to live in this crummy apartment forever! I want to get into college, get a good job, have a real life! I don’t want to be running and hiding forever!” He spreads his arms, wide imploring eyes fixing on Jamie. “Don’t you want that too?!”

His twin doesn’t look away, eyes just as gratingly fixed. “You won’t be safe.”

“Safe?! Safe?!” The older twin lifts his hands. “Nothing about my life is safe! None of this is! Being half ghost, living in Gotham, letting you exist-”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Danny knows he fucked up.

Jamie steps to the side, not even bothering to look at him.

“Jamie! Jamie! I’m sorry.” A cold guilt washes over him, Danny’s pleading eyes fixed on the back of his retreating twin’s head.

Jamie slams the door to the bathroom and in a haunting snap, the tangle of anger and hurt radiating from him cut off.

“Jamie? Jamie!” Panic claws up his throat. Did… did his brother just disappear, fade out of existence? But… no, no rush of energy returning to him. Jamie is still there. He must be.

Heart in his throat, Danny approaches the door. “I’m… I’m sorry. I-”

“Go away!” The familiar voice yelled through the door, the anger more stark and real than any emotion communicated through their bond.

“Jamie.” He tries again, gently.

“Go away!” The words are a roar, a stab to Danny’s heart.

The half ghost slinks away. He opens the drawer and calls the number, despite the shame roiling in his gut. He talks to Duke for a long while, asking his questions about the Meta Human Foundation.

The call ends and Danny slumps back on the couch. He wants to be comforted by what Duke told him. The foundation helps undocumented metas; they could help him and Jamie. And Danny has been denying it for too long but they need the help. He wants better than running and hiding forever for himself. He wants better for Jamie.

Guilt clogs his throat. Jamie, the person he dragged into this mess. The ghost he… imagined into existence. Again, the awe of that hits him. But… the guilt. He feels like an irresponsible parent, unable to provide for his family. Damn, is he Jamie’s parent? A jolt of panic hits him. Is he a dad? Is Jamie his child?

Danny shakes the thought away. It doesn’t really matter. He’s all Jamie has, whether he is the other ghost’s dad or his older brother. And he just royally screwed up.

Heaving a sigh, the half ghost stands up. He needs to fix this, needs to apologize.

“Jamie? Baby bro?” He knocks on the bathroom door. “Can we… can we talk?”

No answer comes.

Danny tries again. “I’m sorry I said that, about letting you exist. I…I didn’t mean it like that. Just… open up.”

No sound comes through the door. Not even Jamie’s occasional breathing.

“You’re worrying me. I haven’t even felt anything from you in a while. Please just let me in.”

Still nothing. Taking a shaky breath, the half ghost opens the door and…

An empty bathroom lies in front of him.

Danny’s heart drops into his stomach. “Please, please tell me you’re just invisible.”

But he knows that is not the case. No familiar cold presence, no translucent figure only visible to another ghost.

Hardly thinking, Danny transforms. Jamie had to have run off. He had to. He tugs on the connection inside him, linking his core to Jamie’s forming one. The… the bond is still there, though silent and still. The slow trickle of energy screams that his clone is still there, not reabsorbed when he wasn’t paying attention.

For just a second he thinks… he could tug on the line, reabsorb his twin’s physical form – still a duplicate if the mind inside is not– back into himself. No, Danny shakes his head, sick with  thought. He will never, never do that on purpose. The thermos instead. He rises from the ground, grabbing it from under the couch. He can capture Jamie if he must, though he hopes the other boy will return willingly

Invisibility phasing through the wall and into the open air outside, Danny follows the tug of their connection. Jamie wouldn’t have gone far, right? Around a corner, passed the bus stop, passed the store where he buys groceries.

A few streets from home, Danny’s ghost sense wafts in his mouth.

“Jamie?” He whispers, a blip of hope. But… no, his twin has never set off his ghost sense. He… hasn’t sensed any ghosts since he’s arrived in Gotham, even if Jason and Damian do both have the aura of someone touched by death.

Gunshots echo off the walls, the sound seizing  Danny’s attention. Another waft of ghost sense… from the same direction.

The half ghost sprints through the air. More gunshots, a man cursing. Then… the sound of a woman’s cackle, a familiar misery-consuming voice. And underneath all the cacophony… an even more familiar whimpering.

Danny blasts around the corner to find… a tall, muscular man in a leather jacket wearing a red helmet. This must be the Red Hood, one of Gotham’s vigilantes. And-

“Stop. Please.” Someone whimpers.

His brother, crumpled on the concrete. The Red Hood stands over him, back to Danny.  A street light flickers above, an island of light in the darkness.

And just visible beyond the streetlight…

“What is that thing?” Hood lets out another curse, another bullet from his gun

A shadow writhes, red eyes burning.

“And… Red Hood isn’t it?” The ghost cackles. “How does it feel to know that daddy cares about a murdering clown more than you?”

Hood growls, hand twitching on the gun.

“Like… a crowbar to the head? Or a pile of explosions? Or…both?”

Danny has heard enough. Rage filling his vision, he pounces.

Another bang. “There’s another one?!”

“We’re ghosts!” The half ghost shouts, dodging the shot. “And she’s the bad guy!”

Danny does not register the vigilante’s reply. Just Spectra’s grinning fangs, her self-satisfied laughter.

A tangle of limbs and shadow, Danny fights. Green shots blast his enemy. Black claws tear at his arm. Danny tears in kind.

Behind him, Jamie sniffles.

Hungry red eyes fixed on his brother. “Too weak to-“

The half ghost cuts off the hateful words with a punch to Spectra’s face. The ghost’s head ripples, black encasing his fist. Spectra’s shadow wraith. Tendrils of oily darkness lunge for his neck, his mouth. Danny flinches back. But his dodge is unsuccessful.

Pressure squeezes his neck, fills his nostrils. He… he can’t breathe.

The crackling energy, warm yellow-orange light cuts through. A glowing blade in Hood’s hand slice through the darkness.

The shadow ghost hisses, releasing Danny. Spectra recoils away from the light. She holds an indistinct limb against her chest. Neon green drips onto the asphalt.

Blades clash, swinging for inky black limbs. Ectoblasts crackle, like breaking ice. Spectra’s darkly joyful grin shifts into something angry, something desperate. She dives for Jamie.

With Danny’s enraged cry, ice shots from the ground. It drives up, skewering the ghost just below her core. “Don’t touch him!”

The clone scuffles backwards on his hands with a yell. Wide, fearful eyes jerk to where Danny floats.

The eyes contact focuses the half ghost’s attention. The thermos. Before Spectra can even begin to struggle free, the cap is off, and she is dragged into the blue light.

Once the threat is captured and the thermos intangibly shoved into Danny’s side for later, he only has eyes for Jamie.

The ghost boy surges forward. Before he has even reformed his legs to kneel, he is pulling his twin into his arms. “It’s-“

A sword jabs, right under his chin. Gasping with surprise, Danny looks up.

Red Hood stands above him, face unreadable through his helmet. “Don’t you dare hurt him.”

The half ghost’s eyes flash, teeth bared in offense. “Of course I won’t. He’s my family.”

That makes the vigilante pause, blade lowering. “What even are you?”

“A ghost. Not that it’s any of your business.” Danny scowls.

“You’re in my turf, kid, so it is my business.” The words lack the expected bite.

“Look.” Danny huffs. “I’m just trying to live my afterlife. Sorry about Spectra.” He glares at the spot of ectoplasm on the ground. “She won’t be a problem again.”

Jamie mutters, interrupting. “Can we go home?”

Danny’s attention jerks back to his brother, finally looking him over. The disheveled hair, the bruise on his cheek, his watery eyes.

His throat suddenly thick, Danny feels just as close to crying. “Yeah, of course we can.”

The other boy’s eyes turn mournfully to his ankle. “Twisted it.” It is swollen and discolored, now that Danny looks away from his brother’s face.

The half ghost gently wraps one arms around Jamie’s back, the other under his knees. Carefully, he lifts the other boy from the ground.

“What are you going to do with the other ghost?” Hood cut in, taking another step towards the pair.

“Bury her in the park, probably.” The half ghost hisses darkly.

The vigilante’ head tilts ever so slightly. Gaze unseen, Danny still feels it on the cut on his arm. “How are you bleeding Lazarus water?”

“I don’t even know what that is.” Danny rolls his eyes, floating from the ground.

“It’s-“

“Just give it rest.” The half ghost cut in, anger flaring. “Don’t you see I have someone to take care of?!”

Ignoring Red Hood’s sputtering question, Danny turns invisible and flies away.

Soon enough, he phases back into their apartment. Lowering Jamie down onto the couch, Danny turns human in a flash of light.

He kneels down, a hand taking his brother’s. “I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I didn’t realize you’d left and… how… how did Spectra even find us? Never mind that. Are you okay?”

Jamie just nods. Slowly, emotions trickle down their bond. Hurt, heartbreak, fear. All oddly quiet, oddly subdued.

“Do you want a hug?”

Another small nod.

For a long while, Danny just holds his brother. Finally, slowly, Jamie starts to cry.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Danny tries to soothe. “Whatever she said to you wasn’t true. Spectra… she… she picks at whatever you’re insecure about, whatever you’re doubting and using that to hurt you. But it’s not true.”

Still, Jamie cries, tears silently dripping down his face. A shaky breath. Chest pressed again Danny’s, the older half ghost can feel the ectoplasm tremble and shake, a storm inside.

Finally, the younger ghost mutters. “It’s… it’s not safe for Jamie to exist.”

In Danny’s own chest, his heart stales. Spectra had used what he unthinkingly said to Jamie, the words already causing him pain, to torture the younger boy.

“I… I’m… I’m sorry.” Danny stutters. “I didn’t mean it. No, I… I didn’t mean it like that. There… there is danger but you’re worth the risk.” He pulls back, out of the hug. “You’re worth the risk.”

His brother does not move or speak, eyes fixed on his lap.

“Jamie, look at me.” The older half ghost pleads.

No response comes, the other’s body ripe with tension.

“Please. Please look at me.” Danny shakes his head. “Just… just show me that you hear me.”

The clone’s head tilts up ever so slightly. His eyes flicker to Danny’s face for just a second, before looking away again.

The acknowledgment earns a shaky smile from the older boy. “You are worth it, Jamie. All of this, anything that could happen, you’re worth it.” He pours all the affection, all the sincerity he can hold into the words. “I love you. I love you so much. I want you to be happy. I want you to get to live the life you deserve. And…” A shaking breath. “Yes, there is danger. The GIW or Mom and Dad could find us. The Bats… Red Hood knows about me now. And who knows what he’ll do? And even Jason… how would he react if he finds out where you really came from? I… I don’t know what’s going to happen but…”

Danny reaches, gently taking Jamie’s hand who returned the touch with a squeeze. “After you talked to me, really talked to me for the first time… I… at first I just thought about me, about not being alone. But you told me you wanted to be real and…” Tears welled, smiling through watery eyes. “I knew I wanted to help you grow. I wanted to see who you were becoming. I… I wanted to be your older brother. I am your big brother. And I’ll keep you safe. I’ll protect you, no matter what happens.”

The words trickle to a stop, so much earnest passion within them. Danny prays they are heard and accepted.

Finally, his brother looks up. Round, still-watery eyes met his. “Jamie loves you too. Want you to not be alone, to be… to be safe too.”

“I know. I know you do.” The half ghost’s eyes soften. He does know. He can feel the care vibrate down the threads connecting him to his twin, singing through him like a note plucked on strings. “And I appreciate that you worry about me. But you don’t need to.” Danny smiles encouragingly. “Let me worry about the danger. I’ll do everything I can to keep us safe and still get the help we need. You just worry about growing and getting stronger, okay?”

For a second, Jamie’s brow furrows with a frown. Then he exhales. “Okay.” He sounds sincere despite the wrinkle. “Will focus on growing.”

“Good.” Danny sighs, relieved. Still… worry for his brother swirls in his core. “Did Spectra say anything else to you?”

The words fall heavily, followed by a weighty pause. Jamie’s eyes flicker to the side. A complicated mix of emotions flash on his face. But finally, he simply answers. “No.”

An inkling dances at the edge of Danny’s mind, a suspicion that he should press. But before it can solidify…

“Ankle hurts.” Jamie cuts, face screwing up with pain.

Danny frowns down at the joint. “It looks like it.” Swollen and discolored, shades blue and purple paint the skin. It would look like any other bruise, if not for the neon green undertone. The hint of the ectoplasm under Jamie’s skin in place of blood. “Maybe some ice will help.”

The half ghost conjures a block of ice, collecting a clean shirt from their bag of thrift store clothing to wrap it in. Carefully, he unties Jamie’s sneaker and pulls off the ankle sock. His twin lifts his leg and Danny places the block under the swollen ankle.

“Let that sit for a while. Hopefully the swelling will go down.”

Jamie hums in agreement, relaxing back on the couch. “Hopefully it’s not broken.”

“Yeah.” The thought has Danny scowling worriedly. Can it even be broken, considering Jamie is a ghost and ghosts don’t usually have bones? Usually such an injury isn’t even possible for him in ghost form, not something as mundane as twisting his ankle. And yet Jamie just did.

And another conundrum…. Normally an injury of this caliber would cause a duplicate to dissipate. Danny would feel an echo of the pain inflicted or even receive a lesser version of the injury. If he reabsorbs Jamie’s body, will he end up with a partially healed version of his twisted ankle?

Granted, all that could be solved with some ectoplasm to speed up the healing process. “If I could just get my hands on some ectoplasm….” Danny sighs into his hand.

Wait.

The revelation hits Danny like a truck. “I… I can’t believe I forgot.”

The sudden movement has Jamie blinking at him in question. “What?”

The half ghost kneels on the floor, a hand phasing into it. “My go bag… I packed ectodejecto.” He pulls out a glowing green vial.

The clone’s eyes widen, frowning suspiciously as he eyes the liquid. “What is it?”

“This is what I used to stabilize Ellie. Dad made it to hurt ghosts but instead it makes them strong.”

“And this might heal the ankle?” Jamie asks, one brow raised.

“Maybe….” Danny’s mind races now that he is actually thinking about the ectodejecto, actually considering the possibilities. “Maybe it can do more.” Hope rings in his voice. “Maybe this can make you strong enough to… to separate from me.”

A tentative hope wavers in Jamie’s eyes. “Separate? As in… won’t be a duplicate anymore?”

“Yes!” Danny laughs, elated with the realization. “This might actually do it.”

Still, Jamie eyes the vial, not as confident. “How do we…” He bits his lip. “How do we use it?”

“Last time, I just sprayed it on Ellie and she healed up instantly. So I guess I’ll just do the same thing..” Danny kneels in front of him. “Alright. Here we go. How about you take off your shirt first? Wanna get direct skin contact.”

“Okay.” With a nod, the clone wrestles out of the cotton t-shirt.

“I’ll spray it over where your core should be. That should make it work faster.”

The clone fixes nervous eyes on him, body ripe with tension. Still, offering an encouraging smile, the older twin depresses the nozzle and sprays.

The cloud of mist falls on Jamie’s chest, the green fading from sight in a blink. The next, and Jamie is leaned over, panting.

“Hey, take it easy. Just breath.” Danny offers comfort, rubbing his twin’s back.

“Look.” The clone breathes shakily, eyes fixing on his out stretched ankle.

Danny’s gaze follows. In the span of five seconds, the ankle’s swelling disappears. The color shifts, lightening from dark blue and purple to a sickly green-yellow. Another heartbeat and the skin is its normal pale peach.

“It healed.” Danny’s eyes widen, hope blooming. “Did it… did it finally work? Did we separate?”

Jamie’s brow furrows, a hand on his chest. “Don’t know. Maybe?”

The older brother reaches for the familiar pulse point. “I’m definitely feeling something!”

The clone hums thoughtfully. “Good.”

At Danny’s insistence, the younger twin takes a shower and changes clothes. The two settle down to relax before bed.

Danny slowly falls asleep, excitement and nerves dancing in his gut. The same feelings trickle across his ever present link to Jamie. The bond itself takes a different hue though, no longer a slow moving stream of energy. But a simple comforting thread of brotherhood.

In the morning, Danny awakes to Jamie asleep on the couch above him. Air softly whistles out of his nose, chest slowly rising and falling.

The half ghost’s heart sang with joy.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

seeking--''a sub!joe' blurb

inspired by a tiktok that @irishmanwhore sent me.

joe and domme are like satellites, orbiting and always in pull of each other.

poll looks like it's kinda torn between waiting and releasing the finale early, so in the interim, tada!

CW: 18+ content (smut)

sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main masterlist

________________________

march isn’t frigid. not by any stretch of the imagination. but it is cold, the wind’s not warmed just yet. april knocks, waiting to be let in, but march holds strong. and for domme and joe, it’s just the start. their anniversary comes in quiet on march 19th every year. it dawns a month after valentine’s day. a day reverent, but still gentle and warm for them. 

for joe, valentine’s day is in the tail spin of the season, a day that he marks each year weeks in advance, before the season begins so he doesn’t forget it. he schedules emailed reminders to himself to a burner account that domme doesn’t have access too. an account that joe keeps littered with lists: potential presents, vacation ideas, her favorite restaurants, her favorite foods & desserts, her passionate dislikes, her luke warm dislikes, crime scene evidence. the last one is just a thread of pictures of her leaving the toothpaste cap unscrewed, the shoes she leaves near the doors sometimes, the cans of half finished drinks she’ll forget about. 

joe knows she has a list of them as well for the crimes he commit: him putting back a jug of milk or juice that’s only have a few drops left in it, the times she’s caught him attempting to sneak her skincare products, him leaving lights on into rooms he won’t be coming back to anytime soon. they talk about them in the relationship check ins, they laugh about them. 

but there is effort. the picture he’ll get so that domme can force herself to remember to screw the toothpaste cap on. joe buys double of her skincare when it’s low so that they can both enjoy it when he’s the last one to use it. though he is working on not putting back a basically empty jug and domme’s attempted to remember to finish all her drinks before she departs a room. it’s not perfect, but there is effort. the soft sighs of domme when she returns to a room to spy the can she left or joe realizing the jug he put back is empty. always a muttered, “next time.” how beautiful and magical it is to know that there will be next time. they know that even if they didn’t do it perfectly this time there is still the opportunity to do better next time. 

joe’s always keeping valentine’s day on his mind; has a countdown that begins in october with monthly emails until december hits, and then the countdown goes weekly. by january, he’s getting daily reminders to himself. domme and joe spend them in the quiet dark back corners of restaurants, or tucked into the formal dining room of the house, or on massage tables, or in Veronica’s salon suite, just them, laughing--together. they end valentines day at home, in the living room most times with a craft date: legos, or painting candles, a request that domme made on their first valentine’s day that’s tradition. 

this year it was a painted ‘hug t-shirt’. the two of them giggling with white wine swimming through their veins, the TV playing softly in the background with a reality show that she begged him to watch. she promised he’d like it but joe didn’t even pay attention to it. too enamored by the stroke of the paint brush over his skin. domme’s intense concentration stole his breath, the bristles thick with the paint, wet strokes that should’ve tickled. that did tickle, but joe held himself still, chest moving slowly and deeply so that he didn’t ruin her work. she slipped the soft blue that matched his eyes over his wrist and palms, down his finger tips. the paint cold in the huff of the heating that ticked back on. 

once she was done, she slipped in close to his chest, her white t-shirt unbranded and blank until joe wrapped his arms around her body, humming at the feeling of her nestled into his throat. her laughter warm and whispering over his skin. he held her tight and long--the seconds melting into minutes. her legs rested over his, the two of them sat on the floor with the same cloth tarp domme used when she repainted joe’s office beneath them. 

he was slow to peel his arms away, only doing it when domme asked, “need longer?”

joe didn’t. he wanted it, but didn’t need it. he peeled his arms back slowly; didn’t want to ruin the t-shirt by pulling away too fast. domme shuffled back before turning and there sticking to the white fibers was the imprint of joe’s hands and forearms around the shirt. “looks good, baby,” he hummed. 

domme grinned. “my turn?”

“let me wash this off and you got it.”

joe scrubbed the blue off, kneeling against the shower basin to prevent the paint from staining the sink. the paint mixed down with the water, a cloudy mixture into the drains. the soft blue turned into something almost translucent, something in the liminal space of opaque and see through. by the time he returned to the living room, her t-shirt was carefully peeled off and on a hanger, ready to settle into the laundry room where the t-shirts would dry. 

domme settled her arms into his lap after joe slipped his shirt on, the hairs on her arms hardly pressing against his thighs until he gently tapped the end of the brush into her palm. 

“relax. i’ve got you,” he reassured. knew that domme wasn’t attempting to hover out of malicious intent. just a force of habit, her not wanting to impose. 

and she relaxed, dropped her arms against his thighs, the full weight of them, and joe painted the skin of her forearms. traced the paint that matched her eyes down her palms, covered her digits and she never flinched. the room silent as joe worked. an easy comforting sound with the soft blues of the TV dancing over them. 

if joe hadn’t gone first, he would’ve never known that the bristles were a little spiky. he wouldn’t have guessed that the paint still sat wet and was slow to warm given the stillness of domme. she exhaled and inhaled and if not for the soft wisps of those breathes over his cheek from how close they sat, joe would have believed he was working on canvas rather than skin. 

“done,” he whispered, easing the brush into the waiting cup of water. 

there was no hesitation. domme worked herself in closer, and closer until her arms wound around his waist and then pressed into his back, fingers splayed wide, his body curled around hers. a hum escaped the both of them, or maybe it was shared--one of them starting it and the other one finishing it. 

she hugged him in a cradle, one arm slightly higher than the other, as if reaching for something but not getting it. joe liquified at the embrace, left behind tissue and vessels rather than bones. she peeled away her finger first. then her palm. inch by inch she moved her arms slower and slower away from him. joe kissed at her cheek and eased back. 

“how does it look?”

“really good,” she answered and then kissed at his jaw. “i’ll be right back.”

her hug looked like craving carved into fabric. crawled up his back like she was praying for something. his hug looked like holding in, a selfish cupping of her body. joe yearned for her. because she’s never felt like an imposition. joe welcomed her in, always into his space, reserved a corner of his mind just for her, a part of him attuned to her like holy men to their gods. joe prayed for her, to her, about her. 

they shared each other that night nice and slow after their t-shirts were hung up in the laundry room. there was no power play, no demands, no commands. just reverence, whispered, can’t believe your mine’s followed up with i love you. not about possession but about belonging. they belonged together. they belonged in this fate together. 

the reason for joe’s obsession with valentine’s day isn’t because he feels like he has to do something flashy it’s because he loves what becomes behind it. valentine’s day is just the precipice. the ledge that’s actually just a step. it looks like the fall, true and sudden, but it’s soft and slow. there’s something to catch them just beneath it, a soft landing before the true leap: march 19th.

their anniversary is a sacred practice; it’s only them. phones are tucked away and can only be pulled out for food. there’s always a slow morning with whispered laughs, breakfast ordered in because joe refuses to have her cook, refuses for her to ‘lift a single pan today’ and joe knows better than to get into her kitchen on such a day because if she can’t life a pan, neither can he. so they trade off--she covers breakfast, joe pays for lunch, dinner is a toss up--sometimes it’s leftovers or whatever joe asked his chef to make for them. sometimes it’s a fancy dinner. 

only the oven, and the alarm clocks tell them the time. the sun rising and setting means little in terms of being a compass for the day. it’s just joe and domme. they don’t go anywhere, not really. they sit with cups of coffee or tea under blankets in the morning, their to-go plates between them. they sit out until the sun warms them. they check in--no matter how big or how small. 

‘you mentioned you wanted more quiet time? any ideas on what that looks like for you? how i can build that time with you?’

‘i know you want to travel more, get away from the desk job at times. what’s on your travel list? where would you go in your wildest dreams?’

‘do you like the new detergent?’ 

‘i don’t love that new oat milk brand. can we try oatly again?’

‘do you think we’ll be married in a year? do you still want that?’

‘you should still sign it. i want to make sure you’re taken care of even if it doesn’t work out between us. i’m always going to care about you to make sure you’re going to be okay.’

‘aliens are real, baby. and if i ever get abducted, i think i have the right to ask you to try and help get me back.’

‘i’d be useless against aliens if they exist.’

‘for a space nerd, you really should believe in their existence. we exist so i think it’s safe to say that other life forms do exist too.’

‘i’ll believe in aliens when i see one. by the way, what’s on your to be read list? did you ever get back on track?’

they talk for hours. the conversation meanders until someone gets hungry again. they go rummaging and if there’s nothing to satisfy, they’ll give in and order again, unburying their phones from the upstairs bedside table drawer long enough to order and get the estimate on when it’ll be ready for pick up. 

between the morning and the noon feedings, they shower, share the spray of the nozzle, trace the ripples of backs and spines. take turns in front of the spray, scratch at scalps with shampoo and run the conditioner over strands. slip into shared clothes--it’s mostly joe’s stuff, but occasionally domme with buy t-shirts bigger than necessary and wear them just so her perfume’s embedded into the strands so joe can steal them and wear a piece of her. 

it’s intentional.

they move lunch inside, curl up on the couch. sometimes silent, sometimes continuing conversations from earlier. when the food’s all gone, domme asks joe to read whatever book he’s acquired to for his off season binge to her. her head rests on his thigh. his hair falls into his face as he holds the book above her face. he rests one hand into her stomach, rubbing at the middle of her torso with a slow and absent stroke until he has to turn the page before he places his band back on her. 

joe will bribe her with kisses to play a few rounds of chess. she loses on purpose and joe can tell before he shakes his head, his face soft with his glasses on the bridge of his nose. his eyes are crinkled up, blue irises almost lost in the amusement that paints his face. joe shakes his head with his laughter. “no, for real. one more and you have to play for real.”

“you’ll win anyhow.”

“you never know that. you’ve beaten me before.”

domme gives in, re-assembles her black pieces onto the board. they’re nestled up against the coffee table, sitting on the floor, legs sprawled out under it, teasing taps during the game. not even the TV is on. the speakers are off. it’s just them and the tapping of the play clock with each move. 

joe holds a crooked finger to his mouth, eyes darting over the board. domme’s reclined back, palms pressed into the carpeted of the living room, watching the calculus in his gaze, thinking about not only his move but her move after it. his fingers move, hover over his knight. he’s not dedicated himself to the move, still assessing. she takes him in, in the soft afternoon glow of the sun through the shades. 

he looks angelic, even with the furrow of his brow, even with the black framed glasses. the tip of his nose kissed by a sunbeam, his skin a muted white--his tan from the season fading off him. a few faint tan lines cling to him, but they’d only be perceptible with a careful eye. the weight of the season has just started to roll off him--good or bad there’s always a kind of pressure valve that’s constantly turned on for joe. he’s always carrying something. but not here, his shoulders rest down instead up at his ears. he looks like he rolled out of hot shower, muscles loose and fluid on his body. 

joes doesn’t have to carry anything here, not now. it’s just them. he just is. he exists as he always should--just joe, who puts back not even a full cup of juice back into the fridge, he huffs about the drawers and cabinets she leaves open. the joe that packs her lunch for her, drives her everywhere even when he doesn’t need to do it. 

joe taps at the play clock and domme’s barely caught his move, saw the piece shift because he moved swiftly. enough to turn her attention back to the game but she’s looking again to the board. takes it in with a lazy drag of her eyes. she commits sooner than joe, moves her piece and knows it’s a sacrifice for the bigger goal. it’ll make joe pause. he’ll play it out, think about all his other options too. but he will go for it in the end. 

she taps at the clock. 

joe huffs before he grins. “you know me too well.”

“i could still lose,” she whispers back.

“no, i-i think you’ve put me in quite the bind.”

but joe doesn’t give up immediately. even with the hushed ticking of the clock, he doesn’t let that put him into a corner. he delays it, doesn’t go for the enticing trap. they dance around each other, for how long doesn’t really matter. they’re not keeping track of time here, just each other. 

until domme’s staring down joe’s king. “checkmate.”

joe laughs, head falling back on his neck. “told you. i told you.”

because even though domme hadn’t played chess a day in her life until joe mentioned it, until he taught her, she is good at it. she loses to joe more than she wins, but joe knows she’s capable of winning, can tell when she’s not really playing to win, just moving pieces to make it look like she’s playing. 

and just before evening crest up the horizon, they slip back upstairs. joe unveils his new present hiding spot, at the top of his side of the closet, behind a few boxes of shoes. it’s a physical photo album of their pictures, the selfies off his phones, the shots she’s snagged of him late at night or in the mornings, that joe wasn’t aware that a camera was on him, snuggled under blankets, caught mid laughter. there are photos of her in front of the stove, in the backyard, in the midst of singing into wooden spatulas. the date nights, pieces of the notes she’s snuck into his suitcases, notes that joe snuck into her lunch bag. a collection of their love meticulous catergorized. 

“want to fill more of those too,” joe admits, his smile unsure on his face. “receipts, concert stubs, all of it.”

domme’s breath is shaky, an inhale that rattles before she’s pulling his face to her. the kiss unhurried, drips with a silent i can love you forever. joe could do this forever too. knows it. 

domme’s shier with her gift--a first-- and joe takes her hand to give it a quick squeeze. “it’s two parts.” 

she digs out an old suitcase of hers and unzips it. they rotate hiding spots for every occasion. most get repeated, but it’s a nice game to look around the house and know that something could be lurking in the most unsuspecting places but never wanting to discover it early. it’s a rather large rectangle that she hands to joe, wrapped in a soft white and gold wrapping paper--a staple for domme because she refuses to use bags, says she likes watching him tear into the paper with the same fervor as children do at christmas. 

joe’s sure to always deliver and admires with soft fingertips at her meticulous work before he curls his fingers into the dip and tears, laughing at how she grins up at him, still kneeling in front of the suitcase. the middle is a bright yellow before it opens up to a soft orange ring, and then red, and a blue around the edges. 

it takes joe a second, but he can see a foot print, the long traces of what looks like a calf and thigh before he carries up to the top of the canvas, the globes wide at the top and he tucks the canvas up to his chest. “that’s not what i think it is?” he laughs. 

domme grins with a nod. “and if it is?”

“it’s going in my office. tonight.” joe peels the painting back down and stares at it. definitely domme’s ass. painting onto the canvas. the reds, oranges, and yellows all haloing the other to emphasize heat, a topographical map of her body. he traces the raised edges made from the stroke of the paint brush. “this is so…” joe loses the word. 

it’s not hot, it’s not sexy. it’s gracious. it’s giving to him. not a sacrifice, it’s willing. joe presses the painting back up to his chest, feels the beating of his heart erratic and rapid in his throat. “you’re being quiet naughty though,” joe quips. 

“i have something sweet too.” 

joe sets the painting down on the bench and takes the box she offers up next. it’s wrapped to in the same white and gold wrapping paper. it too is torn into, greedy and shakily. the cardboard box is plain as it stares up at joe. he untucks the flaps to unveil a shadow box. inside of it rests an arrangements--stars, and asteroids, planets, a dizzying kind of collection of colors. he’s careful as he holds it and shines it into the light of the closet--something that looks like a black hole rests off into a corner of the display.

“a composite,” domme explains. “night sky from the day we met back and then march 19th 2022 when you asked me to be your girlfriend. it’s supposed to look like a galaxy too. the artist said they sort of went overboard when i told them you like space and your favorite parts of it so, consider it a treasure hunt.”

joe’s breath freezes in his throat. he looks down to domme and she swims. he blinks and she’s clear for a second before she’s blurry again. 

“oh, baby, do you like it?” she asks. 

“love it,” joe whispers, afraid to shatter the moment. now it’s his turns to take her, kiss her with everything in him that he hopes conveys: you make me feel the most loved and most cared for being on this planet. 

dinner’s a lost thought. joe swears his hungry disappears and leaves him thirsty. he needs a drink, wants to say thank you with more than just words, though he’s repeating the mantra between kisses. it won’t be real until she’s falling apart on his tongue, and fingers, slipping down his throat. 

he loves this woman with every fiber of his being. loves her, loves that being with her doesn’t mean he’s pouring from an empty cup. knows that this is it for him. she is it for him. so completely, so utterly it. perfection in a thing that’st not perfect. 

but there is effort. there is domme, who giggles into the kisses, sighs into his open mouth after joe declares, “you’ve ruined me. put me back together again and i hope i’ve ruined you too. i hope that nothing’s the same after this.”

because joe’s selfish but damn it all. he’s going to have what he wants, just as long as domme says, “if this is ruined, then i’d call us a masterpiece.”

it’s slow. touches that don’t feel real, but still leave sear marks in the wake of them. the carpet is soft. and though it does dig into joe’s knees, he knows they’d never make it to the bed. doesn’t care if they do or don’t make it to the bed. joe revels in the drag of her nails into his hair, how she’s slow but careful as she pulls the frames from his face, holds his jaw it’s a petal to a flower, not fragile like glass, but like fine china. something to be prayed too, prayed about, prayed for. 

domme peels her t-shirt off his body, a silly vintage graphic t-shirt about ‘the way to a man’s heart is through is fly’ and joe’s eases her tank top up, swirls the tip of his tongue over the pert bud exposed to the slightly chilly march air. it’s an exchange. for every move joe takes, she follows it up. a dance, but there’s not follower or leaders, just the consumption of flesh, the succumbing of themselves to carnal desire. 

the whispers are swallowed down, the laughter is tutted, sighs and groans push up over their throats in exhales. she whines when he takes too long and he laughs, “patience, baby. going to savor you.”

like he doesn't do every time. like joe isn’t always trying to commit to memory every second with her. but domme huffs, exhales his name when he kisses down her stomach. when his mouth connects to her core, she thanks him, a pot of gratitude bubbling now with every flick of his tongue. 

they already know each other, but they explore like they’re trying to find something new, something unturned. curiosity that burns desire and desire that freshens their touch with curiosity. everything is familiar; everything is new. joe pulls her apart on his tongue, watches the way she shudders with her orgasm, shoulders digging into the floor as her back arches up for him. 

she reaches for him, a scrambling of her fingers over his shoulder but he carries himself back up, tracing the thumping of her heart with his tongue. “god, need you,” she exhales.

and joe’s not a fool, not in the slightest. “you have me.” he is a bit of a smartass though. 

domme laughs all the same, hooking his arm around his neck, stretches up to kiss him. “please.”

it breaks him--one word. 

he loves the sound of her broken begs. he gives in, bottoms out in her in a stuttered few pulses. his pants aren’t all the way down. one of her ankles is still tangled up in the band of her shorts. the cotton panties are shoved aside. it’s messy, but raw, slow and 

“feels so fucking good,” she exhales. “always feels so fucking right.”

because it is. this is so right. 

joe breathes into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, takes her body in slow. this is the only place he wants to be, with her, like this, hot, and needy, satisfied--if only for just a moment. 

domme nudges his head out of her neck and he obliges, mouth and jaw slacked, foreheads resting, sharing breathes. urgent and sharp moans falling off their tongues. but it feels so fucking right. 

orgasm is just an added bonus. because joe’s fueled insteady wanting to hear her say his name, over and over, and over and over. 

but the flutter of her cunt is enough for joe to know her body is on that dangerous edge, that she’s going to spill over him, leave a mess on his cock. but all he wants really is her, “fucking perfect,” exhaled over her lips like sacrament. 

joe watches the flutter of her eyes, how she can’t keep her eyes open, how her eyes roll back just a little. a grin lifts his lips before kisses her, “that’s it, baby. give it all to me. you’re so beautiful like that, breathless on my cock.”

his orgasm isn’t that far behind, feels it building in his toes and lower stomach, knows that with the sweat brewing on his forehead that this has been longer than either one of them suspected. but there’s been no rush--just them, steady, slow, punctuated thrusts, an easy roll of hips. 

joe’s cuming before he can register it, tries to watch the sly smirk on domme’s face but loses the battle and lets his eyes slip close. her hands are in his hand, her lips pressed against the shell of his ear, “an angel.”

his body is spent, and molten a top her. domme curls around him, kisses of his temple, brushing hair back and back--a repetitive motion that soothes joe in his comedown--an exhale after a held inhale. 

“i love you,” domme murmurs against the shell of his ear. 

“love you more,” joe whispers. his voice frayed and raspy. 

“not possible.”

“possible.”

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Desperate Fool - Part 4

Part 3

Eddie gets settled on his usual kitchen barstool and watches Nancy make a pot of coffee, which is great considering he showed up at the ass crack of dawn, too anxious to wait. Well, and a day early, but sue him, he missed her. 

Nancy and Jonathan’s house is just as cozy as he remembers, while also serving as a solid reminder he’s not the only successful Wheeler. Original hardwood floors complimented with arched entryways and wainscoting. Cream and sage fill the living space, dotted with drops of gold accents. Low, soft lighting illuminates every room with warmth. It’s clean and modern, yet comforting in a way The Harrington’s eggshell minimalism estate and his own dark industrial penthouse have always lacked. 

It’s quiet and domestic and everything he’s missed about having a home. The glow in his chest doesn’t outweigh the thread of tension thrumming through him, but it does ease slightly when she hands him coffee in his favorite Garfield mug.

They catch up for hours as she fills him in on everything he’s missed. Mom and Ted finally retired down to Clearwater after Holly moved out for college. Mike and Will’s adoption went through, after working on it for years– and jesus christ, he’s an uncle now. Will’s still publishing his YA fantasy graphic novels. Mike’s a happy house-husband now stay at home dad. 

El finally quit her shitty government research job and decided she’d rather work full-time at Argyle’s pizza shop learning the ins and outs of the business. She’s better suited for it, he thinks, she’s always loved being around people and working with her hands.

She tells him about her and Jon settling into their new posts at The Chicago Times. Nancy’s managed to make friends with people outside of the Politics department. Jon’s moved from photographing for tabloids to local events like concerts and festivals, currently out of town for the weekend at a festival in Rockford. She says he’s happier now, with a job more his speed, and Eddie has to agree. Although they apparently just missed each other last fall when he’d started the job only a month after Corroded Coffin’s concert at Wrigley.

As Nancy goes on, talking about the rest of the kids while they lounge around the house, moving from the kitchen, to the living room, to the snow covered balcony so he can smoke, he tries to listen– he does. But he’s close to snapping, forced to wait so long for answers. He needs to know everything that’s happened, and why she’s the one who has to tell him. Her and Steve dated in high-school almost ten years ago, and granted they stayed close, but she’s not Robin or Max. She’s one of the few people Eddie’s closest to, except for Dustin, who could easily give him more answers than Nancy probably could.

He’s spiralling. He’s biting his nails, picking his lips raw. His leg is bouncing erratically and the only thing that helps is pacing whatever room they’re in. Nancy’s still talking about Argyle’s newest pizza recipe when he finally breaks.

“Nancy, for fuck’s sake please just tell me what’s going on with Steve.” He reaches down for his smokes but his hand’s shaking, the pack gets caught on his pocket and falls to the ground. When he bends to pick them up, the lighter follows suit and bounces under the couch Nancy’s perched on. 

A manic laugh bubbles from the pit of his stomach as he drops to his knees. Eddie briefly wonders if he even wants answers or if he’s just punishing himself. He bends forward, letting his forehead rest against the hardwood floor, cool and grounding. 

Grabbing the smokes and lighter, he looks up to find Nancy’s eyebrows and nose all scrunched up, lips pursed. She’s looking at him exactly how he knew she would, full of pity and disappointment.

There’s something underneath the expression though that Eddie can’t quite pick out– anxiety, maybe. He wouldn’t have such a hard time reading her if he hadn’t been gone for almost a year. Another reminder added to the long list of his life-altering mistakes.

Eddie stands on unsteady legs, moving to the balcony for another smoke, with Nancy hot on his heels when there’s a knock on the front door. She shoots him an apologetic look, but he waves her off. He’s waited this long for answers, what’s another minute in misery.

When Eddie’s finished his smoke, he does his best to sneak back inside without being noticed. An unfamiliar voice calls him out.

“Oh, Nancy I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company!”

Eddie pokes his head around the corner to find Nancy standing next to a petite woman with dirty brown hair and thick platinum highlights, who’s dressed in an uncoordinated riot of colors and textures. Knee-high navy blue socks, tucked into tan polka dot flats, end just below the hem of her corduroy skirt. It’s a deep brown, matching the polka dots on her shoes, and the material’s so stiff it moves around her like a hoop skirt. She’s layered a puffy-sleeved periwinkle button up underneath a teal sweater vest.

It’s an odd assortment of colors, patterns, and textures that’s not quite artistic enough to be considered eclectic or interesting. Just bizarre and– if he’s being bitchy about it– a little boring. Eddie’s worn enough dramatic getups in his life, but beige isn’t doing this girl any favors.

The petite woman is blushing, eyebrow cocked in question, and Eddie realizes she’s been holding out her hand to him in greeting while he’s standing her silently judging her, like an asshole.

“Hi, you must be Nancy’s brother Eddie,” she says. Her voice is a light soprano, tonally off in an overly polite, customer service way. “I’m Becky.”

“Nice to meet you.” He finally manages to shake her hand, noticing they’re both wearing rings on each finger topped with chipped nail polish: his black and hers a sparkly baby blue. But while his rings are chunky and silver, hers are delicate gold bands stacked to varying thicknesses. “Umm how do you know Nance?”

“Oh, we met at work,” Becky says, smile widening. “Nancy’s told me all about you.”

“Hopefully just the good stuff.” Eddie tries for a joke, but her eyes tighten for the briefest moment.

“Yeah, she told me you were going to be back in town for a little while, I just thought you were coming tomorrow, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you.” She glances toward Nancy, her smile straining further.

“No it’s alright, Nance and I were just catching up.” Nancy’s shuffling her feet, eyes darting between Becky, the floor, then Eddie, and back again. Becky is staring at her too, and Eddie’s not sure he’s ever seen Nancy this anxious. She looks completely checked out of the conversation.

He’s always suspected she’s been a bit embarrassed by him. Throughout school, he was the loud obnoxious troublemaker, and Nancy the wholesome straight A student. Every new school year, Nancy spent the first few weeks convincing her teachers that no, she’s not like her brother at all, thank you. Eddie played it off when he could, and has most of his life. But to see it now, so plainly written on her face, hurts more than he expected.

“She said you’re in a rock band?” Becky asks, attempting to fill the silence left in the wake of Nancy’s awkwardness. “Very glamorous.”

It sounds slightly sarcastic, but Eddie’s not sure if he’s just feeling overly defensive. “Playing and songwriting are by far the best part. The rest is just missing out on what’s waiting at home.”

“Mmm, so that’s why you’re in town then? Missing Chicago?” She seems genuinely sympathetic, but he can’t help puffing up like an angry cat at the drip of pity hanging from her lips.

“More like the people,” Eddie snaps. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. God forbid he has a panic attack in front of the first person Nancy introduces him to when he comes home. He’d really be living up to the nightmare older brother stereotype Nancy’s dealt with her entire life.

“Well then,” Nancy interrupts, clapping her hands together loudly causing both Becky and Eddie to flinch. “Thanks for dropping off my laptop, Becky, I really appreciate it.”

“Umm, no problem, Nance.” Becky eyes her warily, but takes the cue. She turns to Eddie to say their goodbyes as Nancy sees her out.

He heads towards the kitchen to get dinner started for the two of them. It’s almost ten minutes by the time Nancy makes her way back and her entire demeanor’s changed. Her spine’s straight with shoulders back, head held high, eyes steeled with resolve. A classic Nancy Wheeler I’m going to tackle this problem head on attitude, except it’s directed at him. Which is seriously not great.

But instead of saying anything, she pulls out the same kitchen stool Eddie had been perched on earlier and plops herself down, all without breaking eye contact. He assumes she’s got something to say, he can spot a Nancy lecture coming a mile away.

Once again, anxiety’s filling out space in his chest as he finishes cooking. They sit in relative silence on the living room couch while they eat, and all he can do is wait. Eddie wants to hear what she has to say, he wants answers, but he’s dreading it all the same. She’s upset with him, which he can’t hold against her. He deserves all of his family’s rage. That doesn’t mean he’s necessarily looking forward to it.

“Ok, ask me,” she states, setting the empty bowl down on the coffee table, turning fully face him. Leaning against the the armrest, she pulls one knee up to her chest while sticking her other foot right in Eddie’s lap. He matches her position, grabbing her ankle and plopping his own foot down beside her, hoping the small amount of contact will keep him grounded.

“Ask you, what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Eddie,” she says, “the entire reason you’re in Chicago isn’t to catch up with Jonathan or Mike or me.” Nancy’s chest deflates with a sigh, and Eddie’s heart breaks at the fact that she’s right. He hates himself for it, one more way he’s disappointed her. “He’s completely offline, the kids don’t post about him even though half of them have you blocked anyways. I know you probably did as much digging as you could and even though you hired a fucking private investigator– jesus christ Eddie–”

“That was only to find out where he lived, I swear.”

She scoffs, “Like that makes it any better.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, lifting one hand from her ankle to rub his eyes. “I’m sorry, keep going. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s ok,” she says, squeezing his leg. The small gesture loosens some of the building tension, and he relaxes his shoulders.

“The point is, you probably don’t know anything about what’s happened with over the thirteen months you’ve been gone. But, I just thought, if you’re going around looking for answers, it’s probably best for everyone if they come from me.”

She looks away from him then to stare out the window next to them, and Eddie can’t help but follow her gaze. The sun has long since set, the only light coming from the end table lamps on either side of them, and the street light across the way. Dark winter nights always left Eddie feeling a little hollow, a chill even the warmest blankets couldn’t chase away. A feeling only Steve could ease out of him. 

When he looks back at Nancy, she’s already looking back like she can read his mind. Except she’s chewing on her bottom lip, and when he meets her eyes, she can’t hold his gaze.

“Nance,” he says, confused at the sinking of his stomach, “why is it best if it comes from you? No offense, but you’re not necessarily as close to him as Max or Lucas, and they seemed pretty clammed up when they came around. Especially when they mentioned the fiance.” Eddie chokes around the word. Swallows around the dry bitterness coating his throat.

She squeezes his ankle again, except this time it’s too tight, her nails digging little moons into his skin. Like whatever she has to say will send him running, because everyone knows he’s a coward, will disappear exactly the same as before. It’s how he knows he’s still the same person as before– undeserving of the people he loves most– when her next words send a small shock through his system.

“Because I’m the one who set them up, Eddie. And I’m not sorry.”

~~~

Part 5

Tag List: @5ammi90

[yiiyiiwrites]

🗡️ | Relics and Ruins | 7 |

Part 7 [series masterlist]

Summary: you’re a mender from the dawn court specialised in cursed or broken relics. When Azriel enters the dawn court the truth-teller is silent, it’s not till he asks for your help that realises who you are. 3317words

The autumn court was not what you’d expected, the soggy leaves squelching beneath your boots. You weren't on your feet for long though, before strong arms lifted you, the side of your head lulling into his warmth.

Eris Vanserra carried you through the brown stone courtyard, ancient tree’s twisted branches spiralling out of the centre. Gold and browns fluttered from above, leaves as dark as blazing flames raining down.

A fox weaved its way through his legs and disappeared underneath a dying hedge, bushy tail swiping the dry leaves to the ground.

“You should not have come,” Eris mumbled, his grip on you tightening as he slipped past a group of patrolling guards. The hounds behind him silent, not even the sound of their paws hitting the tiled floor.

“You make me feel safe though, I just wanted somewhere to heal.” You grasped the lapels of his overcoat, clinging to that small source of comfort and warmth radiating off of him.

“The bargain makes you feel safe, you should not feel that way here.”

He didn't say how you should not feel safe with him, the autumn court another prison like under the mountain for him. You heard the tales of his father and lived to be at his brothers mercy.

Calling in the bargain felt as natural as breathing, like he needed you in this moment as much you needed him. You wondered sometimes if he was your mate, if the bargain had twisted the thread of fate between you making it harder for you to feel it.

You’d been there before, the day after you were freed from under the mountain. Unable to leave, lost in the familiarity of the autumn general and your need for security, which you found in him. Eris let you stay, returning you to the dawn court before nightfall. He’d warned you not to step foot in his home again.

The sun glaring through the stained glass windows, scorching hot against your face. Eris carried you through the intricate maze of narrow halls, if you didn't know any better you'd think he was doing it, so that you could not map out the palace. He nudged a set of double doors open with his shoulder, your leg falling from his grasp.

Eris shifted you in his arms, taking you through a circular entryway and ducking under thick velvety draped curtains to a large bedroom. A green marbled fireplace roared to life, ornate oak mantel framing the red flames, twirling leaves carved into the dark stained wood.

He was alway so put together, not a strand of hair out of place or crease marring his clothings, something you envied him for.

"You know, I didn't think I'd be mending you," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. He laid you onto the bed, elbows either side of you as he caged you in. You sunk into the plush blanket, sinking your fingers into the tufts of fur. Your eyes trailed his hands that traced your thigh, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

His fingers hooked onto the double knot of your bandage, untying and lifting your leg, palm cupping the back of your thigh so he could unravel the ribbon of material. Eris hesitated, "this will hurt."

You clutched his wrist, his amber eyes snapping to your hand. He pried your fingers from him, "you know how it goes," he mumbled, placing his palm on top of your thigh.

"Just be quick." You yelped as he pressed his weight into the wound, flesh burning beneath his touch. The fire licking around his fingers and curling from under his palm sealing whatever injury it touched. You'd been here before, manipulating his fire to mend or heal, you could feel your skin weaving itself back together.

Eris's touch lingered, the pad of his thumb soothing the tingles away from your thigh. The wound closed and skin meshed back together, a lighter patch of scarring in its place. "Do I want to know?" He asked, laying down beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped and your body rolled with his, closer to him.

You turned, swinging your leg and hovering above him, hands resting on his chest. "How can I even repay such kindness?" You smiled down at him. His fiery red hair splayed out like a halo against the fur blanket, but he was not as angelic as the image laying beneath you.

You'd always wondered what type of person he'd be when he'd become high lord. His hot and cold demeanour throwing you off each time you saw him. Today however, he seemed happy to be with you. Even if it was unplanned.

He tugged the chain dangling from your neck. "You know," he said, pulling you down by your necklace. His gaze on the pendant and the small blob of fae light spiralling inside. "We're not under the mountain anymore." He tugged you, lips crashing into yours, touch burning.

"I like it," you said, stuffing the pendant under your fitted tunic. "Besides, it's actually really useful." He hummed, stroking your cheek, but his gentleness did not last long as he gripped your chin.

"Scared a certain shadowsinger, will torture you in the darkness if you kiss the enemy?" he said, kissing you once again. Staking his claim, knowing that you would go back to the night court and smell of him.

You tensed at the mention of Azriel, you'd easily forgot his position in the night court. Maybe his charm was part of the game, you knew he was dangerous and risky, but you couldn't help but think of him.

"I don't mind playing the villain, if I get some intel in return."

You didn't bite the bait.

A pawn in every other high fae's game, seemed to be something you couldn't escape even above the mountain. Eris Vanserra a lesser evil though, you knew where you stood with him. The inner circle and the night court, you wasn't so sure. Too early to tell.

You'd play your part, trust Thesan and then spend the rest of your days in the Dawn court.

"I'm just telling you to tread carefully, whether it be the shadowsinger, brute or Rhys," Eris said, names dripping from his tongue like they were coated with poison. He tapped you leg, pushing it back so he could stand from the bed.

"I know my place don't worry, Vanserra." You were frequently reminded, if it wasn't him it was the tattoo staring back at you on your forearm. Those damned scars that littered your body, sometimes felt like they were on fire some nights.

A persistent knock rapped on the door, Eris ushering you into a secret panel in the wall. The light left with him and your scrambled for the locket under your tunic, sighing as the light calmed your racing heart.

Eris opened the door, grabbing your arm and hauling you out. His amber eyes were darker, whatever fuel added to his anger wasn't something you wanted to find out. "Bloody shadowsingers raising hell in search for you." His fingers dug into your arm, your boots leaving the ground in a blink. The forest spinning around your vision as you stumbled to the ground.

"No he wouldn't come for me, there must be something else," you said dusting the mud from your trousers, you side stepped a foxes den nearly falling in, in the process. Eris sighed, dragging you through the forest by your arm, you struggled to keep up with his long strides.

"Don't be stupid, he's come unannounced. I'm going to have to get to the guards before my father's men and try to save all our asses," he seethed, mumbling a string of curse of words as he dragged you deeper into the autumn borders.

You pulled yourself out of his grasp, "I have no idea why he's here."

Eris spun around, towering over you. "What did you make a bargain with him too?" He spat, smoothing his hair neatly behind his pointed ears. His hounds snapped at your ankles playfully, one in particular sitting on you muddy boots.

"Oh because that's the only reason people will ever help me, you don't have to be so cruel."

You didn't get a chance to debate, yells sounded on the path leading to the both of you. The glimmer of fire flitting through the breaks between the trees.

Eris shoved you in the opposite direction. "Go, I'm sure he'll find you first."

You didn't question it, you ran through the forest. Leaping over the mounds of roots, the sole of your boot lodged into the uneven ground. You tripped, knees slamming down but you stood back up and pushed your legs harder.

A darkness beckoned you, one you didn't second guess as you ran through it. It wasn't till you gave into the shadows, did you realise their owner was not there.

Azriel hated the shift in the air, the rustle of leaves twirling in circles around his shadows. The ground squelching beneath his boots, he shook the mud caking the stiff leather and scanned his surroundings.

Trees, each one looking the exact same. A stray dark wisp tore towards him and curled around his ear, her blossom scent merging with it.

The shade under the canopy of leaves shifted under the wave of grey clouds above. Azriel flitted through the dark planes like the wind carrying the leaves on the forest floor. Her scent becoming stronger as he tracked the stray wisp’s movements.

Muffled voices filtered through the cloak of darkness he wrapped around himself. Concealing his figure on the edge of the forest. An open scrap of land of rolling hills, golden brown and rusty reds merging into the horizon. In the centre, atop the towering cliff stood the Autumn courts palace.

Azriel had only ever stepped foot in the surroundings of autumn, never strayed too far from the dark oak trees. The daylight wouldn’t offer him much room to travel through the shadows, he’d have to go the long way and stick to the edge of the forest.

He’d lose her scent, but he needed to know that she was safe and protected. His forehead prickled with heat, a bead of sweat rolling down his hairline. It washed away as quick as it came, he wondered if it was another snap of the bond twisting his stomach and yanking him forwards. Without thinking he stepped out into the Autumn fields.

Fuck. A guard yelled at him, a ball of fire charging for him. A charred spec of ash burnt through his fighting leathers on his arm and he snuffed the spark out with his gloved hand.

Azriel fell back into the forest floor, letting the overgrown darkness carry him away. He had no choice, but to hunt.

Shrinking into the base of a tree trunk, Azriel waited for the voice to travel closer. He circled the tree, avoiding the flicker of flames. One wrong step and the light would announce his arrival.

Azriel commanded the shadows, roots ripping from the ground curling them around the guards ankles.

Three heavily armed guards slammed to the forest floor, metal armour clanging against their swords. The fire dropped to the mossy ground, flames chasing their horses away.

He felt the heat behind him before he saw the leaves alight. Fuck, the fire spread wildly, eating away at anything its path. His shadows retreated back over his shoulders hissing and pushing him back out into the rolling hills.

Rhys was going to be pissed, Azriel might have upped Cassian’s tearing down a building. All by setting the whole of the autumn forest alight.

He tore away from his shadows and ran away from the edge, he’d already been walking the tightrope with his mate. One more step would mean war in this court, in order to see her he’d have to take his time and not be found. Oh how he wanted to take the quick and dangerous route, but he was no use to her if he got caught.

Azriel swore he could hear the crackling of flames catching the roots behind him. He didn’t dare glance back, the thought of her and finding her scent the only thing keeping his legs going. He tried to stay ahead, jumping between the shadows, but he’d never been this far before and didn’t want to go too far that he’d not be able to find his way back. He could only travel to places he’d been before, so learning a new path threw him through the wringer. His head pounding, throat burning and eyes stinging.

Trees drew closer together, branches snatching him back as he ventured deeper into the darkness. The sun was beginning to set, an advantage for him not her. He did not want her lost to the darkness.

His shadows leapt forwards, not a flicker of a black wisp surrounding him. He frowned, summoning them back but they never returned.

And then she stepped out of the dark hurricane containing her, hand reaching for his and he took it without hesitation.

The wisps circled them like bats, the world around them disappearing and she closed her eyes as one pesky wisp curled down her arm, resting on their clasped hands. The ball of fae light escaped her locket and floated between them, it bobbed in the air and danced behind them as Azriel pulled her through the dark abyss.

The cold wind nipped his cheeks as he opened his eyes, boots crunching on the hard snow. Her body shivering against his, clinging to his warmth.

"Where are we?" She asked, tucking her hands under her arms. Her gaze swept the mountain, a blanket of fresh white snow tainted by their footsteps. No one else had stepped foot up here and the cluster of clouds in the sky were screaming the warnings of a blizzard.

"The Illyrian mountains," Azriel said, he slung his arm around her shoulder and tucked her into his side trying to shield her from the chilling breeze. He couldn't travel close, the small trek something he didn't think about in his state of panic. It was the first place he thought of.

Azriel stilled, pulling her away to check her thigh. A gaping rip hung from her trousers and the wound nothing, but a light scar against her smooth skin. He didn't ask her how, he scooped her up in his arms trying to fight the smile as she squeaked in surprise.

"What are you doing?" Her fingers clutched the hair at the nape of his neck like they were meant to mould together. His shadows hovered over her bare skin as if they were trying to generate some extra warmth for her.

"There's a cabin," he said nudging his head to the small wooden house tucked between the two upper fangs of the mountains. "Sorry, this is the first place I thought of. It won't take long to get up there."

Azriel could still hear the crackles of the forest setting alight, he wondered if she too had seen the blaze she was running towards, that she was running to him. Did she only see him in the moment, like he did her?

"Looks like we might have to stay the night, blizzards drawing in."

The trek did not take him long, he flew up the steep incline and walked the pebbled path shielding them from the roaring wind. Her eyes darted along the trail, Azriel reassuring her that she was safe. He opened the cabin, placing her down as soon as he closed the door.

She slipped off her boots, fuzzy socks padding along the wooden floor. "This is your home?" She asked, her gaze flitting from the kitchen to the living area. She collapsed into the leather sofa, hand stroking the fur blanket hung over the back.

"Rhys's, but I grew up here with him and Cassian." Azriel leant on the edge of the dining table and crossed his arms over his chest. She flinched as the glow of the fire flashed to life, her gaze lost in the dancing flames. Her head bobbed in response, but she was still somewhere else, deep in thought toying with the locket around her neck.

Two steaming hot cups of cocoa clinked to the table, he offered her one and she held it between her palms, face hovering over the rim to bring some heat to her face. She sipped the hot drink, her back relaxing back into the sofa as if the cocoa had thawed her out. He couldn't help the tug of his lips, but he hid it behind his cup.

She stood from the sofa and placed the cup on the table. "Your face," she gasped pointing to his cheek. Her touch feathery light as she turned his face in her hold. "You have ointments for them? Ohh thank you," she chuckled as they appeared beside her, the house dropping a sweet on the table.

Azriel blinked, lips parted as she dipped her finger into a tub of healing balm and smoothed it over the cuts on his jaw, cheek and brow. He hated the overpowering menthol scent, but he stared at her positioned between his legs. Something so innocent and caring felt oddly intimate in the moment. He cleared his throat and she hesitated placing the strips on his brow.

"I'm sorry," he said, head lowering and heart thumping in his chest. He'd wanted to say it ever since they'd opened that bloody sword, the guilt eating away him much like the worm that feasted on her flesh.

"Whatever for?" She said, nervous laugh trembling through her hands as she tipped his chin up with her finger. Her amber eyes roaming his face. So gentle and calming in her presence, something he wanted to lean into more.

God's he wanted to kiss her. He clenched his fists, but could not look away from her.

"For not protecting you when the time come." He'd replayed the moment over and over, his only source of help was the ball of light leading him to her in the mist of the library. It seemed to be only constant in her life, the white light. He wondered if he would ever be that for her one day.

"It's not your fault Azriel," she said placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it in her hold. "That thing had centuries on us. No way of knowing what it was. Don't be so hard on yourself, not everything has to fall on your shoulders." She shook his shoulders as if trying to shake some sense into him.

She combed back a strand of his hair away from his forehead, withdrawing as she realised what she'd done. "I mean I'm not sure if its got centuries or decades on you, I'm still quite spry. Five hundred and twelve."

Azriel leant back trying to capture the smile spreading across her face. "Oh is that so?" He inched closer, nose a hair-width away from hers. His shadows trying to tug them both closer.

"I didn't know you were a relic too." She glanced down to his lips, hand lacing at the back of his neck.

"Does that mean you want to study me too?" Azriel asked, palm pressing into her spine as he tugged her closer. Her warm breath fanned against his face, but he tensed. All he could smell on her lips was Eris Vanserra's scent, but he kissed her anyways trying to rid her of the autumn generals mark.

Their bodies were like two hurricanes merging together, he lifted her and sat her on the table. She dragged him closer trying to chase his movements so that she could keep his lips upon hers.

She pulled away trying to catch her breath, "that was unexpected," she whispered touching her swollen lips.

[Part Eight]

taglist: @rcarbo1 , @st4r-girl-official ,@azrielswhore , @cynthiesjmxazrielslover , @shizukestar , @wolfbc97 @thecraziestcrayon , @i-am-infinite , @krowiathemythologynerd @nebarious @sidthedollface2 @sttvrdustt @negomi123 @clementine11102

Ahhhh, lots is happening but she's also very confused 🤪 Hope you enjoyed this Chapter. And thank you for interacting/reading, love reading all your comments.

[sky-kiss]

Orin: Test of Faith

A/n: Hello, all! This was my contribution to the @bg3womenswrongs zine! Preorders are closed, but I believe you can still make a donation if you'd like access. Otherwise, the zine will be posted for free March 8th! Shoutout to my buddy, @simplysolo, who did some stellar art for my silly little ficlet. Go check it out!

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Orin: Test of Faith

~~~~~~~~~~

Silence.  

The world does no more than blink at her bloodkin's passing. Orin takes a degree of savage delight in this—oh, Bhaah's beloved, Bhaal's heir, the favorite and the first…but their Dread Father does nothing to stop her blade from sinking into their stupid skull, scrambling gray matter. Bhaal says nothing, even as his flaming eyes stare down upon them, a glorious and grotesque tableau upon his altar. 

Orin casts her sibling down. Bhaal's faithful—even the Deathstalkers—fall in line behind her without a word. Myrkul's corpse-general says nothing. Bane's little lordling shrugs. "One murderer is as good as another. So long as you continue to play your part." She searches Gortash's face and finds…

…nothing. 

It is a song with no grand crescendo, a mummur’s play with no climax. Life goes on as ever, and the victory tastes hollow on her tongue.

She makes her sacrifices to Bhaal during the witching hours of the night as is her custom. When she returns to the temple a charged quality hangs in the air, bright and violent, threatening to burst into something savage, but the release never comes. No Deathstalker moves to stop her. The Lord of Murder's holy symbol sleeps, lifeless stone devoid of his energy or blood.

He had always welcomed them home. 

A familiar voice trills through her skull, unbidden, unwelcome.

Oh, little Orin. Father never saw you. 

Lies. She shunts the voice from her mind and buries herself in her work. Under her bloodkin's rule, the Lord of Slaughter's flock had grown ugly and weak—it was a knife held with a steady and calculating hand, passionless. Orin would rectify this. Bhaal's faithful would no longer offer him one murder-tribute every ten-day. A corpse every evening, yes, yes—that would sate his appetites for a time. Baldur's Grave’s gutters would run with the blood of the faithless, nourishing his flock. 

A few of her kin's more loyal supplicants protest—it will draw the guard’s attention, they say. It will anger the little tyrant. Orin makes them the first of the temple's offerings. None of the other sheep wag their tongues. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Orin prowls. She hunts. 

She rarely sleeps.

To sleep is to dream. And her bloodkin is never far, lingering on the edge of Orin's psyche. She has gutted them half a dozen times, painting her dreamscape red with their blood and flesh, but they always crawl back. Orin tries to pull free, but they are the pinnacle of Bhaal's work, and he has stitched their souls together with his very essence. 

In her dreams, Father laughs at her efforts. 

~~~~~~~~~~

It is mentioned nowhere in Bhaal’s teachings, but Orin considers it gospel: there is a moment, poised on the knife’s edge, just between life and death, more beautiful than any other. A rapturous and bloody sense of exultation always fills her as recognition dawns on her prey’s face. Death comes for them on crimson wings, the lash of Bhaal unerring. 

She collects these moments like a dragon adding to its hoard.  For a scant few seconds, she feels the diaphanous threads stitching her to the Lord of Murder pull taut. He sees her. His pleasure sings through her marrow, heady, sweet, leaving the taste of blood thick in her mouth.

It is a night like any other, and Orin prepares to make her tribute. She steps from the shadows as smoothly as any child of the night, catching her prey’s shoulder and clucking her tongue. Surprise flits across their features as she steps close, near enough to feel the rasp of their breath on her skin. Their right hand comes up but makes no move to push her away. The fool only brushes the curve of her hip, almost gentle, stupid and surprised, seeking to stabilize her. 

“Poor lost thing.” She presses closer, tracing the line of their cheek with her nose. She drags the tip of crimson mischief along their belly, shallow enough to bleed them, just shy of spilling their sticky-sweet entrails. Orin smiles and searches their eyes, expecting sickly sweet fear. 

She cuts, cuts, cuts, rends flesh from bone, strips ribbons of flesh from their arm to tie them as a gift to her sire…but their eyes are no more than empty sockets, and the ecstasy never comes. 

Her brow furrows. 

Perhaps Father’s busy, sister. Go on, perhaps if you make a bigger mess…

She snarls. The voice is wrong. She is Chosen. She is loved. She has been the Lord of Murder’s true legacy since she was eight. She will not be questioned. 

Her prey drags ragged breaths into its lungs, lifting its head from a mess of gore. Orin feels something like fear clutching at her heart for the briefest moment. She has lived this moment once before. She triumphed. Her bloodkin’s ghost stares up at her, mouth twisting in a horrific parody of a grin.

Then it should be no struggle to do it again. Kill, sister. It’s your only talent.

Orin stays her blade.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Squeal.” 

Orin’s voice reverberates off the cave walls, no longer sing-song, no more play— the words are rasping things, breath torn from a slit throat. “Pride is it? It holds your tongue.” Bhaal’s Chosen closes the distance between her and her prey in a single fluid movement—a painter’s smear of color, white and red, breaking the monotonous cave-black. Orin clutches their jaw. Muscles twitch under the strength of her grip and she feels the bones shift with agonizing slowness.

But oh, oh, they remain frustratingly still. 

Her prey makes no sound, not even as she pries their jaws open to catch their tongue between her thumb and forefinger. “I should tear it out by the root.” Orin digs the tip of her nail into the muscle, savage triumph flooding her, blood and the tell-tale tang of iron scenting the air…

…they do not flinch. They stare back at her with all too familiar eyes, the weight of their stare making her feel small and wanting to shift back. A ghost— yes, that is what kneels in front of her, the skin flayed from its arms, bloodied and unbroken—her slaughterkin’s ghost.

You thought yourself rid of me? Little Orin. She watches their lips form the words, but they never come; vocal cords cut like puppet strings. No hate in their eyes as their hand settles over hers, driving the knife deeper into the flesh of their cheek. No hate, only…

…pity.

The changeling pushes them away, snarling. Almost absently, she wipes her hands on the chitinous fabric of her armor. Her skin itches in the places where she’s touched the creature. They continue to stare. 

Why haven’t you put out their eyes, sweet sister? 

She raises her knife…and hesitates.

Father’s sheep are beginning to whisper amongst themselves. Orin has gone soft, they say. The younger of Bhaal’s prodigy has proven an unfit successor, they murmur, eyes darting back and forth as if to catch a glimpse of her shadow. She entertains herself with this new toy and cannot make. her. sacrifice. 

Butcher them—it is not the flock’s place to question you. The voice—the ghost— in her head, coldly calculated and entirely sure of itself, broaches no argument. Cut off the head now. Make an example of them. Your violence can have a meaning beyond sating your own appetites. 

Orin bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. “Half a world away, mind full of holes, and still you think to order us?”  

Her prey says nothing. All is silence in the emptiness of her chambers, still draped in her sibling’s trappings. Everything is…

…Dead,  Orin thinks, but the thought brings no comfort. Death is not Father Bhaal’s domain. Death is Myrkul’s crypt. Death is a cage, not violence and color, and…

...control yourself, slaughterkin, whispered in a lower voice, and she’d never once managed to place the meaning behind the shift. As if her kin—Bhaal’s beloved—meant to keep secrets from their Dread Father. 

Orin frowns, squaring her jaw and shoulders. The coolness of the cave-air licks at her skin, contrasting the slippery warmth of the blood splattered across her hands, and she welcomes it as one of the surface sheep might the sea-breeze. She wraps herself in the familiar trappings of these chambers, gathers the thick air into her lungs, heavy with iron and rot. Control, yes. She grasps for it and manages to sink her finger deep enough to catch hold. 

If this ghost is the last trace…be rid of it. 

Cast aside the final vestigial trace of her past and throw herself into the future, untethered…

…only Father’s voice to guide you. 

The changeling cocks her head to the side. Something twinges in the back of her head and deep in her chest. Her prey stares, bloodied and bruised—a far cry from her bloodkin’s savagery. It’s the subtler notes. It’s the defiance in their stare, the regality with which they hold themself. It dares her to act. 

Her slaughterkin looked much the same at the end of things—no surprise, only defiance, only pity. 

She has no need for it. Orin is the last, the favorite, the true inheritor of their sire’s glory—that truth sings through her sinews and echoes in the hollow places beneath her rib cage. It is written in blood. She is Orin, Lash of Bhaal. 

She will not yield to this ghost, and she will not break. 

Orin plucks up her knife from the temple floor. Kill the ghost, kill it, and be free; kill it, kill it. 

She feels something like fingers slipping through hers, interweaving their touch. Another hand settles on her shoulder, clutching hard enough to bruise the flesh and pushing her forward. The stench of blood fills the air, surging until her nostrils are full of it. Bhaal is here, watching, bound up with her, in her. 

Father Bhaal sees her.

[edennill-archived]

Analysis/thoughts on Finrod's Duel with Sauron in the Finrod Rock Opera:

(I take the English translation of the lyrics from here — it's the 11th song)

Sauron, classically makes the first move, and in a very Sauron-typical manner. "How dare you come here — the world is dark and horrible — loyalty doesn't exist — et cetera as nauseum". I just really want to know what has he got against Fëanor specifically ("Into the world has come a curse, whose name is Fëanor!") He's the only person mentioned by name in the fragment too.

(I'm also fascinated by the costuming choices in the version I usually watch — the newest one? — that seemingly have Sauron steal Morgoth's fashion style. The crown specifically, it's even got three jewels. I know Morgoth doesn't really have much focus in this version, so they may have wanted to use the visual, but still. As for the rest, it's a very standard phobso-influenced design, ginger hair and all. Someone has definitely been on Tumblr, or at least very active on Pinterest.)

Finrod's first response starts off frustratingly vague, in my opinion, and at the same time, mixes together too many images in one stanza. As for "The poison of lies is harsh/But in this world there is no poison greater than love" — I don't think Finrod would say that, not the second part at least. Oh, well, Amarië — but Finrod is not a Romantic, and his view of what Love is would be far wider.

Then we get to the good stuff, however. "The crossbow has been twined with ivy/Harpstrings replaced the bowstring/Blossoms will turn the bloody trail white/The sound of a song will replace curses..." There is a definite echo of "swords into plowshares" with this one that feels at least semi-conscious — and thus makes me wonder... the biblical passage where that comes from is a strongly eschatological one, and I wonder if this does not imply Finrod is now singing about his "dream" or vision.

Well, Sauron's only reply to that is to say: It's too late, "the thread has been twisted too far and too terribly" and denounce Finrod's ideas as "a pitful likeness of the Creator's original designs". (By the way, Sauron is one of the characters to reference Eru most often here (that is two times), only he never calls him by that name. I don't know what to make of that)

Finrod's second verse: "Where there is no oblivion/Runes weave over the stone/And the strings of the lyre/Do not speak of the power of time/Behind me, the youth of the unmarred world has risen like the dawn/et cetera" and "But darkness and slander/Have vanished, like a dream/Such is the law/As long as the firmament is full of imperishable light". I'm quoting in full because my thoughts basically boil down to: this is a lot of words, and I'm not sure what they all mean in this arrangement, or what they call back to — although I think you can interpret them in accordance with my vague ideas about his previous lines. Lastly, Finrod seems to invoke the Day of Valinor in an explicit attempt to match powers with Sauron.

(Also, the phrase "i struny liry" is just honey on the tongue when set to music, I don't know why)

Enter Sauron with "Strength in this world belongs only to the one/who will doubtlessly break the shackles of slavery." Given later context, it seems pretty clear this is to refer to a general promise of "freedom", not to Morgoth and Sauron merely. Which — I don't think is far off from how they would like to be seen, but I wonder what gave the writers this intuition. I don't think the theme is particularly outright expressed in the book, is it? Hmm, or could it be an idea from the Black Book of Arda (which I'm pretty sure goes down that path), or a reaction thereto... I'm never sure just how much influence I should assume the 90s/00s Russian fandom madness (wank and wars included) had on local works. Concluded with "I am free to do whatever I want to you."

Finrod: "My choice is made/And fate is in the power of Eru" — direct refutal, great. "Both light and shadows/Are gifts in his hands." — He would not freaking say that, unless it's supposed to translate into "Your power is not innate either", that I can get behind. And the famous "I do not believe in endless losses." — people have written full essays on that so I will remain silent. Of course Finrod speaks of eucatastrophe though 😊.

Then we get to one of my favourite exchanges. Sauron (after an obligatory segue into how he sees in Finrod a fear that befits only cowards and slaves, because he's like that) calls out Finrod for being "guilty before the Creator". And my darling, dearest Finrod (oopsie, this was meant to be a serious post — I'm afraid I've gotten too deep into blorbo territory) immediately has a riposte: "But the greater guilt is on the one, who in a dark hour, and with open eyes, taught us pride."

Which naturally does not really make him innocent of the blood-guilt, but as a "And you're the one asking about it?" it works very well. Sauron's comeback is "That was done to set you free" which is lame and contradictory with his just preceding attempt to guilt Finrod and I love this. I feel like this inconsistency is something that Tolkien would have agreed with very well in terms of "how evil works" — again, I feel like the people behind this are so strongly either hit or miss in terms of themes that I wonder if the text wasn't written by more than one person.

Finrod tells Sauron that he may at most kill him, Sauron is... enraged and, it seems, instigated, and then we have one of Finrod's best moments in the show, in which he genuinely feels like he almost pities his opponent for wasting himself like that, especially with the right intonation on the part of the actor. "First answer me/Why does the dark throne/So draw your eyes, o Sauron?/As if the dead glitter of crowns/Will save one who was not born?" indeed

As for: "If by such is Light defended, Darkness will triumph" — I hate Sauron for that insult; even more since it's "kicking a fallen opponent" — but it works. He would say that.

And of course he finishes off with "—and me with it!" because Dark Lords are nothing if not preoccupied with self. It's childish really, when not sung in a strong voice — but that's the point, or should be.

[yourfuckingmomdotcom]

Yandere Goth x GN! Reader Drabble

As someone who is goth, I wanted a goth yandere that reflected the subculture a lot better than I’ve seen some do. Not that others do a bad job, I like a lot of them, but they focus on the look more than the subculture itself and I wanted to reflect my experience a smidge. Word Count: 840

TW: Yandere stuff, stalking, teeth outside of the human body, anxiety mention

🖤 Yandere Goth, living just outside of a major city ends up drifting across the lamp-lit streets whenever he finds himself bored. In a sense, he likes the barren streets with the absence of loud noise and diesel in the air. It doesn’t help that his apartment is quite overstuffed with dark-inclined paraphernalia, or that he struggles to sleep most nights because he prefers to sleep from dawn to the afternoon.

🖤 Yandere Goth, who runs and manages an invite only goth club. It’s slightly elitist and snobby, but he can be very flexible when it comes to guests and the music is always killer. Luckily for him, he has the final say so in who can get in, and more importantly who he can kick out. He will eventually kick out anyone that even attempts to look at you in any way other than a slight glance. 🖤 Yandere Goth, who presents as mostly functional as far as yanderes go, but actually is just hiding all that he does for you. That guy who tried to get flirty in the club? He was “kicked out”, but so were his teeth in the back alley after he dragged him out. Heaven forbid someone attempt anything worse, it won’t end well. Though you did get gifted highly realistic tooth earrings a week later, you thought it was charming assuming the teeth were resin fakes. 🖤 Yandere Goth, sews his own attire due to the fact that there’s not many masculine goth brands that don’t cost a lot of money. Eventually he’ll offer to make you matching clothes just to touch and measure your body. He’s just obsessed with wrapping around the tape measure around all of your sensual areas, or when he rubs his hand down the unfinished muslin seams on your sides to ‘see how it fits’ or ‘if it’s too tight, which will lead to the thread to stretch and rip’. 🖤 Yandere Goth, who would genuinely explode if you allowed him to make you custom lingerie. It doesn’t matter what your gender identity is, you’re gonna be in the most intricately designed lingerie that anyone could offer… (He also definitely has made some behind your back, he keeps it on a mannequin that he got in your size in his room. When you come over he rips it off and hides it underneath his bed.) 🖤 Yandere Goth, believes heavily in the ‘DIY or die’ mentality. Makes more than just clothes including jewelry, faux-leather items, haircare, makeup, and anything he could possibly do on his own. His love language is also gift-giving, so expect to have mountains of custom gear to your tastes.

🖤 Yandere Goth, he won’t kidnap you exactly. He prefers to be more covert in isolating you. He loves you in his club, so he’ll bring you there for every event at his side. But he tries to keep you from wandering too far, irrationally nervous about what others will do or say to you. Sometimes when you sleep over, he’ll leave and lock the door from the outside. When he returns he’ll claim it was a mistake, and offer to stay longer since you’re already here. Eventually he’d try and convince you to move in. If his means of entrapment didn’t work he might try to kidnap you for real, but that would take a relationship he wasn’t confident in and a worrying amount of anxiety from him to even consider. 🖤 Yandere Goth, doesn’t like to admit this, but he really likes to stalk you in the dead of night. He never does it during the day, but he just likes to watch you sleep when he can’t. It’s almost like a dark reminder that the world around him is asleep, and that he should be getting tired. His dark clothes mask him in the night, so even if you wake up you most likely won’t see him. After he goes home, he gets the best sleep of his life, which ends up reaffirming and justifying this behavior in his mind. It’s a toxic cycle he’s gotten himself into, but if you were in an actual relationship the frequency of stalking would dramatically decrease as sleeping next to you basically knocks him out.

🖤 Yandere Goth, he prefers his desolation but he wants to share his self-induced state of loneliness with you. He pleads with whatever might be out there for you to embrace him in his coldest nights, to dance with him to the monotone bass of his favorite artists, or maybe to just have someone who seems to love him back. He promises that what you provide him, he’ll provide tenfold. Just let him love you forever, and he’ll make sure you won’t regret it… But if you reject him, expect some intense stalking followed by him taking you away where he’s sure nobody could interfere ever again.