#‘I too will take on the strain of forming a child! I must experience this to grow further beyond my limits’

[fluffydice]

Hairo is the type of guy that would take on carrying a baby for the girl if he was physically able to and at all straight

[kriz-fics]

The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Seventeen: Tales and Caves

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 14K

CW: Some misogynistic narration, read between the lines and you'll see marital rape

The boy nocks, draws, and sights down his mark. For a while, he holds the draw, arms trembling from the pull of bow and string.

Weak, still weak. This one has a ways to go, Zeke thinks the very moment the lad lets loose. The shaft misses a hundred leagues and sails past the target. “That wasn’t too bad,” Zeke tells the shattered boy, who is beside himself with disappointment. “You hit a mark at least. Not the mark you were aiming for, to be sure, but I find, with a lot of things, that something is better than nothing.” The Grice boy’s arrow had embedded itself deep into the trunk of the tree some ways behind the target, quivering.

The boy sighs, looking gutted. “Bows are always so hard…” He frowns down at the weapon in his hand. The sight is so reminiscent of his little brother that Zeke has to smile. Young Colt Grice stares up at him, determined and unyielding as steel. “I’m not as strong as you, my lord, but I hope to be. Someday.”

“Best bring about someday sooner rather than later. Strength. Build up strength.” What has Hartlieb been teaching the boy? Squires his age should not be trembling like a leaf in a squall while holding a draw, no matter his primary choice of weapon. Eren is a middling archer himself, more accomplished as he is with sword and lance, yet even he can bend a bow with absolute ease.

That look of iron determination on the Grice heir’s face is Zeke’s relentless little brother’s as well, yet that is where the similarities end between the knight and the squire. Colt Grice, at fifteen, is a year Eren’s junior and does not have half the build nor the prowess the younger Jaeger had at his age. Young Colt has been squiring Oscar Hartlieb for five years, surely all that training should have produced some sort of visible fruit by now. Surely the boy would have filled out more, shown more power, more confidence when handling a weapon as manageable as a longbow. Alas, it does not look to be the case.

Zeke takes up an arrow from the three stabbed through the dirt ground beside him. “The strength in your arms isn’t the only thing that’s vital in a draw,” he tells the squire as he prepares to take his shot. “Your whole upper body should be working with you. The muscles on your back are there to relieve your arms of the strain.” He nocks, bends his bow and draws until the goose feathers brush against his cheek. The motions come easy as instinct, smooth as silk; the weapon's weight is as nothing, not to a bowman of his experience. 

The mark is fifty paces away. Hitting it dead center should be child’s play, and easy as falling off a log. “Keep your arms straight, your form relaxed,” he continues his instruction, sighting down the target. “Take your aim…” He holds the draw for a couple of heartbeats, steady as the squire had not been, and lets fly. The arrow slams dead center, right into the heart of the mark.

“Amazing, sir!” Colt pipes in admiration.

Zeke lowers his bow, feeling himself puffing up at the praise, despite himself. Praise is always good, wherever it comes from. “Strength,” he reiterates, and the boy nods stoutly. “Might be I’ll have a word with your master when next I see him, see if he can’t step up his tuition. What he thinks he’s accomplishing with you I’ll never know.” He smiles to balm the sting he has clearly given the squire with his remark. “I meant no offense, young master. That was no criticism of your prowess. That you are lacking in martial aptitude is no fault of yours.”

A great cheer rents the air of the barracks’ sparring grounds, the sound carrying over the clash of practice swords and the cries and grunts of training men. “Isn’t your brother riding at quintain today?” Zeke asks his young companion, who nods. “What do you say to watching little Falco try his hand at the tilts, as a bit of a breather? There are only so many times a bowman can miss his mark without growing tired.” He chuckles at Colt’s bright flush and ruffles his fair hair. “I do thank you for giving me the chance to practice for the day. My skills are less like to turn to rust, due in no small part to your goodwill.”

They had set up the quintain at the lower level of the barracks grounds, in the expansive stable yard. Some intrepid squire is charging down the lists even as Zeke and his young tail approach. The men sitting on the steps to the yard hastily spring up to make way as their succeeding lord and their honored guest pass through.

The armored rider seems a clumsy one, and entirely inept, as only new-made squires can be. He sits his horse like a lumpy bag of tubers and struggles to keep his grip on the long, unwieldy lance. Still, he rides on manfully, until he strikes the shield on the quintain’s spinning crossbeam a glancing blow. It comes as no surprise to Zeke to see him fly out of his saddle when the padded mace on the other end of the beam swings around to club him over the head. A loud groan followed by a gale of laughter erupts from the men about them as the hapless warrior rolls onto his back and attempts to unlatch his visor.

“Falco!” Colt dashes toward his younger brother, leaving Zeke to trail behind at a more sedate pace. A couple of the older squires have come up to assist.

“I-I’m all right, nothing’s broken, I don’t think,” the younger Grice is saying as he sits up, looking shaken and patting himself all over. He lifts his gaze, sees Zeke, and instantly scrambles to his feet with much clanking and clattering. “M-my lord!” He bows as low as his armor would allow.

Zeke chuckles. “You’re all right, then? No broken bones, no twisted limbs?”

“N-no, my lord. Nothing’s hurt. Just-”

“Your pride.” Zeke chuckles again at the boy’s flustered flush. “Tell me, Falco, was that the first you’ve ridden a tilt?”

“Yes, sir,” the younger Grice answers, eyes on the dirt beneath his feet, shamefaced. His likeness to his lord uncle truly is an astounding thing. Yet Zeke can never recall Cosimo Grice looking quite so abashed. You can see how truly young his nephew is then, despite the bulk of plate; little Falco has never seemed more little as he shrinks in on himself in his discomfort.

The sight of the shrinking violet before him is enough to melt the hardest of hearts. Ten, he’s only ten. It had not been too long ago when Eren was ten, riding this very same yard, falling and rising and falling again to the quintain until one day he rose and kept his seat and stayed aloft. Nowadays, there are no falls. Eren had learned long ago what all seasoned knights learned in the quintain’s yard: to charge on, to hit and move swiftly onward and onward before he can be hit back. The mace’s blows have never landed since.

“You did well for your first tilt, I’ll grant you. It’s no easy feat to ride the quintain, especially with a borrowed horse. He was borrowed, was he not, that fine mount of yours?” At the boy’s nod, Zeke continues, “No matter. My brother will make a fine knight of you yet, have no doubt.”

“I’ll make him a good squire, my lord, I promise,” Falco says suddenly, staunch and steadfast as much as a boy of ten can be. “I promised him, I did. Sir Eren, I mean. I will make him a good squire. True knights are always true to their word, and I want to be. A true knight, I mean. Someday.”

A true knight, huh… Their exploits make the heart of Eren’s most beloved tales. Here is another aspiring Destrier, I’d wager, another of Gerald Kirschtein’s many devotees. The squire and the knight will complement each other well. Like truly calls to like. Zeke ruffles the boy’s hair, amused. “I’m looking forward to the day, young master.”

“As am I. There are thousands of knights in the realm, but only a handful of those are true. Gods know we’re all better off with more men of honor.” Sir Tom Ksaver strides up to them and bows, coming up smiling his warm, fatherly smile. “My lords.”

“Sir.” Zeke takes his ward for the day by his armored shoulders and shakes him lightly at the knight. “What do you think, Sir Master-at-Arms? Is this one made of the stuff of knightly gallantry?”

“I don’t doubt that he is, my lord Heir Apparent. A few years with Sir Young Master Eren and he’ll be one for the history books.”

Zeke shakes the flushing Falco once more, grinning. “Did you hear that, your little lordship? We expect much and more from you.” He casts about for the elder brother and brings him to the fold, throwing an arm about his slight shoulders. “Don’t think we forgot about you, Young Master Colt. As an heir apparent yourself, the onus goes double for you to bring honor to your House. But I think we need not fear on that account. House Grice is in good hands with lads as fine as these.”

“Hear, hear!” Sir Tom puts in good-naturedly, further contributing to the boys’ bashfulness, yet they take it in good stride in the end, laughing as they stammer out their thanks and courtesies.

“A cheery diversion you’ve set here,” Zeke tells the bespectacled knight, leaving the Grices to themselves to watch the rest of the men try their own hands at the quintain.

“I’m glad your lordship thinks so.” Sir Tom glances about the cavorting garrison, looking almost doting. “The lads need their entertainment. Keeps them active and practicing and distracted from the hunt that I’m sure they’d rather be part of at the moment.”

Cosimo Grice is a most restless man. The Lord of Braudorf had but just arrived yesterday, bringing with him his household and retainers and various hangers-on, yet he was up in the saddle again where another man would be resting the weariness from the journey away. That is most surprising for one who is four-and-forty and nearing his sunset years. Lord Grisha is of his age - or near enough as makes no matter - yet the Lord of Shiganshina is nowhere near as hale or hearty as his vassal. But then, he’s spent the better part of his life sitting chairs instead of horses; it is only too natural for the erstwhile Knight of Highridge to go to seed eventually. The well-rested Magister will return from their sojourn more spent than his new-traveled lord, like as not. The thought is utterly comic.

“They ride the woods out there, we ride the quintain in here.” The next man to tilt fares much better than little Falco Grice. This one, at least, manages to score a solid hit on the shield and is already galloping far out of reach of the indomitable mace as it swings about from the force of his blow. The yard erupts into cheers and hurrahs.

“A most excellent hit.” A new rider is being armed by his squire at the edge of the yard. “So, I suppose congratulations are in order,” Sir Tom remarks, voice light and mild, as the upcoming contender swings up his horse. “May the gods grant you and the lady a healthy babe.”

The day grows cooler in an instant. “Mmm,” Zeke grunts, watching as the rider thunders down the yard, making the most impressive figure. His lance strikes the shield, a decent hit, and the mace whips about, ready to throw him off his mount. It succeeds most spectacularly, and all at once, he is the most unimpressive figure. The man crashes to the ground as his courser charges blithely past him. His armor makes the most frightful racket as he rolls to a stop, rattling like a sack of old pots. His fellows hoot more derision.

“Begging your lord’s pardon, forgive me if I have given offense,” murmurs the old, portly knight, guessing correctly the cause of his liege’s stony bearing. “Whatever you may… feel about her ladyship, new life is still something to take joy in, I do believe.”

That makes Zeke sigh and ease up a margin. “Yes, well, your good wishes are much appreciated, thank you, Sir.” That news had certainly put him off. For the most part, he stays well away from his wife’s bed, unable to bear her stunted, loveless caresses. Except when he is drunk. He’d had one too many cups that one time not too long ago, he now recalls, celebrating young Ben Too’s yearday. He must’ve stumbled into her rooms in a drunken haze, his blood up and looking for sport.

It is good news, he supposes, all things considered. The bint had as well make herself useful, do her duty by him at last and give him his proper heir. Not that Ymir is ineligible, but bloodlines are made much the stronger with a male head than with a female one. The Old Way may not care a whit but the Old Way is exactly that. Old, outdated, and outworn. Even the ruling women of the Old Blood seem to be pulling away from their conventions. They may as well be mere figureheads, ruling in name only as they pander to their councils that they insist on filling solely with men.

His little brother’s little lady’s own council is entirely male, if he recalls correctly. Most like the pretty poppet will end up a pretty puppet, dancing on the strings of her servants when she comes to take her eventual seat, despite all her lord father’s careful instruction. Instruction can only take one so far. It will all come to naught if one does not have steel in his spine, and of steel he finds the little lady lacking. Sweet you are and polite, charming, witty, and all the things that a good courtier makes. A proper golden girl. And like gold, you are pretty to look at, of the highest value, but still so soft and pliable in the end. Nobody fights battles with gold swords. For that, you need good hard steel.

The sound of a hunting horn echoes in the distance, near drowned out by the explosive shouts of acclaim as the man-at-arms now riding the lists breaks the shield clean from the quintain. “It seems the hunting party has returned,” he observes to his mentor, who hums in agreement. Zeke turns to his wards for the day, who are adding their voices to the merriment about them. “Come, my little lordlings, we had best be on hand to greet your lord uncle.”

Across the broader realm, only lords with the most pressing matters trouble themselves to make the journey to their liegelord’s seat during the reprieve. It is a reprieve, after all - hard to unwind and let loose from the bustle of the court when you are expected to make yet another trek for statecraft. Lord Grisha is a more exacting master than most, however; he is one of the two Lords Paramount that still insist on his vassals' personal appearance when they make their seasonal reports.

Forster, Tavitian, and Shultz had already made their journeys. Now comes Grice. As always, business comes last. First, they must fete their honored guests and afford them sacred hospitality.

Sweet, girlish giggling drifts through the partly open door atop the small flight of steps across from him. Zeke looks up at the room thoughtfully, having come forth from his own rooms into the privy chambers’ anteroom, dressed in his best yet again for yet another feast for the Grices. That is another thing to be said for these visits. They never eat half so well during the reprieve as they do during these days.

The giggles chip away at his sentimentality and so he strides onward and upward, his fatherly affection well and truly awoken. Not even the sight of her can put a damper on his love, yet he tenses up all the same as he enters his daughter’s chambers.

“Povar!”

The woman is forgotten in a trice. Zeke grins wide and opens his arms, and little Ymir crashes into him, laughing as he sweeps her up into the air and spins her about. He holds her against his hip, smiling down at the little face, which is such a mirror to his. Big blue eyes and hair like beaten gold. Another golden Jaeger. He feels the weight of her in his arms, notes her height, and feels a pang of melancholy. It will not be long until their spinning days are done.

“Are you ready for the feast, my little falke?” he asks the fledgling.

“Yes,” she giggles, squeezing her arms about his neck. “I have a new gown, would you like to see it?”

“Nothing would please me more.” He sets his girl back down on the smooth stone floor, where she proceeds to twirl, proud as a peachick. Her girl’s gown of gold with its olive green underskirt swirls out around her.

“Husband,” says that dreaded voice. It takes everything in Zeke not to close his eyes in irritation as he eyes his dear beloved wife, who is standing by one of the gray velvet divans arrayed around a circular table in the center of the room. Wed they have been for near a decade and yet he can count on one hand the times her face had thawed in his presence. This is not one of those times.

Elva Jaeger smiles at him, tight-lipped, and with her eyes like ice. They are beautiful, those eyes, that he can admit. Blue they are, and of such an unusual shade that they seem more purple than blue in certain lights. She is a beautiful woman, that he can also admit. With her purple-blue eyes and soft dark ringlets, she makes for a cool beauty indeed. She is beautiful as winter is beautiful: cold, harsh, and bitter. Not for the first time, he sorrows for what could have been between them had the gods been kinder to their lot.

Erwin Dietrich has a deal to answer for. It is the smallest of solaces to know he is as unhappy in his marriage as Zeke is in his.

Elva turns to their daughter, and her expression softens. Whatever else she is, she is a loving mother still. It is perhaps her only redeeming quality, aside from her beauty. And of those, time will leave her only the one. “Pretty, did I not say? I suppose we should be thankful your lord father did not wrinkle the gown.”

Bloody peevish bitch. Whatever magnanimity he had summoned forth to make this visit more bearable flies out of Ymir’s balcony door. Elva has always been like this, this should not have caught him out. She never passes on the chance to be pettish, even in matters as inane as a fucking gown.

His smile freezes on his face. “Yes, very pretty. My falke is truly the prettiest girl in the kingdom.” 

Ymir smiles at him, sweet as spring, and that thaws the winter in his being. “My slippers are gold, too. See?” She sticks out a little foot, which is indeed wrapped in the finest golden silk.

“You’re all of gold tonight, I see. You will shine so very brightly out there, my little star.” His expression cools once more as he turns to his lady wife. “My lady, shall we?” he says, polite as pie. They both always are, in front of the child. They can do that much for her, at least. Elva returns his smile and gives him her hand. Fingertips linked, the lord and lady lead the way out of their daughter’s chambers.

A servant emerges from the door to their rooms as they proceed to leave the living quarters. The familiar flash of fiery red hair heralds the servant’s identity. Lorelei, Elva’s new-hired chief maidservant, dips into a bow as they pass through, laden down with a bundle of her mistress’s sheets. Elva’s gaze slips right through her as though she never was, and so it is for Zeke to acknowledge the girl with an incline of his head.

Brown meets blue as she raises her head a little from her bow. Zeke allows himself a small smile as he beholds that gaze. Unbreaking, unflinching, uncowed. Almost insolent. Bold, for a servant.

But that is what he likes about her. That and that red hair. His smirk widens. A good time is in his cards tonight, it will seem.

It stays with him until the morrow, that good time.

Zeke fights back the urge to yawn as the council moves along around him. Lorelei had tired him out, the feisty wench. The girl was as wet and willing as she always was, and wild as a wildcat in bed. He takes a drink of his cider to occupy himself. It is fine stuff, this cider - the Grices had brought casks of it from Braudorf, along with the choicest bounty of their harvest. They had been enjoying those bounties the past couple of days at feast.

Midday had been the agreed-upon time for the Grice audience, and so they had more of that fine Braudorfish bounty to lunch. The Jaeger solar had been made over for the autumn audiences, as it always was every year. The change is never permanent yet the room’s arrangement remains the same without fail come autumn. Every year, they will move aside the emerald velvet divans clustered in the heart of the chamber and replace them with a round table big enough to seat five. Today, the well-worn board is well-stocked with bread and cheese and capon, along with a platter of fruit: pears, apricots, and assorted berries, including those northern delicacies, blaeberries.

“Hartlieb will broach the matter, no doubt, when he comes up- has he come up already?” Lord Cosimo queries as he tears apart his heel of bread. At his liege’s negation, he goes on, “We would discuss particulars once we have your consent, of course. But we think it a good match, we hawks have always been cordial with the harts, I don’t see why we should not have them wed. Colt will make young Becca a fine husband.”

A child and a woman grown. Zeke takes another sip of his cider to hide his smile. To be sure, the girl just turned seventeen and is fresh from childhood herself. A difference of two years isn’t so bad, he grants. Colt has not long to reach his own manhood. She need not wait too long to make a man of him. Unless some harlot does the job first. Perhaps some harlot already had, at that. Somehow, he doubts that very much.

“Do you hear that, young Luca? You’re to have a brother by marriage,” Lord Grisha laughs as he gestures his cupbearer forward. The boy strides forward with his flagon, looking nonplussed as he refills his lord’s empty goblet. “You have my consent, my good lord,” he addresses Cosimo, who bites into his bread, pleased as a peach. “It would also strengthen the bonds between our own Houses. In the most roundabout, convoluted way, I suppose, as my son is half-Hartlieb himself… there’s a connection there, at least, yes?”

That is true enough. The late Lady Carla Jaeger was born a Hartlieb of Zursingen, cousin to the current Lord Hartlieb, father to this girl Becca and little Luca, who is Lord Grisha’s ward. Zeke has fond memories of the woman. She was more a mother to him, in truth, than his blood mother, Dina. Carla never pushed either of her sons to heights they never wanted to reach, at any rate. The familiar wisp of sad sentimentality tickles at the edges of his being at the thought of her. Gone too soon. She only lives on now in the person of the son of her body. Eren is Lady Carla writ male as Zeke is Lord Grisha in gold.

The talk turns to the Month of Storing’s primary business: storing. For a long while, they speak of naught but grains and meat and portions. Lord Cosimo is planning to set aside only a fifth of his Province’s harvest for the upcoming winter. Lord Grisha declares that insufficient and tells him to set aside a quarter. 

Zeke pops a chunk of capon into his mouth as Cosimo accedes to his liege. These are the matters he least wants to get into, so tedious are they. Tedious matters yet necessary to address, he allows. Ruling a State, indeed, ruling as a whole, is not all power and glamor and glory. To lead, one must be ready to deal with the dull, everyday affairs that, while dreary, are also the lifeblood of the community. Grisha had taught him that much, in any event.

“Konicaj’s made for a very enthusiastic trade partner this year. We have them to thank for these dainties,” Grice informs them as he plucks a blaeberry from the fruit platter and bites into it. “Tart yet so moreish,” he says, fingers, lips, and tongue now stained a deep purple-blue. Braudorf lies to the northeast of Shiganshina, cheek by jowl with Konicaj, and so enjoys a great deal of commerce and relations with the northmen.

“The recent windfall the past season is cause enough to lift the spirits. That added to the enthusiasm, no doubt.” Zeke leans back against his chair as old Prior Deion, seated to Cosimo’s right, murmurs agreement.

“These tasty blaeberries aren’t the only worthwhile things these Konicar have dropped upon our laps.” The blond lord leans forward, brown eyes gleaming. “I have it on some authority - good or bad, I have yet to know, but rest assured, my lord, I will know - that our runaway outlaws have been holing up in Kolozniki, near the Avisir border.”

Kolozniki… Kostrokan’s northeastern Province, seat of House Nasonov, which borders the stronghold of the Brzenskas of Karanes, Avisir, as the Grice lord noted. “Kolozniki and Avisir, huh…” Zeke addresses the rest of the council, “Did we not hear something of the sort from Ackerman? Something about the Brzenskas and general unrest in their borders.”

“That we did, my lord,” puts in Sir Hannes from his seat at Lord Grisha’s left, looking up from his scribbling of the audience’s finer points. “It’s not only Avisir that’s been rife with such tidings. I do believe Lord Ledovskoy came to tell his lord in person of his own troubles. Seems like northern Karanes is astir. That authority of yours is looking to be a good one, my lord,” the castellan tells their lordly guest, who chuckles as he tosses a piece of oaten bread down his mouth and chews.

Lord Grisha sighs, wearied as he always is by news from the North. They are a wearisome lot, these northmen. As they always have been and always will be. “What of Maganezh, Analavat, and Volgoshov? Any tidings to be had from the rest of the far North?” He wets his throat with cider and continues, “We need something more concrete than mere mutterings and general unrest. We know our merry bands have fled as far North as they could, but where?” He lowers his goblet with a slight frown. “This is a start, at least. I can bring it up in Conclave once the court returns to session.” The king should be well-pleased by this. Those who had escaped his justice will soon have their comeuppance. With this, he is a step closer to equity as he sees it.

“Speak of Conclave…” Grice eyes his liege seated across from him as though choosing his next words with care. “Our friends in Konicaj would have us believe that the garrison in Ishvelune is near to mutiny.”

Prior Deion clears his throat uncomfortably. “That… seems to be the case, my lord. We had a bird from Sir Lobov requesting aid and counsel. The garrison is at war with itself, poor man is at his wits’ end as to how to manage the men.”

A rumble of thunder, faint and faraway, comes to greet this rather ominous statement. Zeke turns his head to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows, flanked by their beloved falconers in bronze, at the world beyond. The gray skies that form the backdrop to the city’s buildings have turned a darker pewter. Storm’s coming. “And half the Ishvelune garrison is made up of northmen, as it happens.” With the isle so close to their northern shores, it was deemed practical to conscript men who lived nearby. For as long as Lovaya had been united, Ishvelune had been held largely by northmen, stiffened by the occasional ranks of men from the rest of the realm. “Some of these northerners, like as not, are Zhelevic, who have quite the history with their new governor. That whole mess last season doesn’t help matters either.” Lord Grisha and Prior Deion grimace as one at the reminder of that unfortunate fact.

“Lord Tybur’s appointment was… consequential,” Sir Hannes sniffs, scratching at his nose with the end of his quill before continuing with his notes, lips pressed together tightly.

“He’ll put his own men in when he comes into his seat, no doubt. So, I take it we are to expect another northern purge. A less lethal one, to be sure,” Lord Grice says, munching at another blaeberry musingly. “Fear and rage are driving the unrest ever onward, I see. They always do.” He turns to his liege, smiling a little. “Interesting that Lobov wrote you as well. You’d think his new superior isn’t enough to handle all this.”

“Father’s the Magister, he’s supposed to stick his nose in everyone’s business,” Zeke rejoins, making Cosimo laugh and drawing a conceding smile from Grisha.

“Still, by and large, rule should fall to our Lord Consul. Should he ever require assistance, by all means, he’s free to ask it of me whenever he likes.” The Magister pushes his lenses further up his nose and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m always here to lighten the load, whatever our differences. We can set those aside for the good of the realm. The realm comes first, we must never forget that.”

“I am thanking you again, sweet lady, for the time and the fare. Give your lord father Captain Lycus Thanakis’ best.”

“Of course, Captain Lycus. May the gods bless and keep you on your next voyage,” you smile graciously and make to stand from your seat.

“I am blessing you as well, my lady. And you, Sir, we are meeting well,” the weathered sailor returns as he mirrors your movements and sweeps you and your betrothed a bow. “Now, if you are not minding my saying so, Sir, you had best be taking care of this sweet lady of yours. A rare jewel is this one, and gods help you if you will be tarnishing such goodness.”

“Har, I done be tellin’ the lad that, too, Cap’n!” intrudes Rasvan the barkeep, glancing up from the tankard he is wiping behind his tavern’s counter. “I says to him, I says, ‘Don’t you be doin’ the ‘lil lady dirty now, or the whole State’ll be howlin’ for your blood!’ Says he won’t, good lad, ‘n I expect nuthin’ less from a ‘noited knight. Them knights supposed to be all honorable ‘n truthful-like, you know.”

“That they are being. Or so I am hearing.” Captain Lycus bows again. “Until we are meeting again, sweet lady and good Sir.”

“If I had a cap for every time someone tells me not to ‘do you dirty,’ I’ll be richer than the Fritzes,” Eren mutters a little peevishly as he and you exit the Blue Pearl several moments later with much waving and smiling.

You laugh at his churlish face. “You’ve been hearing it that much? That’s certainly saying something.” Anyone who can match the Fritzes coin for coin, and then some, has your utmost admiration. “At least I’m assured the whole State has my interests at heart should you break mine.”

Eren turns to you, reaches up, and squashes your cheeks between his large hands until your lips pout. “And if I had a cap for every time I had to assure you I will never hurt you, I will be richer than the Fritzes and your family combined.”

“Awright, I heaw you,” you utter and pry his hands off you. “I only tease. I know my Falcon Knight won’t give me cause to cry.” You beam at the crooked smile he gives you at that and loop an arm around his to steer him along.

“Qaxan next?” you ask, then blink in surprise as he takes the reins from you and steers you along, toward the arched steps that lead down to the market arcades. “Market day today? No qaxan?”

“Not today.” You had taken him to the parlor days past, as promised, and had quite the time watching him win and lose matches against the place’s patrons. Many had been Sevirosi sailors, more than accustomed to this homegrown game of theirs and formidable players in their own rights, yet Eren held up relatively well enough (you managed to scrape a decent-sized bag of silvers, at least, to Eren’s satisfaction). You had tried your hand at a few games yourself, lost some and won others, and pronounced yourself content; it is nice to know you can take on locals in their own field and come out the better.

The greatest shock of the day came not from Eren’s prowess with the game but from his prowess with the Traders’ Tongue. “You can speak the Traders’ Tongue?” you had whispered to him, incredulous, during the lull between games as you waited for his next opponent.

He grinned, pleased as punch and so complacent. “Just one of the many things that commend me. I learned as a boy. I’m a bit rustier now ‘cause it’s been some time since I’ve last spoken it but it’s all coming back.” His foreign foemen were most amused to hear him speak thus and spoke in kind, happy to have the barrier of tongues so abolished. It amused you as well to hear how he strongarmed his Prior to teaching him and Armin the language. It was just something that Eren would do.

“You’ve become a true local at last, I see,” you comment as you descend the stone steps to the markets, passing the Forsaken Warrior’s plinth where he holds aloft the head of Iskra the Inborn, and alighting at the foot of the stairway by one of the sphinxes that flank the structure. Cityfolk pass you by, going about their business.

“I should have something to do other than read and spar and explore the castle while you’re off Lady-ing. What better way to fill my time than exploring the city?” Eren leads you along, through the wynds and lanes of the inner city as though he has lived there his whole life. The fact strikes a chord in you, in some strange, indescribable way. Some part of you finds his familiarity rather attractive.

“Besides,” he directs your course to the crafts arcade. There is something in his voice that makes you look at him and makes curiosity rear its cattish head. “This’ll be my home, too. Someday.”

The lightest of flushes pinks his cheeks, and he stares resolutely ahead at your destination, plainly trying to avoid your eyes. You blink up at him, heart picking up pace in your chest. Home. Yours alone now, yours both to rule together in future. You rest your head against his shoulder and smile as he holds your arm closer to his side. He is so warm. Like home. He feels like home.

He leads you up the steps of the crafts arcade, turning to wave over to some bearded dark-haired man manning a stall right beside the stairway. He waves back and dips his head in deference as you turn to look over at him, curious. You acknowledge his gesture with an incline of the head.

“Who’s he?” you question your betrothed as you step into the arcade proper.

“Pietro, Taras’s boy. Well, he’s not a boy, as you just saw, but I suppose sons are always boys to their fathers if you think about it.” At your uncomprehending look, Eren adds, “That woodcarver we met during the Alyfeis, remember him? Old Taras, whose stall we upended.”

A toothless smile, a face wrinkled and leathery, a pair of striking pale blue eyes. You remember him now, the kindly man. The Lovers’ carving you had bought from him is sitting upon a box on your desk in your bedchamber, this one filled with the letters Eren had sent you during the winter reprieve almost a year ago now. “You’ve been meeting with Povik Taras and his son? What for?”

It is a slow market day today. Only a handful of other patrons join you in your perusal, going down one aisle or another in search of good wares. Your footsteps echo off the vaulted stone dome above you. It is a magnificent thing, that dome. Above you cavort heroes and figures of the Old Blood. The Forsaken Warrior and Iskra battle beside Luka the Demi-God and Viktor the Valiant, while fair Rosina looks on, a hand upon her heart and worry upon her face. Scenes of tender love and romance play out beside the battles and bloodshed, to soften the violence. The marriage of Zlatica the Golden and Rumen the Red is depicted in its full glory, framed on one side by Alena of Makan’s hawthorn tree where she sits charming Rodion the Prince of Dreams with words and smiles. Love and death. War and romance. Things the old tales make.

Eren glances down one aisle and then another and proceeds down the righthand one, the aisle of pottery.

“Father wrote me something about pottery and if I can ‘please acquire a couple of tasteful pieces as a token of my stay,’” he says, affecting the airy, genteel court tones of the Magister of Lovaya. “He’s probably going to redecorate the solar. Finally. He’s been going on about it for months…”

Foreign traders are much in evidence hereabouts. There is a considerable demand for Arsechkalan pottery the world over, a fact to take great pride in, you’ve always thought. There is much to laud your crockery for; its durability, its fine craftsmanship, the sheer artistry of the figures painted on the glazed clay - all these combined draw tradesmen of every nation to your shores so they may have a piece of such a lucrative product. Thus do you all grow wealthy together, one way or another.

You and Eren walk past a dark-skinned man clad in opulent robes of blue and gold brocade, bartering with a potter in his shop. One of the Goldveins of the island of Rabari in the Gleaming Isles, you know at once, from the beads and clips of gold woven through the thick, tight coils of his black hair. Another shop is entertaining a couple of sailors, these ones dressed in the elaborate vests and wide-brimmed hats of those of the south of Seviros. Perhaps from the Magistrate of Amacillas or the Kingdom of Huanuras.

“To answer your earlier question, I still need instruction. With my woodcarving.” A little noise of interest escapes Eren’s mouth as a shop catches his eye, and he guides your steps thence. “Who better to teach me than actual masters of the craft?”

“Wise words.”

The plump, bald shopkeep looks up from where he is arranging the largest of his wares. His eyes widen at the sight of you approaching his shop; at once, he stoops into a bow. “M-m’lady,” he mumbles into his ample stomach. “Pleasure to ‘ave you in me shop.” He stands from his bow only to dip back down again. “M’lord,” he directs at Eren, who he seems to have just but noticed when first he’d straightened up a couple of seconds ago.

“Well met, goodman,” you smile at the man, before bidding him rise. “We’d like to have a look at your wares, if it please you.”

“Oh, it does, m’lady, that it does,” the shopkeep says, looking fit to burst into eager giggles at this most rewarding transaction. “Please, ‘ave a look-see, see whatcha like.”

“Do you have something to… remake?”

You turn to your betrothed, confused. The shopkeep in front of you does likewise. The stares make Eren blush and cast about awkwardly, his face screwed up as he thinks long and hard on something.

The shopkeep catches sight of your pearl necklaces, and his expression clears at once. “Ah, aye, they did say, didn’t they, some Midland lordlin’…” he mutters to himself, before addressing the lordling, “No need to struggle, m’lord, most o’ us Arsechkai know ‘ow to speak your Belin. We ‘ave to, don’t we, for you northern lot, them as ‘ave no lick of Rakiva in ‘em,” he states amiably in heavily accented Belin.

Eren laughs a little and rubs a hand up his nape. “Yes, well, I know that. It’s just I want to get better at it. Rakiva, I mean. And I can’t do that if I don’t practice,” he answers in the language most liquid on his tongue.

The shopkeep grins. “That’s the spirit, m’lord, if I do say so meself. Good way to go ‘bout learnin’.” He hooks his thumbs through the worn rope belt that cinches his homespun tunic around his pot belly. “Now, whatcha be meanin’ with that ‘remake’ business?” he asks the young knight, slowly in Rakiva.

Eren returns his grin, encouraged to try once more. “Um… oh, I can’t find the word for it. Customize,” he speaks the term in Belin. “Do you customize your wares to order?”

“Ah, customize. The word you be lookin’ for is usontsy,” the bald man laughs. “But, aye, we do be customizin’ our stuff for order. Whatcha be wantin’ then?”

You examine the earthenware about you as your betrothed and the shopkeep discuss particulars. Eren has a good eye - the pottery is exquisite. It is the artwork that extolls it more than anything else. The artist’s style is distinct, quite unlike any you have yet seen in such work. A yen to offer patronage to this shop rises in you. Perhaps the family business can benefit from having this store beneath its wings. You always are open to great talent. Great talent means great profit to all involved, of course.

“Done ‘n done ‘n done, m’lord! I thankee for your business,” beams the shopkeep, clapping his huge, meaty hands together in utter glee. “You’ll ‘ave your pots next week sure as sunup. This Fat Ivan be so swearin’.” He is wringing his hands the next moment, fingers plump as sausages squeezing the knuckles, the back of the pudgy hands. “Meanin’ no disrespect, m’lady, but it- only if it be pleasin’ you, o’ course- mayhap you be seein’ in your kindly heart to give patronage- only if it please-!”

“It does, you’ll be pleased to know. You beat me to the post, goodman,” you cut through the man’s nervous rambling, smiling at the look of surprise on the round face. “I was just thinking the very same thing. The artistry in these is exquisite.” You reach for a good-sized vase with two ornate handles, one on each side of the vessel, but pause. “May I?” 

You pick the container up at the shopkeep’s assent, making sure your grip is secure lest it slips from your grasp and breaks. The figure painted on the glazed clay is one you know well. The King of the Cave sits upon his stone throne in a field of goldenglow, rendered in the black and gold and red paints so characteristic of this style of stonework. “You have a masterly hand with the brush, goodman,” you compliment Fat Ivan, who instantly demurs.

“‘Tis me wife, m’lady, she’s the mistress of paints, that one. I do the shapin’ and the firin’ and all them dirty work, she does all them artsy stuff. I always says, I do, we be makin’ a fine team, if I do say so meself.”

“A very fine team, indeed.” It is only then that you notice the marriage rune inscribed across the back of his sizable left hand. Your corresponding limb begins to tingle, and you look away. “Since we seem to be in agreement, I’d love to extend patronage to your business. I’m sure Father would agree once he sees your work.”

“M-m’lady is most kind, most kind. For true,” Ivan grins, and thereafter you spend a good while arranging the next course of your burgeoning partnership. 

“Again, I thankee, m’lady, for the honor,” the shopkeep utters as he bows you and Eren out of his premises. “‘M excited, I am, I swear, the world’ll ‘ave no finer pots than those Fat Ivan be makin’.” He turns to Eren with further promises of fine work for his order, then hesitates, his dark eyes flickering toward the golden pearl pendant around the younger man’s neck. “Beg pardon, m’lord, but you best be takin’ care o’ this lady o’ ours. You can ‘ave no more honest woman than this one, I’ll ‘ave you know. You be weddin’ the old way, too, I take it?” he directs at you this time, and you nod. “Good, good. Now, don’t be thinkin’ ‘m one o’ those old crusty sorts, thems that piss on the new way, no. But the Old Blood’s the Old Blood, gots to keep the old ways alive, too. ‘Specially for the future lady, gots to make an example.” You take your leave soon after further pleasantries.

“Richer than the Fritzes,” Eren announces in Belin to the sky above as you leave the markets for the rest of the city. “That was more colloquial than I’m used to, but I know enough of your tongue to understand that much. Where’s my windfall, I ask you?”

You titter at his disgruntled expression. “The gods seem to be determined to remind you to have a care with my most precious person.”

“Aye, well, I don’t need reminding of something that I have taken to the deepest part of my heart and soul and being.”

For all he shuns and affects ignorance of the ways of romance, this betrothed of yours has a most romantic mouth.

A crowd of people outside a building catches your attention. A temple of the Lovers, you see, recognizing Ryneas and Elios ensconced side by side within two elaborate pillared alcoves cut into the adjacent wall. It looks to be the end of a ceremony. The double doors of the temple swing open, as if to give credence to your thoughts. Out comes the Curate in his lilac and gold robes and his winged staff entwined by two serpents, which he flourishes about as he gesticulates to his rapt audience, the kith and kin of man and bride.

Faraway you may have been, yet you know the words he is speaking. Once there were two. Now two are as one. Let them be joined both, from this day to the end of their days. I give you the Lovers! The priest stands aside to expose the Lovers to a hail of roses. Petals and whole blossoms of red and gold rain down the happy couple, handfast and handbound by the lilac and gold ribbons so vital to the Creed’s rite. Of lilac and gold their humble raiment is not, for that they are, humble. Such as these will never be able to afford the expensive dyed bride’s gown of lilac and the equally expensive bridegroom’s cloth-of-gold. For the common folk are the common colors, dun for the bridegroom and white for the bride.

You had come across a wedding, indeed, multiple weddings in Reicona about this time last year, you recall suddenly. Insensible, unromantic Eren had never looked forward to the Day of Lovers and so the fact of the matter slipped his mind when he had invited you out for your customary stroll around his city. You, being of the Old Blood, never truly kept track of the holy day yourself and so made for a poor prompter.

It was amusing to the highest degree to see him fluster to silence once the realization hit, even more so to see him weather the good wishes various cityfolk heaped upon the both of you as you went about your business. He did not suggest retreat, to his credit. He was never one for that sort of flight, after all - it was always onward and upward for him, ever and always. You had not brought further attention to the day’s revels about you as you continued your adventure; he looked uncomfortable enough as was, which roused your sympathies.

The memory is a pleasant one, and evocative. Has it been truly a year since then? You have come so far from the new trothed striplings still taking the measure of the other, still trying to lay down the foundations of a friendship. It is no simple thing to be friends with someone you have such a loaded relationship with, much less someone you are meant to wed and bed; there is just so much anticipation behind your circumstances.

Both of you managed, in the end. Nowadays, that load and anticipation have grown to encompass a great deal more.

You smile and squeeze his hand in yours. “Poet.”

“How was that poetic? I only speak the truth.” His face is pink yet he looks pleased all the same.

“The deepest part of my heart and soul and being, hmm? Sounds like something straight out of the Lay of Lovers,” you grin, then bat his hand away as he reaches up to pinch your nose.

“Since when were you this mouthy, love?” Eren mutters, pink and pleased still for all his pretensions to annoyance. The crooked smile takes pride of place upon his lips once more. “Anyway, where to next? Lead on, milady, I’m done for the day.”

You pass a group of children playing Block and Catch at the base of a looming sandstone mount of a set of statues of the Sentinels, who were the glory of the elder days of Arsechkala. Eren steers your course aside as an urchin near runs into your path, yelling up a storm of fury at being tagged out of the game.

The sight brings back the summer, one of laughter and laurels and red flags. The children have no red flags and no laurels will be handed out, yet the game’s workings and the fun are the same. It is a most merry thought to know you had made as much of a spectacle then as these mites are now. “No more errands?”

“For now. Why finish all of them in one day? I still have a little over a month left here, I’d rather space them out.” Your wanderings take you to the quainter part of the riverside, where the city’s clocktower straddles the Goldtide. Fisherfolk’s paddle boats share the waters with barges carrying crates of goods and skiffs with sails of half a hundred colors. All of these slip beneath one arch or another of the three-arched structure that spans the waterway. 

A particolored sail catches your eye. A mummers’ boat, you know, feeling elated at the sight. These will drop by the palace sure as rain after they have entertained their common audiences. A pleasant thing to look forward to. It is always nice to have jolly entertainment of a night.

“Lucrative day for everyone, isn’t it? I found an excellent potter for Father’s vases, said potter gets your family’s patronage, and your family adds another artist to your business’s collection,” Eren comments, watching a skiff glide past upstream, laden with crates of various sizes. This one has a crimson sail emblazoned with the golden Rhyzkov orb, marking it as one in the private employ of the ruling family.

“As Father said, best keep an eye out for any and all opportunities. And talents.” A thriving business can never have enough of those, after all, your enterprising forebears knew the way of that well. Seaside settlements such as yours often see the wealth pour in through trade, and never is a settlement so well-placed. Sandpiper Bay leaves the city open to sailors of no less than three continents: Seviros, Kayigari, and Anderven. Galleys from the eastern lands of Mi An, Agankaya, and even Lakpathar to the southeast make the journey as well, though the sight of their distinctive sails plying the Cobalt Sea is rare, situated as you are on opposing sides of the world. At any rate, the Rhyzkovs had long since taken advantage of this outpouring of bounty.

That bounty had made you the richest House in the Lovayan continent. Once. That estimable distinction now belongs to the Fritzes, them with their equally as profitable port and their even more profitable mines rich with gold and silver and opals, Lovaya’s most precious commodity. The Greatshield, while itself abundant, has never been as productive as the Dragon Horde, the State of Stohess’s own range of mountains. Which is more the pity.

“Captain Lycus, how’d you come across him?” Eren asks, most interested.

“He was one of the sailors who answered my lady grandmother’s call for men to crew our new fleet of merchanters. He’s one of our best.” Men of Ithasa, one of the northern seaside kingdoms of Seviros, have always been renowned the world over as being the best seamen. Ithasin born and bred he might have been yet he is all but Arsechkai now, the sailor loves to claim. His speech is still flavored with the liquid inflections of his motherland, but he had married an Arsechkalan woman and sired Arsechkalan children and lived in Arsechkalan soil in his days off duty. Ithasa has become a place to trade with and leave at the next tide, a mere stop in the trader’s sea road, one of many.

“They love you well, your people.”

The Arsechkai are all about you, sailing, strolling, living their daily lives. Once again, you are reminded of how important their love is to you and your family’s lot. It is so easy to take their love for granted, and the realization is a grounding one. Your House has subsisted in common favor for so long that attention to it has begun to fade in the background of the consciousness like an old, worn tapestry, part of the castle’s furnishings, something you have seen a thousand times your whole life. There are days when it catches the eye but more times than not, the eye will pass it over because it is always there. And always will be.

“They do. Love you well.” Eren smiles down at your silent face. “The constant threats to my person in favor of your happiness should’ve made that clear.”

Perhaps it is time to remember that the commons’ love is something worth paying more heed to. It is not for nothing that the tales make much of men of the people. Perhaps you can be one. A true woman of your people, that great ruler your knight had touted you as being. Someday.

The clocktower soaring above you tolls, marking the coming of another hour. The hour of the lynx.

“Does the most beloved lady want to sit down a while and rest?” Your knight squeezes your hand, prepared to accommodate your wishes whatever they may be.

You glance once more at the clocktower, at the murals that embellish the three triangular roofs of the already lavishly appointed structure. The King of the Cave sits on his throne on the righthand summit, gazing out at his field of goldenglow.

He is everywhere today, this king.

“I think-” your hand tightens around Eren’s, “-the most beloved lady wants to show you something.”

“What-”

“Shhh, quickly!”

You splash across one of the Goldtide’s many inlets, this one wending its way past the corner of the city walls to vanish into the undergrowth. Eren bites his tongue and bites the harder as he and his betrothed near a chasm sunk deep into the ground, bordered by vines and deadfall and wild vegetation. His sense of baffled apprehension grows as you begin to descend what he knows now to be the entrance to an underground cave.

He digs his heels in and brings you to a stop. “Just what on the gods’ green earth-”

“My lady!”

All at once, you are on the move again, plunging deeper and deeper into pitch blackness. “Just trust me, you’ll see,” comes your voice ahead of him, and so he has no choice. Your grip is tight around his hand, surprising in its strength. He lets you lead on, curiosity growing despite his better judgement.

“We should’ve at least brought a torch,” he says at length, after what feels like a decade’s worth of jogging in the still darkness.

“No torches necessary once we get further in,” is the most mysterious reply.

This whole escapade is one mysterious venture. One moment you were winding your way through the streets, the next you were running, and running towards one of the city gates, the westernmost one. A river gate, though you boarded no boat to flee the confines of the city. You joined the thin trickle of people slipping in and out of the adjacent postern and were soon hurrying down the side of the sandstone wall, tracing some path only you seemed to be privy to. All the while, cries of, “My lady!” hounded your headlong dash, from the poor chap who had the misfortune to be your tail for the day. Eren wonders if he caught your descent.

Hopefully not, he suddenly finds himself thinking.

You have slowed to a walk at some point, and your footfalls seem almost deafening in this quiet seclusion. He is alive in all his senses but for sight, and all of them are honed in on the maid leading him onward, ever onward.

Your hand is warm, your grip firm and tight. The cave is dry; the scent of stone and earth and dead leaves’ musk dominate all. Mold and mud and must are absent. Not even the cave bats roost here - the smell characteristic of their presence is notable for its lack. Your footsteps scrape lightly on stone. Another sound comes softer still, yet he hears it all the same. The sound of your breathing gradually eases down, from quick pants to steady respiration. The sound brushes against his ear, slow and gentle. Mesmerizing.

“Will you tell me now what this is all about? What is this place?”

“Not far to go. All will be revealed, good Sir.”

“My lady loves her mysteries, I see.” Quiet laughter gives him answer.

The further you walk, the more he notes. The ground underfoot is smooth, and though you turn and turn and turn again, the going is easy. Too easy. Nature is a most accomplished architect with the most distinctive style; no cave made by her should be this easy to traverse. Where are the dips, the hills, the stalagmites and the stalactites? All the caves he had explored as a boy had them in abundance. The lack of them is almost… eerie.

“Do you know the tale of Khandimir?”

“The Underground Kingdom.” He knows the tale well. He and Armin have been trying, every year the progress took them to Arsechkala, to find the entrance to that fabled realm. Their endeavors have always ended in defeat and disappointment. Slow and sure, the dawn begins to rise. “Is this-?”

You turn another bend and are immediately bathed in a faint light coming from a gap some feet ahead of you. You squeeze his hand, smiling up at him. Pale blue light washes over your face. Your blue lesos is draped over your shoulders where it had fallen, thrown back during the race across the city; the cloth is made bluer by the illumination.

“Thousands and thousands and thousands of years ago, at the dawn of time long before the Great Heat reduced these lands to sand and sere, there lived a king. He was fair and just and strong, and ruled wisely and well. Thus did his kingdom prosper.

“But prosperity drew enemies, and the king drew scores. Such was their hate that they conspired to strike at his very heart itself. The king had a son, his only one, and he was the delight of his father’s eyes and the hope of his line.

“All hope vanished the day their foes laid hands on the boy. They tore him limb from limb and sent him back to his father piece by piece. His delight turned into despair and a terrible, terrible rage. All think of rage as a fire. Yet his was not so. As a lake freezes over in winter, so did the king. He hid his hatred deep and bid his sons’ killers to feast, as a token of goodwill. His heart was broken yet a good ruler knew that peace must come before the personal, so he claimed to his foemen. They came by the score, then, utterly reassured and utterly unwitting.

“More fool they, they found to their grievous sorrow. The king slaughtered them all in his hall, one by one, until they were no more. The gods saw and they raged. The king had been the one wronged in the most brutal of ways yet that mattered not to the high powers. They sealed him and his people away into the depths of the Deep Realm, never to see the light of day again. For he did not kill with honor. It was not for the act of murder that he and his were punished. The gods would leave well enough alone had he met them outside the walls of his home. They understood well the need for vengeance. A man had a right to vengeance, this had always been so. But he slaughtered guests beneath his roof and that the gods can never forgive.

“Years passed in eternal night for the king and his people. But hope was not lost. The gods were yet merciful and gave them promise of the godborn, one born of man and god. Only one such as this could pass through the barrier that kept the king and his folk imprisoned in the Deep Realm. Only one such as this could free the Deep Dwellers from their bondage. Still, this seemed to them an impossible hope for such beings came rare, if they ever came at all. So the king and his folk languished in darkness, resigned to their dark fate.

“It came to pass that the impossible was merely unthinkable. A girl born of man and god came upon their hidden abode, and the Deep Dwellers rejoiced. At last, here was their savior, the long-awaited godborn, come to free them from the night. They feted her and gave her gifts and made her love them until she was prevailed upon to lead them home. The king and his people gathered their belongings and uprooted. At last, at last, they will come home across the darkness.

“The gods’ mercy, in the end, was a spurious thing. The barrier was broken, freedom was within reach. The Deep Dwellers emerged into an alien world, a world of sand and heat and dryness. They had not long to feel much of anything for this new world, for they would soon be part of it in ways most unexpected. Time flows differently in the Deep Realm, that abode of the fae. A year in the dark was equal to a decade, perhaps a score, perhaps a century, in the mortal world, and they had lived underfoot so long… One by one, every man, woman, and child of the Deep crumbled away into dust. Last to pass was the king, the King of the Cave, forced to watch as his hopes and dreams blew away into the dry wind before he, too, went the way of his people.

“Spurious they might have been yet it cannot be said that the gods were entirely false. The Deep Dwellers were freed from their bondage, when all was said and done. They are still here among us to this day, roaming free where they always have been and always will be. Underfoot and everywhere, scattered amongst the southron sands.”

Silence falls for a time between you, time enough for Eren to examine your surroundings. The more he looks, the more gooseflesh spreads up his body as the enormity of this place - its scale, its history - slowly sinks in.

You had passed through the gap as you ended your tale and came out into an enormous cavern. Shimmerwood, is his immediate thought. Perhaps he isn’t too far off the mark in thinking so, he feels. Rivers and waterfalls are everywhere, winding through the space and splashing down the walls. Each and every one glows a bright azure, in much the same way the sand haven’s motes glowed. No motes fly in the underground, though their lack is offset by the flowers, which glow as bright a blue as any drifting orb.

“Whispers,” you say, watching him brush a hand across one such bloom. You pick one and hold it to his ear. A soft susurration tickles his senses as the blossom speaks to him in the language of flowers. It is a tongue most incomprehensible to him yet, for all that, whatever this bloom has to say seems… pleasant. 

They are everywhere, the Whispers, filling the air with their idle musings and their endless tales, tales of the Deep Realm, of the fae, of the King of the Cave.

“I never truly realized how depressing that tale is,” Eren says, voice quiet as you walk over a wooden bridge - miraculously intact despite its ages-long lifespan. A shiver runs down his spine. Legend or not, it cannot be denied that this place was once the heart of some civilization lost to time. The bridge is not the only evidence of their presence. Wooden steps and planks and yet more bridges are everywhere, channels to cross the twisting path of the glowing rivers that wind about you. “But that wasn’t how I remembered it. It ended the same but the details were different.”

“Oh? I’d love to hear this version. Perhaps it’s one I haven’t heard myself.”

Wood creaks beneath your feet as you go down a short flight of steps. The grass that grows thereabouts comes no higher than your insteps, as though a team of ghostly gardeners have been keeping the turf well-shorn ever since the departure of the Deep Dwellers. In this light, the sward looks black. That it is, perhaps; but in this light, it can be any color.

“It was the king’s arrogance that threw him down, the way I remember it. Prosperity breeds arrogance, and the more the kingdom prospered, the bigger its king’s pride grew until one day he spoke out of turn. They had grown so great no being, mortal or immortal, could ever throw them down, he boasted. You could imagine how well the gods took that,” he can’t resist adding, drawing that sweet, tinkling laughter out of his betrothed’s mouth. He smiles himself and continues his tale, “They were sealed away, as in your tale, also bound to wait for the impossible godborn. She came of course, and fell in love with the king, and he with her. Something that was left vague in your version.”

“Perhaps they did, who knows?”

He hums, agreeing. “Who knows. Then, as I said, it ended the same way, with them ascending, only to blow away into sand, leaving the godborn girl heartbroken and devastated.”

“It seems, in all the tellings, the Deep Dwellers were meant for a tragic fate.” You lead him on, to a new part of the cavern, leaving behind the fresh and clear coolness of the streams. 

The cavern becomes a hall, with a high ceiling sparkling with crystals. Stars in the night. Had he known better, he would’ve thought so in truth. Luminescent mushrooms sprout here in place of the Whispers, filling the passage with the same gentle blue glow that lights the rest of the cave. Unlike the rest of the cave, the air here is damp, musty, and a tad moldy, chillier than by the waterways.

“Oh.” You let go of his hand to stride toward what looks like a statue sitting by the side of the path. “He’s being rained on now, poor thing.”

The steady drip, drip, drip of water falling on stone is the only sound in this part of the cave. The rain had done a number on the poor thing. He had a face once. Wiped away now by his misfortune to be caught beneath this perpetual deluge. Eren can guess who this poor thing is. Damned unlucky bastard, in life and in stone.

“Gods, but he is the most unfortunate figure, isn’t he?” you sigh, staring down at the miserable likeness of the King of the Cave himself.

“I’ve always thought the gods, new and old, have twisted senses of humor.” The rest of the passage is bone-dry but for the king’s little corner. Eren laughs, wry and dry.

“Always the blasphemer,” you shake your head at him but smile all the same. “Hvalimir Vaida. Hvalimir of the Cave. That was what they called him.” You stare about the cavern, as though to search for something. You find what you are looking for in a moment.

Eren follows, curious, only to find you attempting to twist off a stalk of what looks like a giant clover. He strides forward, drawing the dirk that hangs at his right hip, and proceeds to cut an offshoot for you.

“What d’you need that for?” he asks, and is answered almost at once as he watches you place the stalk with its wide canopy-like leaf on the king’s lap, propping it up against the stone body in such a way that it won't fall over.

“There, he is shielded,” you say, looking down at the king and his rainshade of clover.

“It’ll probably get knocked off someday, though, if the water doesn’t stop,” Eren feels compelled to point out.

“It might,” you agree. “But I gave him a respite until then. Now he has time to savor the dry, until that most unhappy day. Who knows? The rain might stop before that wretched day and he’ll keep dry ‘til the end of time.”

You leave the king there holding his empty court. The steady sound of water dripping on his rainshade sees you out.

Drip, drip, drip.

It is not long before you turn a corner and the sound fades. The blue of the mushrooms fade as well to be replaced by a light more… golden. Like sunlight.

You release his hand once more and continue on ahead of him.

Eren calls out for you but you are slipping through a gap between two boulders and do not seem to hear him. A little mystified, he starts after you.

Gold. A whole field of it, he sees once his eyes adapt to the sudden light. Goldenglow, he realizes as the flowers’ familiar scent assails his senses. He looks about, mouth parting in wonder. The King of the Cave’s throne room. All in ruins now. Much of the high vaulted ceiling had cracked and fallen away, exposing the hall to the elements and the skies above. What walls are left standing are festooned with lichen, ivy, and other flowering vines of red and pink and purple. There is no stone floor. There never had been, if the tales can be believed. It seems, in this case, the tales can be believed. Only goldenglow covers the ground, as every singer and storyteller claims.

In the middle of all this golden wonder is you, his betrothed, with your back to him, taking in this hall of legend.

The sight of you drives legend and fancy and history out of his mind.

A memory comes back to him then, the memory of you in the sanctum in Goldhaven, you with the flowers in your hair, the soft sunlight on your face, with Yelena’s fount splashing away at your back, and the wind in your hair. This fae maid is in her element once more.

He comes to you slowly, mesmerized. You have dropped your lesos; the blue and gold garment lies in swathes amidst the flowers, a welcome burst of color against all that gold.

You move forward before he can reach you and so he moves on, trailing your path.

“His throne,” are the only things you say when he stops to stand beside you. The wild had taken it over as it had the rest of the room. The stone seat is strangled by the vines; no one would have seen it had they not known it was there.

You turn away at length; Eren watches as you return to the spot where you had dropped your lesos and plop down, lying half-buried amongst the flowers.

“Conked out?” he asks, looking down at you with an eyebrow raised.

You giggle and reach out for him. “Come here.”

He laces his fingers through yours and allows himself to be pulled down. Your heads rest next to each others’ so closely. Your hands lie between you, fingers tightly clasped together.

“How’d you come by this place?”

You huff out a soft laugh. “One of my bids for freedom. I stumbled into this place, literally, crashed through the vines and rolled down that opening passage and everything.” His chuckle draws yours out before you continue, “I was so disoriented that I couldn’t tell where the entrance was so I kept on going, hoping to find it again. Curiosity won out when I saw the waterways, so I went on and on, found Hvalimir - he was snug and dry then, I’ll have you know - and came out here in the end. There’s a way out here, we’ll leave through there.”

“You sound a handful.”

“The raven calls the crow black.”

He laughs. “Spare me the cutting wit, my lady, I yield, I yield.” He lifts both your entwined hands off the ground and brings them to his lips so he can kiss the back of yours. “D’you think your poor tail is still looking for us?”

“Perhaps. I’ll take the fall, when it comes to it.” A mild touch of guilt colors your voice. “I’ll blame it all on the madness of adventure.”

Eren smiles up at the blue sky above you, then props himself up on his elbow to stare down at you. “You are the most spirited thing.”

You return his smile, then reach up to twine your fingers around the leather cord of his mother’s key.

His heart stops when you pull.

“There’s another version of Hvalimir’s tale, did you know?”

Eren swallows around the lump in his throat as your face takes on that most alluring cast of invitation. When had he gotten so close? He is suddenly and painfully aware of how alone you are. Hidden away from the rest of the world, stuck in a place of fancy and memory.

“N-no, I didn’t,” he says, hoarsely.

Your smile widens. “It was love that brought the king down in this telling. He fell in love with a fae woman, a child of the old gods, as the Old Blood believe. In her turn, the fae maid pledged her life and love to him and swore to take him to husband. The gods were devastated when she gave herself to him on the night of their wedding. By lying with a mortal, she had doomed herself to a mortal life and thus to a mortal death, and this was no fate no loving parent could suffer for a most beloved child. Their despair turned to deadly rage, and so they banished the newly wedded couple, here in this very place. They want to be together so desperately. And so they shall be, together forever in this dark hell. They can never leave, but so long as they have each other, does anything else matter?”

Yet again, he is drowning in dark pools. The cadence of your voice will put sirens to shame. You open your mouth, that luscious mouth now so close to his own, and murmur, “They’re still here, the maid and the king, forever wondering about their dark and wet kingdom. Never knowing the touch of sun and fresh wind and freedom, but those have ceased to matter. What are those compared to love as true as theirs?”

“We must have missed them. Pity. It’s not every day I get to meet figures of legend.” Your breath is warm against his lips. Closer. Closer, and he will feel your heat and that silken softness and taste the sweetness of your tongue.

Clack!

“Ketse!”

Your head snaps up and he freezes at the sound of the interloper’s voice. For a thousand years, he feels nothing.

“Gods be damned.”

The sound of your voice draws him out of the void. Somehow, someway, he finds that so absurdly funny that he has to laugh. “Who’s the blasphemer now?”

“You’re the most terrible influence, Sir.”

Eren chuckles some more at that and stares down at the lovely face framed with flowers. A golden girl among golden blooms. He bends down close and watches your mouth part. “Careful, my lady, the gods may trap us down here forever for that impiety,” he says, voice low, and gently flicks his nose against yours. Eren smiles wide as your eyes widen at the gesture.

He lets out a playful groan and presses his face by the crook of your neck. “Your tail has the most inconvenient timing.”

You let out a groan of your own and sigh. “He does, damn him. He’s bloody persistent, I’ll give him that.” You are silent for a time, before you speak again. “Maybe it won’t be so bad, to be trapped down here forevermore. We could slip back inside, become Deep Dwellers and bask in the king and queen’s love. It won’t be so bad to be trapped in darkness. With you. I could bear the darkness with you.”

Your voice is the most comforting thing. It seeps into his skin, his bones, his very being. “When you put it that way… entrapment doesn’t sound so bad. Not if it’s with you. I wouldn’t want to be trapped down here with anyone else.”

He nestles closer against you, wanting more of you that he is allowed. Apples and winter roses and goldenglow overwhelm his senses, along with the headier scent of you, that inimitable scent that was yours and yours alone. His nose brushes lightly against the side of your neck.

Your small intake of breath makes him pause. A tense couple of heartbeats pass, but you do not push him away. Encouraged, he presses closer, taking in another deep whiff of your scent. The fog in his mind grows thicker with each breath. He must have more. Eren presses closer, closer, until his lips feather over your skin.

At once, you stiffen beneath him, and it is as if he has fallen through thin ice. Elation and terror war within him.

Gods, why did I do that?

Gods, let me have more, don’t push me away.

Your fingers thread through the hair at the back of his head and bears down, pressing him closer to your skin.

Elation wins out and he is kissing you, running his lips down the column of your throat and reveling in you. Your breaths come out quicker with every press of his mouth, and you reach up, clutching at his shoulder with the hand not buried in his hair and pulling him closer, closer. Suddenly, kisses are not enough, he must have a taste.

The gasp that escapes your mouth goes through him the very moment the tip of his tongue touches your skin. All at once, you are tilting your face back, burying your head further into the blossoms as you bare more of your throat for him to ravage. You are the most intoxicating thing he has ever imbibed; no wine, no ale, no mead and beer and rum can ever compare to the substance that is you. His tongue licks across your skin hungrily, savoring the taste of you. You are salt and you are sweet and you are the best thing he has ever tasted.

His hands feel useless and empty, and so he fills them with your thighs. They are cradling his hips, those thighs, soft as satin and smooth as silk under his fingertips. The whole span of him presses down the whole span of you, and you are soft there, too, the whole of you, soft and yielding and warm.

You are panting into his ear, breathless and eager, as he licks and kisses up your throat and caresses your supple skin, each brush of his hands moving higher, and still higher until he was tracing the edges of the split skirt of your vevda, that blessed garment… It will be the easiest thing in the world for his hands to slip beneath, and so they do. You are warmer there beneath your skirt, and the heat of you spills into his fingers and palm as he caresses higher, higher still…

“Eren.”

It is his name, only his name, yet the power that single word has over him is absolute. Suddenly, your flesh is between his teeth and he is biting down.

“My lady-!”

There is a horrified gasp and before he quite knows it, he is sitting up. Eren blinks like an owl, dazed. You are seated before him, closing your legs as you turn to speak reassurances to some armored lout with devastation writ clear across his galling face.

Hot, boiling fury rushes in. All about him, the gold has turned to red. The lout has no fucking right to look that devastated. The urge to wipe the rocky cave walls down with the loutish face rises in Eren in the most vicious yen. That will clear up that stupid look on that stupid face in a brilliant flash.

“Eren.”

It is the only thing in the world that could’ve calmed him down at the moment. You smile at him. “We should get going. We’ve stayed in here long enough. At this rate, we’ll probably crumble to dust once we set foot outside.”

That draws a chuckle from him yet only in brief. Smiling you are, with all the appearance of soft tenderness, yet your eyes seem shuttered. You are looking at him as though you are seeing him, truly seeing him for the first time, and he does not know what to make of that. Something in his chest squeezes at the sight.

His eyes drop down to your neck, at the space where it meets the slope of your shoulder. A large round bite mark ornaments your skin, imprinted deep into the flesh. He had bitten down harder than he thought. It will take days for it to fade, if not longer, by the look of it. Something in his chest swells at the sight.

It is the most disappointing thing to see you cover yourself up with your lesos, yet he can bear that. The look of closed-off wariness on your face had vanished when you twine your fingers through his, and your smile comes sweet and tender and true. That is worth more than a mark of his claim.

The late afternoon sunshine comes to greet you the moment you emerge from the King of the Cave’s throne room. You do not, in the end, crumble to dust.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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A/N:

Povar = Father (Belin)

Translation notes:

Falke = Falcon (German/Fristuhl)

Povik = Grandfather (Rakiva)

Ketse = Shit (Rakiva)

Another of my favorite scenes. Eren's POV, that is. And it came out a lot friskier than my original draft, which pleases me immensely. SO immensely! They are finally getting more physical and I just. Can't. Wait. For them to go. Further. (As if I don't have full control of the story. But nowadays these guys like to take the reins so... you know!)

More trouble in the North. Cause it ain't quite over yet, these northmen are a troublesome lot. A bit of darkness tainting Zeke's POV, he's been largely pleasant so far but he has IssuesTM. Market day for the happier couple and the importance of common love. And we get a tale and all its different versions because stories change with the telling as stories always do. And of course, hormones overflow and I had to send in the pesky guard so they won't go any further because the Greater Will says it's not yet time for that. But I can let them have a taste as a treat.

See you next time for the next update! <3

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin​ @tojis-discord-kitten

[davnittbraes]

The Second Step - Chapter Fourteen

Part of The World Is Light, Embodied.

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 4600

Warnings etc: anxiety, angst, anxiety attack, mentions of past violence, S M U T incl a lil bit of rough manhandling, author reader clearly has a voice kink, like five seconds of thinking about restraints, squirting, Mando is the Fingering King and nothing will convince me otherwise, also has a begging kink because he needs to know he’s wanted, Fun With Mando’a, LOL should probably mention unprotected P in the V stuff but there’s a sci fi prophylactic implant involved

Notes: Time for a break from all this heavy emotional shit, these two need to let off some steam 😉

You hover in the doorway of Mando’s bunk, watching the kid take his first deep breath of true sleep. The curl of his tiny claws loosens around the body of the stuffed frog as his limbs relax, and you carefully tuck one of the frog’s legs into the hammock when it shifts with the movement. 

Stepping back, you lean a shoulder against the wall, keeping your voice low. “Fifty years old, huh? Still so much a child. His species must age very slowly.”

Mando is quiet, a still, silver and dark form in the dim night cycle light of the hold. You know he’s thinking about something, can tell by the tilt of the helmet and the set of his shoulders, but you don’t push. He’s told you so much already tonight, it’s ok if he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

You don’t need to know all of his secrets to know that he trusts you.

And that he cares about you. 

A soft sigh floats through the modulator, black visor turning to look at you. “Maybe. Or it could have to do with his powers.”

“Powers?” The word comes too loud in your surprise and you bite your lip. 

Kriff. Get a hold of yourself. 

Yeah ok sure. But powers?

He leans back against the wall opposite you. “He can lift things with his mind, heal injuries. Maybe other things, I’m not sure.”

Frowning, you sift through memories as they surface. “Huh. Like a Jedi?”

“You know about Jedi?”

His tone is almost incredulous, and you look at him, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t? Sure, the Empire tried to stamp out any and all record of them but the Imps couldn’t get to every cantina in every backwater planet. Stories about the Jedi are favourites, there - some might even be true. Though the one about a Jedi defeating the Emperor always gave me a laugh.”

The helmet tilts in amusement but quickly straightens to seriousness again, black visor turning to look at the kid. “I’ve seen them. His powers. He healed Karga, pulled poison right out of the wound and closed it over.”

Suddenly, a chill of understanding pours down your back, making your heart skip a beat with its intensity. “That’s why the Imps want him. He’s a Jedi.” 

Mando folds his arms across his chest, his voice dropping to a soft murmur full of memories. “When I took him back from the Imps, they were doing tests on him. Something with his blood.”

A kind of sharp protectiveness tenses your muscles at the thought of anyone harming the kid, mixed with anger and disgust. “I’ve also heard stories of the Empire’s experiments. He’s lucky you were the one who found him. At least you can protect him.”

“The Jedi can protect him better than I can. And train him, help him use his powers.”

You scoff, corner of your mouth crooking up in a smile. “You know where to find the Jedi? That’s probably more valuable information than the bounty on the kid.”

“Karga gave me a lead. That’s where we’re going now.” The black visor stays steady on the kid, his frame held by some strained tenseness, like he’s… 

Trying not to look at you. 

Why - 

No. No no no -

Dread clutches your throat with an ice-cold grip. Somehow your voice squeezes past it. “You’re going to give him to the Jedi.”

Your heartbeat thumps loud in your ears, once, before he answers. 

“Yes.”

Your lungs are screaming for air, but you can’t focus enough to breathe, every part of your mind reverberating with the sound of that single word. 

A flash of light, then more, memories flickering across your vision - all of them containing soft coos and bright squeals and tiny claws curling around your fingers and a helpless little form in a baggy robe and big, amber eyes watching you with affection reflected in their bottomless depths.

Not even hours ago, you had finally accepted that this is where you truly wanted to be, for as long as you could. 

Right here, watching the kid sleep peacefully, Mando by your side. 

Your stomach turns, hot and sick as you watch it all shatter into a million pieces. 

It takes a moment to realize you’re moving, legs striding away from the bunk and across the hold, away from the sight of that one thing you had so recently decided you wanted and would soon have torn away from you - 

I thought you weren’t going to run any more -

Shut up -

The refresher door slides open - when did you get here - and you step inside, hand fumbling with the locking mechanism as your vision blurs and you can’t see, where is the damn thing -

Worn leather grasps your fingers, stilling them. 

“Tionas.”

A shuddering breath wracks your chest, and you cling to his hand, pulling him in, needing his strong, steady frame to hang on to as the room dips and turns. 

Silver and black flash across your vision, soft modulated words pierce through the rush of blood in your ears. 

“Hey. Just breathe. You’re ok. It’s going to be ok.”. 

Your arms curl over his shoulders and you sink into his embrace, tucking your nose into his cowl, breathing in the scent of him. His hands glide steadily up and down your back, coaxing your heartbeat to fall into rhythm with their motion, keeping you close. 

It’s a little surprising, how quickly the anxiety melts away, like this.

But guilt quickly swoops in the replace it, pouring from you with rushed words. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t - I don’t have any right to be this upset, he’s been with you so much longer, I shouldn’t -“

“Stop.” The word is gentle despite itself. “He cares for you, too. This won’t be easy, on any of us.”

You can almost feel the pain in his voice, an echo of the sharp tightness underneath your ribcage. 

Loss already experienced. And loss not yet felt. 

It’s all too much, these last few days have been too much pain and not enough -

The ache in your core flares to life, reminding you of the muscle twinges you’d felt all day, sore in the most pleasant of ways after last night. 

Last night. 

When the man in front of you had pulled you apart and made you forget everything except him, him and you and the pleasure your bodies created when brought together. 

The surge of want that shoots through your body almost shoves you into action, hands twitching with the desire to grasp at him, slip under his layers, feel him -

Boundaries. Respect his creed. 

Breathing deep to recenter your focus, you press closer to him, nosing into the curve of his neck as your hands drifts down his sides. “I need you. Please? Can I have you?”

He pulls away quickly and for a moment you panic, anxiety bursting back to life - too much too far shouldn’t have -

Then he’s reaching back, pressing the locking mechanism for the door and hitting the light switch in one movement, and there’s a flash of silver as his hands grab his helmet just before the door slides shut and the room is pitched into darkness and there -

His lips are on yours, breath hitching against your cheek when your hands grasp at his flightsuit, tugging with an insistence you can’t hold back, the arousal pooling between your thighs fuzzing the edges of rational thought. 

He cups your face with both hands, gloves warm and soft on rapidly heating skin, lips moving over yours with some kind of desperation before pulling back just enough to murmur into your gasping mouth. “Say it again.”

Oh pfassk -

That bare, rasping voice - so much more thrilling than your memory serves, full of a delicious blend of demand and plea, curls into the heat of your arousal. 

Your own voice is already breaking, cracking in your throat tight with want. “I need you. Please.”

He groans, a wordless reply that catches on your tongue as his mouth takes yours again.

It’s an onslaught, a needy push-pull that has you backing up against the refresher wall for balance while his solid form molds to yours, his large hands cup your jaw and his lips steal the breath from your lungs. 

His hands suddenly disappear and you whimper at the loss, your own sliding around his lower back and gripping tight to the fabric of his flightsuit to keep him close, not let any other part of him slip away. 

There’s a soft slap-slap - his gloves hitting the floor - then his hands are back on you, warm skin and smooth callouses and long fingers that hold your head steady while he kisses deeper, pulling a rush of heat between your thighs and a moan from your chest. 

The end of the sound echoes through the refresher as his mouth leaves yours to run along your cheek, press to your ear. “Thought about those all day, back on Nevarro. Those pretty sounds you make.”

His hand tilts your head back, teeth scraping along your ear lobe, his breath warm as he hums in approval of your answering whine. “Had to keep quiet there - still do, kid’s not far. But I keep thinking about what sounds you’d make for me if you didn’t have to stay quiet.”

A hot pulse of pleasure makes your thighs squeeze tight - pfassk, it’s so hot, the low rumble of his voice, dripping with innuendo, and oh kriff his free hand is grasping your thigh, big and warm and strong and it hauls your leg up to curl around his hip and glides along the inner seam of your leggings to -

Your hands fly to the edge of his breastplate, gripping tight against the dizzying rush of pleasure as his fingers cup your already-throbbing cunt through your leggings.

His lips are back on yours, a soft moan vibrating against your mouth. “Fuck, feel you, already so wet and warm -“

Your hips rock into his palm, his fingers press over your entrance, words panting hot. “For you, please, need you -“

Words dissolve from your thoughts as his hand moves, sliding under the waistband of your leggings and underwear and diving between your thighs, long fingers slipping through your folds. Calloused fingertips catch on your clit and your breath stutters, chokes, hips rocking messily into the pressure he immediately applies, head falling back against the wall with a thunk, pleasure sparking over your body. 

He presses open-mouthed kisses down your throat as his fingers take up a steady rhythm, words falling against your too-warm skin in a rush. “Can’t stop thinking about laying you out in a real bed, a big one, soft, so you can be comfortable in every position I put you in. And pulling those sounds from you, as loud as you want to make them.”

Images flash across your hazy thoughts, pictures painted by his words - a plush mattress under your body, soft sheets that crumple between your fingers when you clutch at them desperately while he fucks his cock deep into your cunt. 

Heat spirals through your core like a whirlwind of fire, making you shudder at the intensity, and you bite your lip hard to stop the cry that builds in the back of your throat. His hand suddenly shifts and the cry pushes loose, bounces around the tiny room as two long, thick fingers breach your entrance, shoving deep. 

His free hand presses over your mouth, his groan buzzes against your pulse. “Want you to come for me.”

You barely manage a frantic nod in agreement - kriff yes please - before his fingers are slipping out of your pussy and back in again, slick sound telling of how wet you are. 

Oh pfassk that’s so good -

Again and again they thrust at just the perfect -

Your entire body trembles, bright burst of pleasure pulsing the walls of your cunt as his fingertips graze a spot you’ve never felt before, startled moan muffled by his broad palm. 

His chuckle murmurs over your skin, shivers down your spine. “Right there, cyar’ika?”

A quick thrust and his fingertips curl and press and -

Once twice again -

Your orgasm rushes through your body, trembles your thighs, yanks the breath from your lungs. 

It’s so hot and blinding and -

His teeth nip at your throat and his moan dances over your skin as your cunt clutches his fingers hard, slick gushing around them. “Yes, come for me, fuck feel this pussy so tight -“

Then there’s the release and you gasp for air, grabbing at his shoulders, leg falling from his hip, your muscles shivering with aftershocks. 

Sliding his fingers from your cunt, he removes his hand from your mouth to kiss you deep, tongue flicking over yours. Your core throbs again, pleasure flaring once more at the press of his hard cock through his clothing. 

Your hands flex, burning with a need, an overwhelming desire to touch, and you have to clench your hands into fists to stop them.

Boundaries. Respect his boundaries. 

Pulling back enough to mouth along his jaw, you hum at the pleasant scratch of his scruff on your kiss-swollen lips. “Can I touch you?”

His hands grasp your waist, clutching as if he needs to steady himself. The sound of his ragged breath makes you pause. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. It’s ok -“

“Yes.”

The sharp, desperate hiss of his voice shoots right to your pussy. 

Crikking hells, this man is going to ruin you for anyone else. 

Pressing a kiss of gratitude to the underside of his jaw, you trail your hands down his chest, beskar cool under your fingertips. Then there’s the abdomen plate, the belt, the coarse weave of the flightsuit -

Your cunt clenches with need as your hand curves over the hard length of his cock through the fabric. 

For a split second you debate on just begging him to fuck you so you can get that cock inside you where you want it, but then his hips rock forward, his fingers dig into the softness of your waist, his forehead falls to your shoulder and yes you want this, want him to come apart in your arms. 

Your fingers fumble with the fly, find the opening and slip inside. 

His moan shudders over your collarbone as you push past the thin cloth of his underclothes and find bare skin and him -

Oh kriff. 

His cock is deliciously thick and warm and heavy in your hand, skin smooth and soft, stretched tight and hot and he’s so hard, pulsing against your palm. 

Your own breath stutters, lips turning to his curls at your cheek. “You feel so good, let me make you feel good, ok?”

His groan is sharp in your ear as your hand curls around him and strokes up. Moisture beads at the tip and you twist your palm over it, smearing it down his length. 

He trembles hard, a hand leaving your waist to smack against the wall by your head. “Fuck, just like that -“

His voice rasps over your skin, low and rough with pleasure, straight to your core and your clit actually throbs with need, thighs pressing together for the tiniest bit of friction. With a long stroke and a smooth turn of your wrist, you pull more moisture from the head and a whimper from his chest. 

It’s so hot, feeling him pulse in your hand and hearing him moan in your ear and knowing it’s you making him feel this good. 

You want more, want to feel and hear more of him.

Again and again, you slide your grip along the length of his cock, sounds falling from him setting your body alight. 

Your free hand dives into his hair, nails scratching lightly, earning you a shiver and a sharp thrust into your grip. Arousal burns across your thoughts, words tumbling from your lips. “Come on, give it to me. You love the sounds I make? Kriff, I could listen to your pleasure, your voice, forever, come on wanna hear you fall apart.”

His hips roll into your grasp, fingers scrape over your waist, groan buzzes against your neck.

Turning your face toward him, you dip down to find his ear. “Your cock feels so good in my hand, in my pussy - wanna taste you so bad, feel this cock in my mouth, taste your come on my tongue -”

Suddenly his hand is gripping your jaw, thumb and fingers framing your chin to hold you still as he kisses you roughly, leaving you gasping when he pulls away.

He growls against your parted lips. “You have no idea how much I’ve imagined that, how many times I’ve fucked my fist in this very room thinking about you -“

Want overwhelms your senses and you’re surging forward before you know it, swallowing his words. He chokes out a whimper that you chase with your tongue, firmly gliding along his in sync with the rhythm of your hand - 

Showing him what you would do if it were his cock instead.

He pulls back sharply, leaving you gasping, then he’s grabbing your wrist and pulling your hand out of his flightsuit to press it against the wall by your head. “Gonna make me come like that.”

You huff a laugh, fluttery with need. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

Humming low in his throat, he grasps your free hand and presses it to the wall like your other one. “I want to fuck you first. Make you come so hard that tongue of yours falls silent again.”

A thrill of anticipation laced with arousal ripples down your spine at his words - and at the strength buzzing in his grip, underneath the surface of restraint but still there. 

It’s a foreign sensation, being held like this, pinned to the wall by someone with the ability to overpower you. You’ve never liked being restrained, for pleasure or otherwise. But this…

This is him, and he spills blood to protect you and holds you gently when you’re spiraling and pushes aside his own pleasure for yours. 

Somehow that makes it so much more. 

Arching your hips against his, you lean in to nip at his jaw, murmur over his skin. “Then do it.”

Your wrists are suddenly free, but you don’t have the time to wonder at the tiny dip of disappointment that skitters through your stomach because he’s yanking your leggings and underwear down your legs in one rough motion. You start to toe off your boots but he’s already spinning you around, pressing you against the wall, holding you steady as your steps falters, unbalanced, leggings and underwear tight around your thighs. 

His hands pull your hips back, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your ass, and you only get a moment to set your palms against the wall, bracing yourself, before the head of his cock is slipping between your slick folds. 

Your forehead falls against the wall, cool durasteel on too-warm skin. “Oh pfassk yes -“

He pushes in, deep groan echoing around the refresher as his cock sinks into the warm clutch of your cunt, voice choking off into a slew of Mandalorian words when you squeeze your walls around him, instinctively trying to pull him deeper, faster. 

It’s a thick press of pleasure, his cock shoving into your core, with your thighs tight together he feels so kriffing big, pushing into all the perfect places so your eyes roll back and a shaky whine bounces off the wall in front of your mouth. 

Then he’s pulling back, slowly, dragging his cock through your pulsing heat until just the head sits snug inside your entrance, and you feel so devastatingly empty, only having just been filled by him but instantly wanting him back. 

He leans in close, lips brushing over your ear. “Say it again.”

Your thoughts churn sluggishly through the haze of arousal, piecing back through the previous moments to when this had all started. There, that’s what he wants. “I need you. Please.”

His hips slam forward and his cock fills you to the brim. A strangled cry punches from your chest, and his hand slides over your mouth once more, muffling the next cry as he draws back to shove forward again. “So pretty when you beg, cyar’ika.”

The rhythm he takes up is sharp and quick, almost brutal, offset by the gentle grip of his hand over your mouth and the line of kisses he places down the curve of your neck. The contrast reels through your senses, heartbeat pounding to the time of his thrusts, pulls your orgasm to the forefront, sends a rush of slick down the length of his cock. 

He noses along the corner of your jaw, words punctuating by the force of his movements. “Fuck, this cunt, so tight and wet - listen, can you hear it? Can you hear your pussy crying for my cock?”

The wet sounds of where your bodies join drifts through the haze and your gasping breaths - you’re absolutely soaked, now you notice the hot lines of slick running down your inner thighs, glide of his cock pulling more from your cunt, the way your legs are pressed tight together meaning there’s no where else for it to go. 

It’s unbearably hot, hearing how much your body wants him while feeling the drive of his cock through your core. Pleasure spirals up and up, your clit is aching for friction but you can’t move, hands pressed tight to the wall to hold yourself steady, and then the hand on your hip shifts, tilts you backward just a little, and the head of his cock slams into that spot he found earlier and white bursts at the corners of your vision, light in the pitch-dark of the room as he draws back and does it again, and again and again -

You’re coming so hard you can’t see or hear or -

Legs shaking toes curling in your boots fingernails scrabbling at the wall -

There’s wet heat and the drop and you’re shouting into his broad palm, knees finally giving out and you start to slump forward but the hand on your hip shifts quickly, arm wrapping around your waist to hold you up -

Crikking hells he’s still fucking you -

The sounds are obscene now, his cock shoving through sopping wet folds, each thrust ending with a smack of soaked fabric against your bare ass, his deep grunts mingling with your weak keening whine. 

You’re floating, practically unaware of anything but the pleasure radiating from your pussy, bordering on too much yet somehow not enough.

His voice is in your ear, his thumb strokes over your cheekbone. “Fucking perfect, ner kotyc dala, take my cock so well, say it again for me -“

He bites into the curve of your neck and you cry out, shudder hard, knees shaking with the effort to stay upright. His hand on your mouth falls away but you can’t find words, can’t form them on your tongue, only rasping whimpers that sound like they’re coming from someone else far away. 

His huff of laughter is thick with his own pleasure, brushing your cheek as his hand curves around your throat. “There you go, lost your words again. It’s ok, mesh’la, don’t think, just feel.”

Then the hand on your waist slips between your thighs and a fingertip grazes your clit and shocks of pleasure rip through your body, arching your back into his thrusts, high-pitched moan caught in your throat by the warm weight of his hand. 

He picks up his pace, fingertips pressing tight circles over your clit over and over in time with the short, hard thrusts of his cock that slam right against that spot and you’re coming again -

Hot wet full tight yes -

His growl vibrates over your shivering skin, sharp with a note of something almost like pain, cock pulsing hard against your fluttering walls and heat floods your core, seeps out around the thick of him with each thrust, drips down your thighs. 

Your pleasure finally releases you just as he sinks deep and stills, arm banded around your hips to keep you there, hand gentle but firm on your throat. 

A few moments pass, your breath still fast and sharp, exhausted limbs screaming for oxygen, constant shiver running through them.

Then his lips gently glide over the soft spot behind your ear, fingers on your jaw turning your face toward his, and you slump back into his arms as his mouth captures yours in a kiss that shakes with the last remaining aftershocks of your orgasm. 

His cock twitches once, twice, still deep inside you, pulling your focus back into the moment, and slowly your senses drift into place.

The air in the room is hot, the scent of sex clinging to your skin with the damp. His arm is strong and firm around your hips, his hand on your throat shifting to cup your jaw as he deepens the kiss. The chill of his armour seeps through your shirt, the rough weave of his flightsuit presses against your ass -

Why am I so wet?

Panic floods your system and you reel with the shift.

Wait no it’s -

Oh pfassk. 

He pulls back, concern obvious in his voice. “You ok?”

Amusement and wonder mingle with the haze of spent pleasure. “I’ve never done that before.”

A pause, then he’s sliding his hand down between your thighs, running his fingertips through the evidence of your intense orgasm. “Did it feel good?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Incredulity seeps into of your voice but you can’t bring yourself to care, no matter how strange it sounds in the soft hush of the room and the pleasure haze still floating around the two of you. 

His chest vibrates with silent laughter, lips curved in a smile as he kisses you. “Then I can’t wait to make you do it again.”

Male pride is heavy in his voice and you can’t stop the snort of laughter, knowing it’s definitely inappropriate for the moment but when he joins you, breath bouncing off the curve of your neck as he nuzzles into it and wraps both arms tight around you, it doesn’t seem so jarring. 

You stay like that, catching your breath, simply existing in his embrace, the feel of his stubble on your skin where his lips press, the twitch of his cock still buried inside you. 

The memory of your conversation earlier that night flickers on the outskirts of your thoughts, the pain in his voice as he told you how he’d found the kid. So different from his voice now, sated but light with contentment, maybe even something close to happiness. 

Your heartbeat skitters, the warm bright thing in your chest glowing.

Tilting your head to rest your cheek against his curls, you slide your arms over his, squeezing them around your body. “I meant it. You’re a good person, and you’ll always do the right thing, no matter how difficult it is.”

A faint tremor runs through his frame, followed by a sigh that ghosts over your collarbone. His voice is so soft, but it still reverberates through your thoughts. “Nothing is too difficult, with you by my side.”

Your throat closes with emotion. There are no words that convey what you’re feeling, and all you can do is nod once, letting him feel the movement against his hair.

I know. Same.

***** Mando’a translations

mesh’la - beautiful

cyar’ika - sweetheart

tionas - a question

ner kotyc dala - my strong woman

***** Previous Chapter Next Chapter

[sanisse]

You talk about bonds in your writings a lot? What are these exactly? Like sexual, matrimonial, familial? What do they do and how are they formed? At least in your opinion or even maybe textually?

I’m so curious!

aaaa! I love meta and lore questions, thank you!

I do make use of Bonds a lot because I find them to be such a fascinating concept. Tolkien really didn't say much other than the fact that elves form "indissoluble bonds" when they get married and have sex. He also heavily implies that elvish children have similar bonds with their parents. Tolkien writes "therefore... [a child's soul]... draws nourishment from their parents before the birth of the child: directly from the mother...and mediately from the father" (Laws and Customs).

As far as I'm aware of, that's really the only definitive information we have there. Pretty much everything else floating around is fanon. My own headcannons are as follows:

I take "indissoluble bonds" to mean spiritual bonds, linking souls to one another inextricably.

Every soul has a certain color. This is just my personal preference when I'm writing to distinguish them. For instance, Celebrian is silver-colored. Elrond is starlight-colored before he receives Vilya, but post-Vilya, it is gold. Gil-Galad is kind of an indigo color. So, kind of like auras, I guess? It's hard to explain.

For sexy reasons (and because it makes things a lot less complicated), I headcannon that Elves can withhold bond-forming when they're having sex if they just want to have casual sex.

I apply the theory of Quantum Entanglement from physics to Bonds, because I think it's Neat. -- "groups of particles are generated, interact, or share spatial proximity in a way such that the quantum state of each particle of the group cannot be described independently of the state of the others, including when the particles are separated by a large distance"

So, just from a fun fantasy play application, I like to say that Elves who are bonded to each other have access to and basically simultaneously feel (more or less) each other's thoughts, wishes, desires, emotions, and sometimes even physical experiences. Bonds can cause internal (mental, emotional, etc.) pain if strained or stretched, either under emotional duress, conflict, long periods of physical distance, or long periods of emotional distance. This feeling gets worse and worse the more times that passes.

This applies to both married couples and parents and children. So, say your SO or child is in distress or particularly wants/needs/is looking for you, you can feel that, and it'll prompt you to go to them and see what the matter is.

In terms of other sexy applications: couples act as facing mirrors. Pleasure is volleyed and amplified in bonded sex (vs unbonded sex where it's just normal). Partners feel each other's orgasms as well as their own.

Bonds can be formed intentionally for children which are not biological -- so adoptive bonds! You can also just have this be a platonic sort of Bond between adults, too. The process is a little different (romantic bonds are formed during sex, but platonic bonds I kind of headcannon as...like walking through a door, if that makes sense? Like the adoptive parent will step up to the child's psyche & soul and just sort of knock, and the child can choose to let them in or not to form the bond). Both parties must be willing, though.

Bonds are webbed. So, for instance, Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen are all bonded as siblings, and bonded to their parents. Via their parents, they are also bonded to their grandparents (and would be to aunts & uncles if they had them). I headcannon that bonds get weaker the farther along the tree you get, but they all do link together.

In the case of adoptive bonds - in order to fully hook up to the rest of the family group chat, you have to be bonded to both living parents. If you're only bonded to one, then you only receive the bond to that person, rather than the whole family. It just feels very Tolkien to me.

Bonds can't be dissolved, but they can be shut down by either party. This is very painful and stressful, but it does happen -- usually when one partner is in a great deal of physical or emotional pain and wants to shield the other party from it.

I feel like there's definitely more here that I have to say in terms of how I use Bonds when I'm writing but that's all of the top of my head, lol!

[kairoscareau]

Unmasking Subtle Racism

Subtle racism, also known as covert/implicit racism, refers to discriminatory attitudes, behaviours or actions that are less obvious and not easily identifiable compared to traditional forms of racism. Because subtle racism can be indirect, unintentional expressions of prejudice or unsconsiously expressed, they are often more challenging to recognise. Subtle racism can manifest in various ways, such as comments, actions or behaviours that subtly marginalise or demean individuals based on their race or ethnicity. Whether people might not be fully aware of their biases or actions or may even deny their racism when called out, subtle racism helps perpetuate discrimination and inequalities. 

Some examples of racially-based subtle racism are: 

Verbal: "Are you his nanny?" assuming that a person of colour is not a white child's parent; 

Action: a teacher not calling on students of colour; a server automatically serving white people first over people of colour; 

Racial profiling: stop-and-frisk policy meant to reduce crime but mostly targets people of colour.

Subtle racism is hard to detect at first glance unlike overt racism which is blatant and easily recognisable. Although subtle racism operates in a more covert manner, its effects may cause harm whether it was unintentional or not. Let's shed light into subtle racism, its impact on relationships and well-being, the challenge of recognition and how we can avoid being a subtle racist. 

Kinds of Subtle Racism: 

Colorblindness or Microinvalidations - ignores the unique experiences of different racial groups. For instance, the "All Lives Matter" as a response to "Black Lives Matter" may mean well, but can be considered racist as "Black Lives Matter" do not mean only Black lives matter or that Black lives matter more. The BLM movement only asserts that Black lives matter too, to address historical and current events, and some institutions' tendency to not treat Black lives as mattering equally with White lives. 

Stereotyping - assumes that someone's abilities, preferences, or behaviour are based on their race. For instance, assuming that an Asian woman is a mail-order bride, or a Mexican woman is a cleaning lady. 

Tokenism - including a person of colour solely to demonstrate diversity. For instance, hiring a person of colour to comply with diversity even though the role is essentially insignificant. 

Microaggressions - are small, everyday acts that communicate derogatory messages towards racial minorities, including: 

backhanded compliments (e.g. "You're beautiful for a dark-skinned girl.") 

cultural appropriation - loving a part of a culture (like Hip Hop) but fail to speak out for or recognise its people's struggles, or dominant groups erasing origins of certain cultures and taking credit for something they did not create (e.g. Elvis regarded as a pioneer of rock and roll but failing to credit Sister Rosetta Tharpe as an earlier rock and roll artist who influenced Elvis and referred to as Godmother of rock and roll). 

questioning someone's nationality or abilities. Saying, "You must be good at math" to someone with Asian descent or "I don't even see you as [insert race]". 

Effects on Relationships and Wellbeing: 

Subtle racism can erode relationships and negatively impact mental health. Constant exposure to microaggressions can lead to feelings of invalidation, frustration and stress. Over time, these experiences can strain personal and professional connections, contribute to a sense of isolation and introduce an atmosphere of negativity and even hostility in personal relationships, the workplace and community groups.   

How Do We Preserve Wellbeing and Avoid Being Subtle Racists: 

Self-education - recognise and acknowledge your own biases and actively seek to educate yourself and others about different cultures and experiences. 

Active listening - strive to create an environment where people feel comfortable sharing their experiences, and listen without being defensive or dismissive. 

Empathy - simply try putting yourself in others' shoes and strive to understand the impact of your words and actions. 

Language matters - choose your words carefully, avoiding assumptions or stereotypes. 

Speak up - if you witness subtle racism, address it respectfully to help raise awareness. 

Subtle racism is a pervasive issue that demands our attention. By shedding light on its existence, acknowledging its impact, and taking proactive steps to prevent it, we can create a more inclusive and equitable society. 

Remember that change begins with each individual's commitment to unlearn biases and treat all individuals with respect, regardless of their background.

[carewyncromwell]

#4 and #6 of affectionate things between Carion, please?

4) holding hands!! (Carion)

The very first time Orion ever held Carewyn's hand was after the dramatic Quidditch Cup Final between Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Carewyn had initiated it to offer comfort -- it was a platonic gesture, and nothing more. And yet, at the time, it had filled Orion with strange emotions, both because he was so unused to physical affection and because he'd just seen with his own eyes that Carewyn shared his Patronus. When he returned the gesture and tried to hold her hand, she fortunately didn't pull away -- and Orion found himself holding her hand for almost fifteen whole minutes afterward.

Whatever their Patronus forms might hint, he didn't think he could say definitely that he loved Carewyn. But he did really...really like holding her hand.

It made it so that when they met up again after the War, Orion felt more comfortable with taking Carewyn's hand or shoulder, even just platonically. She'd already broached that sea with him, so it was likely she wouldn't mind it too much, Orion reasoned. Even if by that time, he already knew he'd fallen in love, he could keep things platonic between them. He wouldn't pressure her to see things as he did.

And romantic or not...he did really like holding her hand. He liked feeling like he could comfort her -- help her find balance...when it felt like all she ever did was care about others and neglect herself.

When Orion and Carewyn finally did make their feelings known to each other in December, other methods of expressing affection were broached. Carewyn held Orion's wrist for the first time. She touched his face for the first time. She kissed him...and he, his heart racing, kissed her back. And each one of those things were things Orion enjoyed just as much as holding her hand did. He liked the connection it forged between them -- the open, warm, dedicated bond that now connected them, body and soul. It prompted him to experiment more -- trailing a hand through her hair; resting his head on her shoulder; kissing her on the cheek, forehead, nose, and neck.

And yet out of all of them, the gesture Orion still enjoyed most was holding her hand. With it being romantic, he could hold it differently than before -- run his thumb along the base of hers; enlace their fingers...even hold her hand in both of his, placing kisses to the back of it. Anything to bring that soft, relieved smile back to her face when tension had creased her brow.

Orion wanted to give Carewyn peace. More than anything in the world, he wanted this person who seemed to always have to play the hero, ready to fight for others, to be able to lay down her armor, take that breath she seemed to always be holding, and just be. To be happy -- be content...be herself, at his side, smiling and free. For nothing more was truly needed, in Orion's eyes.

And a simple handhold could communicate all of that, and more.

"You've been holding my hand for a long while now."

"You've been holding a heavy weight for far longer. ...I realize you must shoulder the burden of duty when you are at work...but please, do not strain yourself, trying to play Atlas. The whole world is not yours alone to fix...and you needn't carry the weight of it by yourself."

"...Orion..."

"Yes, my Abraxan?"

"...Thank you."

(6 under the cut!)

6) when they're so patient and understanding with you (Carion)

referencing Roxanni Kim @mira-shard 💙

Orion had always been a free spirit. It was one of the things that had made it difficult for him to make friends as a young child, and even at school, it made it so that the vast majority of the student population just didn't get him. Once he'd become Slytherin Quidditch Captain, people just kind of saw the mystery of him as part of why he was so cool, and that attitude persisted once he was an adult and become the toned Star Chaser of the Montrose Magpies...but that still didn't mean he wasn't a bit eccentric, nor that it was always easy to figure out what he was saying.

One of the few people who became very fluent in "Orionisms," however, was Carewyn. She was probably the one who clued into his way of thinking the fastest of anyone else he'd ever met, in part thanks to her Legilimency potential, but also due to her intense empathy and their oddly similar thought processes, despite the differences in their personalities.

Perhaps it was for this reason that whenever Orion would get too stuck in his own head when trying to express himself, Carewyn would almost always be the one to translate.

"Orion thinks if you like Roxy that much, you should tell her how you feel," Carewyn told her ward patiently.

Erik didn't just roll his eyes: he practically threw them up toward the ceiling, with how impatient and flabbergasted his face looked as he whirled on Orion.

"For fuck's sake -- " he muttered irritably, slapping his hand over his forehead and eyes, before he blared out, " -- how in the bloody hell does that relate to an ashwinder?!"

"My metaphor may or may not have gotten away from me," Orion said serenely. "But it seems to have eluded you completely. Thank you, my Abraxan -- you are a most wonderful compass, on this sea of self-discovery."

Carewyn leaned in to brush his uneven hair out of his face so she could kiss his jawline. "Glad I could help, Captain."

Affectionate Prompts!

[antiphrastic]

Fics I read and loved this week (Feb 5-11)

I skipped last week after not posting anything the previous week, but now I've finished Scum Villain (well, the main story) and immediately went tag hunting so

Catch the Fickle Wind by corduroyserpent

Words: 5426 Rated: Teen

“Oh, hello!” The corpse from the marketplace works stiff lips up into a wobbly smile. Thick dark veins strain against the pale skin of his hands as he clenches them into fists; he punches straight through the flowering abomination without sparing a look. “I was hoping to see you again.”

Zhuzhi-lang’s heart beats a touch faster. It must be an effect of the minute traces of poison his body has yet to disperse.

Zhuzhi-lang meets someone interesting during his travels.

Post-canon svsss/mdzs crossover in which Zhuzhi-lang and Wen Ning meet. My two goodest boys being friends. I love them and you should too.

Fruit Jelly by Hannipenguin

Words: 752 Rated: Teen and up

Zhuzhi-Lang deserves better.

Post-canon fix-it. Tianlang-jun sends a revivified Zhuzhi-lang to Shen Qingqiu. Zhuzhi-lang gets a treat. Because he is a good boy and good boys deserve treats. ♡

prognosis unclear: resurrection required by postcardorigami

Words: 19705 Rated: Teen and up

“That’s what you call me, alright? That’s the only thing you call me. Say it with me now: jiu-jiu.”

Zhuzhi-lang’s brow furrows with the familiar cut of his stubborn, stubborn determination. For a terrible heartbeat, Tianlang Jun thinks that’s it, he’s lost to Zhuzhi-lang’s deference once again, he’ll once more be nothing but a superior even to this child.

Then his face clears, concentration taking the place of stubbornness. Zhuzhi-lang inhales, silently forming the word with his mouth.

or: Zhuzhi-lang is resurrected via convenient bloodline plot device into the body of a five-year-old. Tianlang Jun doesn't think he was ever meant to be anyone's father.

Post-canon fixit you might be sensing a theme here. The author mentions the bamboo extra, i have not read the extras yet. But this is a beautiful and poignant read, and Tianlang-jun gets to experience raising a child and Zhuzhi-lang gets to experience being raised with love. Because they both deserve it.

Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places (or Zhuzhi-lang's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day) by corduroyserpent

Words: 3635 Rated: Teen and Up

“Oh come now,” Tianlang-jun scoffed. “If you were a beautiful maiden what would you hope to receive as a gift from your dashing suitor?”

Zhuzhi-lang thought for a long moment. “...S...Snakes?”

Tianlang-jun raised an eyebrow.

Zhuzhi-lang was instantly self conscious about his answer and rushed to change it. “Just one snake? A big one?”

--Tianlang-Jun wants to give Su Xiyan the perfect gift and enlists the help of his long suffering nephew.--

Pre-canon/missing scenes. The characterization is a++ and I especially love Zhuzhi-lang's insights/observations on humans, love and courtship. Also, he deserves to nap in a sunbeam for a week after this.

[cursed-domain]

Experiments

Mahito x Reader, WC ~3.9k

Mahito’s been testing out his powers for a while now. He wants to do something different with his latest victim. Something a little more... human.

warnings: NSFW and Dark Content - NONCON if that is not your thing do not read any farther. You have been warned. Also fear, tears, kidnapping, possessiveness, oral sex, biting, slapping and uh. Mahito. I think he deserves a warning of his own.

You stayed out just a little too late last night. And you walked home alone. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew that was a bad idea, but - the bar was right down the street from your apartment building, and your friends were - well, they were scattered, and they were hard to find, and you were sure that you could walk straight if you only tried. Your heels were only a couple inches high. 

Maybe you’d somehow fallen right down a drain in the sidewalk last night. Maybe it was too dark to notice, and you were more tipsy than you thought. But that theory doesn’t fit with your last memory aboveground. It doesn’t explain the presence you felt behind you, the feeling that something heavy and hateful had manifested right over your shoulder. 

Most importantly, there are no scratches or scrapes anywhere on your body. You can’t have fallen. You were brought here. Hidden away beneath the street into a tunnel you had no idea existed. And your host has been kind enough to keep you in perfect condition. You’re not even dirty from where you’ve clearly been crumpled on the floor - somehow, the stone corridor is perfectly clean.

As you sit up, all these thoughts run through your head in a matter of seconds. Your shell-shocked stream of consciousness doesn’t give way to panic until a hand from behind you lands on your shoulder. Its owner doesn’t even let you scream - he claps his other hand over your mouth before you have the chance to open it, and leans down so that you feel his hot breath in your ear. “Boo.” 

You strain against his hand when you hear his voice. It doesn’t sound - well, you’re not quite sure what you expected a kidnapper to sound like. Maybe a lower voice. Certainly a sinister one. But he just sounds excited and mischievous, like a child who’s gotten away with a prank. So lighthearted in what is, for you, such a dire situation - it sends a shiver up your spine to imagine his grin.

You don’t have to imagine for long. His hand slinks from your shoulder up your neck, taking root in your hair and yanking your head back so you’re forced to look up. It is dim in the tunnel, but you see his face clearly. You register, in a far-off place in your mind, that it is pretty, almost feminine. Your impression is that his face is far too fine compared to the coarseness of his mouth and his hands, even with the strange scars stitching their way across the unnaturally smooth skin.  

“Don’t look so terrified. Or do. I kinda like it.” Your eyes stretch even wider. “Yeah - I really like it, actually. Stay just like that.” When he speaks for longer, you notice the eerie quality of the cavern - the way it causes sounds to echo and reverberate down its walls. Farther down, you hear the drip-drip-drip of dirty water hitting the floor. But here - not even a drop. It’s as if the space has been cleared of its usual filth, just for you. “Okay,” he says, “I actually wanna hear you, too.” He doesn’t wait for a response before taking his hand from your mouth and letting go of your hair. 

Your heels - they must have fallen off. Or he took them off. In any case - you can run. You know it’s pointless as soon as you stand up. You know even the time you take to rise to your feet is enough for him to grab onto you again. But you have to try. So you do. You’re surprised to get any distance at all. You’re shocked to have made it ten paces - twenty - thirty. Even sprinting with the adrenaline-spiked speed of someone who fears for her life, this shouldn’t be possible. But you find yourself starting to hope. You’re fast, and maybe he was caught off guard. Maybe, just maybe, you can make it to the light you see shining at the mouth of the tunnel. It’s not that far away. And once you’re out there, on the street, he won’t be able to do anything. You’ll make it home and forget this ever happened. Even now, you’re wondering if it’s all a dream. If you’re going to wake up once you hit that light - closer now, so close - snug in your bed, wondering how you managed to make it home last night but relieved that you did. Yes. That has to be it. This isn’t real, and you’re going to escape it so, so soon -

A rush of cold air streaks past you, and your captor appears in front of you, grinning as he blocks your path. You try to step to the side, but he’s already there. Back the other way - he beats you again. You feel your will collapse in on itself as he steps forward and snakes his hand around your waist, laughing unabashedly as you struggle. “Not bad,” he says. “Of course, I gave you a pretty big head start. But still. You run pretty fast for someone who could barely walk the night before.”

You’re so close to him that you’re sure he must be able to hear your heart pounding. Despite your best efforts to hold yourself back, you find yourself looking up at his face again. His eyes are pretty, too. But they’re mismatched - one is a light gray and the other is deep blue - and unblinking. Seeing them up close only makes his presence more unnerving. He grins crookedly as you make eye contact with him, staring back without saying a word.

“What - why -” you break eye contact, choosing instead to stare at the ground where his bare feet are nearly on top of yours. “Please. Let me go.”

“Nuh-uh. No way.” He pushes you back at arms length and leans over you, his face coming so close to yours that your eyes unfocus trying to look at him. “Haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Done…”

“Mhm.” He takes your shoulders and turns you around, giving you a light shove to get you moving. You shudder - your dress has an open back, so his hand didn’t just touch your clothes, but your bare skin. And it’s so short, too. He’s probably staring as you walk, tracing your curves with those unnatural eyes. He looked down when he had you pressed up against him. He didn’t even try to hide it. 

“That’s far enough.” You stop, not even daring to turn around. He slithers around you instead, dragging his hand over the back of your dress again as he passes, keeping a hold on you and pulling you close again. “You’re gonna help me out with some things today, alright?”

When you hesitate, his long fingernails tighten against your skin. He’ll draw blood if he presses any harder. “What…what do you want?”

“I’ve been doin’ some experiments down here.” His nails drag down the curve of your back, only stopping at your hips. “Been learning what I’m capable of. I’ll show you the other test subjects if I have to but… I think I’ve already convinced you to cooperate, right?” He tugs on the hem of your dress, sliding his fingertips underneath the edge of the thin fabric. “You don’t seem ready to meet anyone right now, anyways. Not as if they’re really in a state to talk to you.”

You stare blankly, resisting the urge to squirm as his hand trails up the back of your thigh. Not for the first time, you wonder if you’re going to be leaving this place alive.

“Lots of room down here,” he says. “Plenty of dark corners. But I think I’m gonna keep you right here.” 

“Please..” you say.

“Hmm?” He smiles a second later, once he understands. “Please don’t kill you, right? Don’t mutate your pretty body and then throw you somewhere no one will ever find you?” Your mind amends mutate to mutilate. The intellectual victory does nothing to comfort you. “Don’t worry. ‘m not gonna do that. Not yet, anyways.” His nails are scraping very high on your thigh, now, and the other hand is weaving its way through your hair. His fingers seem to bend strangely around you, as if they have no set form at all, as if they’re molding to best fit your body as he claims it piece by piece. “You’re just gonna help me out a little, okay? “You’re gonna help me figure out what else I’m capable of.”

He grips the top of your head and forces it up and down, mimicking a nod, laughing impishly as you glare up at him. “So sweet of you. We’ll take this one step at a time, alright?”

You don’t understand until he leans over you, running a fingertip across your lips to part them slightly before meeting them with his own. You try to recoil, but the hand toying with your dress runs up your back and presses you forward, forcing you deeper into the kiss instead. It’s unexpectedly gentle, at first, but as your body is forced flush against his it becomes more messy, more hungry. He shoves his tongue against yours and grips your hair tight enough for it to hurt, only drawing back for long enough to bite your lip and watch a string of drool drip across the faint indent he’s left behind. You gasp for breath until he swallows up your mouth again, using his tongue to reach every place he can. 

You stay in place even when he relaxes his grip. He only stops to speak once he has, it seems to you, tried every kind of kiss he can think of - fast, slow, shallow, violent, hungry, sloppy. “You’re doing good,” he says, flashing the same smile as before. “Good start. Amazing, really…” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear his thoughts, and the softer smile is replaced by a cold grin. “Take your dress off.” 

“Wh -”

“Take it off. Take off whatever you have underneath it, too. I don’t care about seeing it.”

“But -” 

“But - but -” He laughs again, practically giggles as he mocks your faint protests. “You don’t wanna die, either, do you?”

Mute, you shake your head.

“Actually…” He turns you around again, and you think you hear him sigh faintly as his hips snap against yours. “You’re taking too long. I’ll just do it myself.” He gives you no time to react before tugging on the zipper of your short dress, so violently that it hitches on the teeth and nearly breaks off. Only the second time does he do it right, pulling it all the way down in a smooth motion. The dress only covered from your lower back to a few inches down your thighs, anyways, and now even that protection is stripped away. The front of your body is exposed, too, as he tugs the thin garment along with your panties down to the stone ground beneath your feet.

Every muscle in your body tenses as his own bare skin collides with yours, his worn pants pulled down to rest alongside your dress. “Didn’t even wear anything beneath the dress up here,” he mutters. He reaches from behind you, groping your tits with no regard for the way you whine and squirm. “Making it so easy for me, aren’t you?”

“No,” you gasp. “Didn’t wear anything there. I should have -”

He claws his nails over the delicate peaks of your breasts, and you bite hard on your lip to keep from crying out. “Interesting. That’s a sweet spot, huh?” You shiver as he clamps down on you again. “You got any more I should know about?”

“No…” You lie, as if anything you say now will help you. He’s tracing every inch of your skin already, down your stomach and hips and up your thighs, squeezing and pinching when you least expect it, mapping you out like you’re the first person he’s been this close to in his life. 

“You sure?” He taps his fingertips along the creases that connect the tops of your thighs to your body, pressing close against you and breathing hot in your ear. Making sure you hear and feel his excitement. “We’re gonna test that out, too. So spread out your legs. They’re getting in the way.” 

You clench your fists tight and do as he says, shifting on either side to allow him easy access to every part of you. Still, you reflexively pull your hips back as his fingers climb their way towards your cunt, cringing when your sudden motions make his cock pulse against your skin. 

“What’re you doing that for?” He cups his hand between your legs, ending your desperate attempts to squirm away. “Not like you’re going anywhere, right?” He pulls his hand back, showing you the wet sheen that’s rubbed off on his fingers. “I don’t think you would even if you could. But if you want, I’ll let you run again. Give you ‘til the count of ten before I start chasing you. Maybe even twenty or thirty. Maybe I’ll let you see the street before I drag you back here.” He lets go of you, grabbing your arms and using them to turn you back the way you ran before. “We’ll do it now, actually. Run! I’ll be not-quite-right-behind you.”

You shake your head. 

“Come onn. It’ll be fun. Or - well, I’ll have fun.” Your feet stay rooted to the ground. He looks genuinely disappointed, for a moment, as if he actually expected you to take him up on his inane offer. “Fine.” He shoves down on your shoulders, and you follow the motion, crumpling down to your knees with no resistance. “You can entertain me this way instead, then.” Now that he’s in front of you again, you look for the first time. You’re equal parts curious and repelled by the stitch-like markings that continue down the rest of his body. If you were thinking clearly, you’d wonder if they were perhaps tattoos, and why anyone would choose to do something like that to themselves. But the crisscrossing lines guide you far too quickly down the length of his frame, forcing your curious eyes down below his hips before you have the sense to close them. 

He tilts his head, sizing up your expression before flicking his eyes down your body and then back up to meet yours. “You’ve definitely done this before. So do it right.” Your eyes are almost as wide as your mouth as he closes the last inches between you and him. “Make it feel how it’s supposed to.” You nod blanlky as you wonder how you’re supposed to fit him all the way in your mouth. Maybe you won’t have to. He’s so obviously inexperienced, so eager… maybe you can end this quickly. 

You drag the tip of your tongue up the underside of his cock, forcing yourself to look up at him as you give the same slow treatment to the sides and the tip before taking the shaft in your hand. He stares back, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth as it works over his cock. He’s breathing harder already, less than halfway into your mouth, almost letting the breaths tip over the edge into moans as your tongue flicks up his length again. It takes a concerted effort not to close your eyes, to not let your resolve crumble. 

It has started to happen already. He was right in his crude assessment of you - you do know what you’re doing - but you’ve never been so terrified with a cock in your mouth, never felt like your life depended on your ability to please the man in front of you. Your strokes become sloppy as you let panic edge into the corners of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans. Your one free hand clenches into a fist as he grabs you at the nape of your neck and thrusts forward, holding you still as he forces his cock back into your throat. “Fuck.” You feel him writhe in your mouth just as his fingers did in your hair, molding himself to the contours of your throat as he fucks your face over and over, only becoming more frantic as you start to struggle against his hand, more frenzied as you gag and drool around him, until finally - finally - you’re tugged forward one last time, your lips pulled taught as hot liquid spurts down your throat. He keeps you there as you continue struggling for breath, sliding his thumb over your bottom lip and smearing your drool across your face. 

When you’re finally allowed to pull back, you wrap your arms around yourself, shrinking inwards as you whisper, “Please. May I go now?”

“Huh?” He crouches down until his face is level with yours, crossing his arms over his knees as he sinks to the ground. You try to keep your eyes on his face - it’s practically glowing, his eyes wild and bright, their contrasting colors even more apparent. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart. Just taking a little break.” 

You freeze for a second before scrambling backwards. It’s absolutely stupid, but - he said he wanted you to run. So he won’t get mad at you for trying one last time. And maybe it’ll work this time. Maybe you’ll get out. Maybe he was lying and he’s actually ready to see you go. Maybe seeing you run naked and sobbing onto the street will be enough to satisfy him, and he won’t chase you any farther.

He gives you five paces before pouncing, pinning you to the ground with one hand wrapped tight around your throat, turning you over so he can see the fear written on your face. “Guess what?” He whispers it into your ear before sinking his teeth into your neck, nearly hard enough to split your skin open. You feel something hard pressing into your stomach, swelling as you cry out in pain. “Break is over.” He drags his tongue over cheek and traces it down your jaw before kissing you right where the bite mark still glows red on your skin. Using both hands to pin your wrists down at your sides, he drags his way down your body, running his tongue over your breasts, your navel, around the triangle between your thighs. “I usually don’t care much about what’s fair, but - I really think I should return the favor.” His eyes flit down to your legs, squeezed tightly together. “Try to relax. This is supposed to be fun, right?” He works two fingers between thighs and prys them open. 

You hold back a whimper as he dives into the space between, dragging the flat of his tongue voraciously over your hot cunt. He’s sloppy, ignoring the way your eyes are glued to his face as he tests and probes your cunt, teasing the opening and forcing his tongue inside, giving no pause before swallowing the sheen left behind. You have to squeeze your eyes shut. You have to tell yourself not to give in to the heat sweeping through your core, not to accept even a tiny bit of pleasure from the man defiling you, but - it’s so, so difficult. So strange to feel someone so obviously selfish pleasing you, even if it’s by accident, even if it’s just for his own enjoyment - you can’t stop yourself from pushing your hips shamelessly against his mouth. Can’t stop yourself from moaning as his fingers find your clit. 

He pulls away, laughing at the whine that escapes from your mouth. “Tastes better than I thought,” he says. “But you  - you’re reacting just like I thought. It’s like your mind’s melting away.” He pinches your clit between two fingers, and your eyes nearly roll back into your head. “You’re being controlled by this now.”

You just manage to shake your head. “No - no. I’m still - I don’t -”

He pounces on top of you again, thrusting his fingers into your open mouth. “Shhh. You don’t have to talk. That’s not what you’re here for.” He grinds against you, his cock already pushing at the entrance to your cunt as he fucks your mouth with his fingers, nearly making you gag as he pushes relentlessly into your throat. “You’re here to help me out, right? And you’ve been doing so good. So good for me.” You don’t want your stomach to flutter at the praise. Not here, not from him. You try your best to ignore it, tell yourself to close your eyes as he all but fucks your thighs. 

When you try to screw them shut, though, he puts his pinky right on your eyelid and drags up, forcing it to flutter open again. “Ah-ah,” he says. “Keep your eyes open. I wanna see how this makes you feel.” He presses his hips hard against yours, guiding himself nearly all the way inside you in a single motion. “Fuck.” His eyes nearly close as he savors the feeling of you tightening around him, but he keeps them open just wide enough to see your lips open wide, forming an O around the fingers still scraping against your tongue. “I’m keeping you here forever. Understand?” The drool from his fingers smudges across your cheek as he grabs the sides of your face, squeezing as he shoves farther inside you, over and over again, only spurred on by the sloppy noises he hears every time the two of you connect. “Gonna be - gonna be my fucking toy forever. I’ll keep you on a fucking leash if I have to.” 

All you can do is whimper and blink back your tears. He brushes his tongue across your face, licking them away as they overflow. “You look so scared. So mad.” He’s slowing himself down, now. Making it last. “It’s cute. Stay just like that, okay?” He presses on the corners of your mouth, forcing it deeper into a scowl. “So fucking cute.”

Your eyes match the anger he’s forced onto your mouth. Somehow, this moment feels worse than everything that’s come before. He’s playing with your face now. Trying to make it his, just like your body. And something about that - it breaks your daze. And your arms aren’t pinned anymore. There’s nothing you can do to make him stop, but. You feel the overwhelming urge to do something.

You reach up and slap him. Right across his pretty face, turning it sharply aside just as his cock buries itself all the way inside your cunt, reaching farther than you thought anyone ever could. His eyes widen, and his grip on your face tightens to a vise. You think that just once, you’ve managed to shock him.

Your faint sense of victory fades when you feel his cock pulse unmistakably inside you. 

“Oh -” he sighs blissfully as he releases inside you, and you go limp as he collapses into your shoulder. A moment later, he turns his head and whispers in your ear. “Very interesting.” You can practically feel his grin radiating against your neck. “I’m definitely keeping you, now. So many things to try…” You squirm as he shifts on top of you, his face hovering right over your own. “And you’re gonna help me with every single one.”

[thehomothings]

Analysis of Kite's conflicting moralities, relationship with death, and the toll reincarnation may take on one's psyche

So, today I decided to compile all the thoughts I have had about Kite's interesting worldview since the first time I saw him into one post, mostly for my own sake, really. If you're familiar with the few posts I've made, you know it's gonna be a mess, but hopefully a comprehensible mess.

A heads up, this is going to be spoiler-heavy, and very much deal with subjects of death and dying as a whole. Also, some of these conclusions are drawn from my own experiences and close brushes with death, I'm not going to go into much detail but it might get personal and definitely dark. I'm not even sure if I can call this a meta-analysis, and I'm obviously no expert, so mayhaps take all of this with a grain of salt.

Been getting into drawing lately, and during the more simple and mindless part of the painstaking process of dotting every single star in this, I let my thoughts wander through the latest part of the fic I'm writing, and I got a better grasp on what exactly made Kite such an elusive character to me.

I'm not quite sure why I got so attached to Kite. Perhaps it was the air of tragedy surrounding him, how despite his sordid past he remained still open and gentle even if outlined by a healthy dose of cynicism.

But sometimes, I think it's the fact that he is so paradoxical. He's brave, yet fears death to such a degree that creates a whole Nen ability around it, is a pacifist yet will not hesitate to spill blood for his own sake or someone else's. Despite the many ultimatums and warnings of 'I will not protect you', he gave his arm and then his life to save Gon and Killua. He approaches each hunt and battle with a clear plan of action in mind, but his Hatsu takes the form of a roulette that gives him random weapons which are never what he wants, but what he seems to need for that exact situation, which he cannot dispel without using. When he draws a weapon, the decision is locked in and his or his opponent's fate is sealed. That's why each time he dubbs his weapon a bad roll. Every time he has to gamble, he sees himself as having run out of luck. When it comes to having to choose between himself and somebody else...well, there had never been a choice. In fact his aversion to using it may feed into its sheer power that we, unfortunately, saw too little of.

Let's go over his very first appearance when he saves Gon from the mother Foxbear.

It's not hard to see the strain searching for Ging has put on him; he's rash, prone to anger and punching a child for daring to get into trouble. In his mind, he's failing at his most important task, has not yet earned the right to call himself a hunter despite being in possession of his very own hunter license.

After killing the mother Foxbear and raging about having done so, he says this interesting line:

So yes, he finds killing for any reason rather irksome as most would do, yet I think something deeper caused him to absolutely lose it in this scene:

He had not been aware of Gon's identity, and despite being an animal lover and a naturalist, he made a choice to save the human instead of allowing nature to run its course. In fact, he says: 'No beast that harms a human must be allowed to live.'

How does one weight one life against another? How is the worth of it determined? The value of life... an impossible choice he's faced with and a choice which he seems to regret to some degree.

The Foxbear cub.

Here, he's speaking from experience, a tangible loss he has felt himself, and a hard and bitter life he does not want to impose on the cub.

His backstory is exclusive to the 2011 anime adaptation but there are hints alluding to it in the manga, for example, the fact that he does not seem to know his birthplace, or:

The choice of words is chilling.

Reading between the lines, one could draw the conclusion that he is an orphan. Something supporting this hypothesis is how he visibly deflates after Gon tells him his parents have (presumably) died.

So we see he is willing to go against his own moral code of not killing as to not doom another living being to the life he led, a lonely, hopeless existence that could barely be called one. He saw it best to put down the cub rather than leave it to die a painful, slow death.

The reason Kite himself isn't as cynical and cold-hearted as one would be after witnessing cruelty in its rawest form is those small crumbs of human kindness which he may have found in Ging.

It was not only a chance at an honorable life being Ging's apprentice gave him, but it also 'saved' him from being broken and twisted into what he hated and worst of all, death.

If we take that one minute of backstory as canon to his character-which I find myself inclined to do- these quirks of his make much more sense. He lived on the run. He lived on the knife's edge between giving up or pushing forwards. He lived as so a wrong move could be the difference between survival and the end.

Between rock and a hard place creates a mentality of black and white, absolute good or extreme evil, this or that. Except in reality, it's much harder than that. Deciding who to save and who to strike down is a heavy burden to bear.

It's almost easy to see how struggling to keep surviving could lend itself to a crippling fear of death and subsequently developing a Nen ability which once more goes against his own moral code in order to give himself a second chance...yet something about it strikes me as unlikely when I look at it this way.

Living life knowing it could end at any moment has the opposite effect, at least for me it did. One comes to accept that it is fleeting and while not eager to let it go, when death eventually and inevitably does come, there is no fighting it.

Especially when there is no hope that tomorrow will be a better day than this one.

Frequent near-death experiences numb one's fear in a way, even if it drives them to take precautions that render it unlikely to happen again and results in c-PTSD, but still, it does. It sparks a certain nihilistic view of 'if it all can end so easily, then what's the point of it all?'

Unless there are things to live for, a sure promise of a better future, and Ging gave Kite that. When he faced the threat of losing his second chance at life:

Really, what else could lead someone to develop the ability of 'the hell I'm going to die like this'?

I think a separate event, an even more brutal near-death experience that almost cost him his life as the hunter he so strived to be set him off to develop the secret roll of Crazy Slots, what I call Roll No.0, Ars moriendi. Unlike other weapons, it cannot come up in random and is directly summoned by him, or better said, summon by his overwhelming will to keep going and hopelessness of fighting a losing battle. I don't believe roll No.3 was the weapon that allowed him to reincarnate. I've named that one Wand of Fortune, a sort of armor instead of an offensive weapon since I find it hard to believe Kite, a Conjurer, would not focus on defences as well, and I will go into both mechanisms of these weapons hopefully in his backstory.

Despite knowing this battle to be a pointless one and being acutely aware of his soon to be demise, he did not immediately draw Ars moriendi, no, he stayed back and fought for the sake of the boys, kept Neferpitou occupied until they could reach safety. We can see evidence of this in the aftermath of the battle that seemed to have gone on until dawn, a torn apart landscape only signaling a fraction of the devastation that was Kite's power unleashed. It still wasn't enough.

In the anime sub I watched, when Gon apologizes to Ging about Kite's death, Ging said a sentence that infuriated me, because it belittled the utter suffering of the NGL trio.

"He would not die in your place." (No screenshot, sorry)

And I remember practically shouting at the screen, screaming 'how could you possibly say that? Of course he did. He absolutely did die in their place. How could you not know your own apprentice? Why-'

It was only last night that it hit me why Ging would say that.

Once upon a time, maybe Kite would not have given his life for anybody under any circumstances, even if he had a way out of it all. He would still need to die to come back to life.

His Thanatophobia could be attributed to the (possibly untreated) PTSD of the near-death experience in his later life, being so certain of dying that finding himself alive afterwards drove him to never want to go through that again. He quieted his fear by creating a sort of a loophole, that even if he lost the battle he would remain. Ging remembered that, but as evidence shows, something changed. Maybe he healed a bit, perhaps growing up dulled his fear to a certain degree, but eventually when it came down to his life or another's, he didn't choose himself.

Now, I can hear you saying 'but he didn't die, so what are you going on about??' And so I reply: Yes, he is alive, but he did die. He experienced that painful, horrible moment of staring death in the eyes and thinking 'This is it, this is the end', went through the actual process of having his soul removed from his body. And that moment stretches into infinity, ten lifetimes condensed into the mere seconds before oblivion.

Dying isn't so hard if one stays dead.

It's not so easy to open one's eyes and find oneself alive again after that, no matter how much that is the heart's desire. It's difficult, nigh-impossible to reconcile with life and walk amongst the living when everything had been so final, when death had been accepted to its fullest.

So Kite awakens, the twin of Meruem and back from the dead, his mind and identity both intact and fractured. In that he is Kite is no mistaking, yet he is not the same gentle pacifist whose first reaction upon sensing a monster's aura was to shield two kids from it at the cost of his arm.

I don't think many of you are familiar with Zoroastrian ideology, but Togashi is known for loving his religious imagery, and it's not only Christianism he derives inspiration from (evidence of which can be seen all over Kite's character and resurrection).

In Zurvanism-a branch of Zoroastrianism- there is talk of the twin spirits: Ahura Mazda -epitome of all that is good- and Ahriman -epitome of all that is evil-, the parent god Zurvin decides that the firstborn may rule in order to bring "heaven, hell, and everything in between."

Upon becoming aware of this fact, Ahriman forcibly tears through the womb to emerge first. Sounding familiar yet?

Zurvan relents to this turn of events only on one condition: Ahriman is given kingship for 9000 years, and then Ahura Mazda may rule for eternity.

Meruem ruled for 40 days, his death leaving the throne vacant for ant Kite, wearing a dead girl's face and seeming to be brewing some nefarious plan. No more is there any sign of that unrelenting pacifism and the sanctity of life he held so high, losing his own may have only served to show him how meaningless the pain and suffering he went through had been, dying only to be reborn as a member of the species that killed him. It may be that he has no desire to rule over the remaining Chimera ants or create an army of his own-

Yet I dread to think what a broken mind possessing limitless power might do to the world.

And that's it. If you made it this far, thank you for reading! If you found it interesting, stay tuned, as I think a lot and I will make it your problem.

[yandere-sins]

The Fox Wedding - RUN [Bad End]

Summary: You are to marry the fox spirit Kita Shinsuke after you accidentally agreed to become his wife by signing the deed to your new home. A contract is a contract, he says, but is there more to this marriage than you know? Will you be whisked away by one of the foxy twins instead, or have to marry Kita after all? Can you be with a creature that only seems tender on the surface, or will you try to run even if it might cost you your life? Choose your route carefully, you never know what these foxes are up to!

Characters: Kitsune!Kita Shinsuke, Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings for this chapter: Major Character Death, Blood mention, Death mention, Animal attack, Gore, Yandere, Kidnapping, Forced/Unhealthy Relationships

What makes a human life worthwhile?

Was it the prospect of forming a family? The continual circle of birth, life, and death? Was it the growing as a person that gave each individual worth? Learning how to laugh and love? Long, thoughtful nights and the achievement of creating something? Relationships, conversations, experiences, are those the things that made it worth to live? 

Or was it pain, fear, and fight? Would your worth rise if you had to clench your teeth and run until your lungs threatened you to give up if you didn’t stop and rest? Could your life only gain worth from being so scared that your body trembled, but your senses heightened in an attempt to be warier of your surroundings? Every inch of your body was feelable, every muscle straining to get your attention. The perfect coordination of orders to follow was only achieved by panic and fear of falling into the hands of the people you had to get away from.

Or their paws.

Or their teeth.

These and so many other unimportant questions plagued your mind as you stumbled over roots and against trees as if you were in a haze. Was the brain capable of enduring as much fear as you were feeling, or was the reason for your questions that it was unable to continue feeling this way? Going numb would have been a preferable action, as well as a deadly one. As such, it kept you occupied, one way or another.

A loud bang resounded from behind you. It was still far away but too close at the same time. The loud crashing of a tree in the distance was only spurring you on, spreading panic as you questioned what kind of creature could break down a whole tree. You weren’t clever. You didn’t actually know an answer to that. 

You didn’t want to know.

Thicket scratched at your skin, broke it, and drew blood as if it were a hundred deadly arms reaching for you, their nails scratching as they tried to grab you. Nothing in this forest wanted to let you go. Not the trees, not the bushes, not him. 

Of course, you had regrets now that you chose to run. You regretted being an idiot and doing this to yourself even though there had been so many warnings. Not one of the fox people had advised you to run - at least at your own. But you couldn’t wait for a prince in shining armor. Or fur. You could wait for nobody to save you from this fate. Breaking out when you found some loose stones around the window of your cell, without proper clothing or a sense of direction, is nothing anyone would suggest you do, but then again: what else could you do?

However, most of all, you deeply regretted that you weren’t running faster.

It was almost as if it was taunting you, the heavy footsteps galloping after you. They weren’t created by feet, but you could recognize them as something very different. Perhaps watching these nature documentaries had been a waste of time, but at least they made you remember the sound of bears running through forests, their big bodies producing a hollow, echoing sound. 

Not one inch of your brain wanted to acknowledge what was after you, but you were sure it wasn’t a bear. 

Somehow, you wished it was. A creature that wasn’t sentient like a human would be just as deadly, but you imagined that it would be less awful than what awaited you. Even if your body still ran and ran some more, way beyond the point of exhaustion, inside of you, you were slowly losing hope. 

Maybe hope is what makes life worthwhile, you thought quietly as you kept pushing forward. Only the sounds of your breathing and gasps left your mouth as you tripped over roots on the ground, but never words. Hope could create inspirations and aspirations. It ‘made mountains move’ and saved people from their worst selves if they could stay hopeful. So when had you given up the hope to escape?

Was it when Kita locked you into that cell? When he mentioned the contract? When these two fox brothers visited you but got sent away? Somewhere along the line, you must have lost it, though perhaps, only just recently, when you realized you had been found out. If this hadn’t felt like a hunt rather than a chase, maybe you could have stayed hopeful. But no matter how hard it was to look truth in the eye, you knew you were the prey of a creature you shouldn’t have messed with. All you wanted was to get out. Out of the forest, out of the vicinity of the monster chasing you. 

Out of this seemingly endless nightmare. 

If you were to die here, could you say your life had been worth something? Did you always do the things you wanted to do or was breaking out from the prison of the foxes your only glorious achievement? Would you leave earth with regrets or regret leaving? 

These questions were the last you could think about before the hellish pain of long, sharp fangs puncturing your torso tore you out of it. How nice would it have been to die instantly on impact, unable to feel how the jaw clenched down, your lungs pierced, and your shoulder entirely crushed by force? Hear the bones cracking in the back of your mind and your arms and legs going limb? 

You had imagined death differently. Even if you were unsure how you imagined it, you didn’t think it would be this way. There was so much pain that it stopped hurting. Briefly, the feeling of blood pouring out of you and dripping down your body was noticeable before it disappeared, too, as your ability to feel stopped. You realized in your mind that you shouldn’t have been able to turn your head, but pressed by adrenaline and the last, untorn nerves, you did, looking into the gleaming eyes of your monster. With a head as big as your whole body, you could only recognize the shimmering, white fur. The beautiful blue shine was mesmerizing, captivating you in these last moments of your life. Long tails waved in the far corner of your vision, and blue light illuminated this creature, making you wish it wasn’t so darn beautiful to look at, so you could have felt anything but astonishment.

The next thing you knew, the jaw around you loosened, making you drop to the ground, the last parts of your body that still twitched and jerked starting to cease their movements. In awe, you got to see how the beast turned back into the form of a human, your eyesight growing weaker by the second the more blood you lost, but you were still able to recognize the face that stepped closer, crouching down beside you. 

In your head, you formed the thoughts to taunt Kita, rub it into his face how you escaped. Had you been able to, you’d have told him you’d never marry him and that he should stop crying like a child. But you were unable to. Gripping the only hand still intact tightly, Kita brought it to his face, nuzzling it. Blood - your blood - was smeared all over his face, and he kept taking deep, pained breaths of anguish. Even now, he seemed dignified, mourning the death of his beloved, and even now, you despised him for it, thinking he had no right. 

“No… no…” he lamented, and you thought that it was unfair he got to cry small blue tears about you while you weren’t able to control what was going on with your body. 

“I’m so sorry, [Name]! I’m so sorry… I… I couldn’t control it… I was so angry and hurt… I couldn’t…”

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of other creatures approached, and Kita took a deep breath. As if he could hide these emotions he was feeling by simply pushing them deeper inside of him, he bit his lips to keep them locked inside before deciding he’d rather kiss the back of your hand with his mouth. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Please… forgive me.”

What kind of man or creature could sit by the side of the person they claimed they loved, mauled, and then ask for forgiveness? His hand brushed over your head as if to comfort you, and you heard more voices approaching, though they turned quiet as they understood what was going on. Someone said something you didn’t understand, and Kita only muttered, “Not yet,” in return. His eyes never left you, and finally, you realized that this was how you were going to die.

By Kita’s side.

Ah, if only you could have said something to him. Something that would have haunted him for the rest of his life if he truly cared for you as much as he assured you before. Finally, you understood these novels where people sought revenge against others. Though it was probably your body torn apart, but it was as if something was eating you from the inside, this intense desire to at least have an impact on your murderer’s life. Take some of the worth from him just like he had taken from you. 

“Do you remember--”

His sentences started to become incomplete. Kita’s mouth moved, but you didn’t hear what he was saying. It was hard to see now, your vision was not blurry, but you couldn’t focus anymore. 

“--- fox --- gave me --- we --- never ---”

Then, your name. Again. Your shoulders shaking, but all you could focus on was how hard it was becoming to breathe. 

“--- don’t leave --- I love ---”

Taking your last breath felt almost like taking a big gulp of water and breathing out afterwards. 

And then it was dark. 

It should have been different. Your whole life should have been different. Moving to Japan should have been a new start to an entirely new chapter, but it led to the worst decision you had ever made. Perhaps you shouldn’t have run away. Maybe you should have stayed and embraced the marriage. Or you could have waited just a little bit longer for someone who’d keep you safe after all. Even if you had accepted the marriage, something good could have come out of it, and you should have just taken what you could. 

But you didn’t. You died in the arms of the creature you wanted to get away from. The person you despised the most for putting you into this situation and killing you. Are you sure this is the path you wanted to take?

Was it worth it to risk your life?

Or will you try again?

➤   Go back to the prologue to change your fate

➤   Stay dead

[mochegato]

I Can’t Fight This Feeling

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

This was supposed to be an easy job, the last thing he had to do before Talia would think he was ready and let him go on his own path.  Trail the heroes back to the Guardian, steal his miraculous, wait until the heroes detransform, steal their miraculous.  Lure the villain out and steal his miraculous.  Child’s play. He didn’t need years of training for this.  

But then they were kids.  Kids who started the same age as him.  Kids who weren’t being protected as they risked their lives protecting everyone else.  Kids who actually cared about the people they worked with.  Kids who weren’t self-righteous, condescending, assholes. Kids who deserved to have good lives. But they were kids who were sacrificing their lives for this fight and he could help with that.  

Once he finished the mission, they could have their lives back.  He takes their miraculous, tracks down Hawkmoth and takes his miraculous, and everything goes back to normal for them.  Their lives can go back to normal, like none of this even happened.  He just needed to track down Hawkmoth, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.  He didn’t know what the heroes had tried already, but they were civilians.  

Everything he found out about Ladybug, or rather Marinette Dupain-Cheng, indicated that she had no detective training.  He had been trained by the World’s Greatest Detective and the League of Assassins.  Even if the butterflies were impossible to track, he should be able to find something that would lead him to the villain.  Then he takes that asshole’s miraculous, and the heroes, more specifically Marinette, could have her childhood back, what’s left of it anyway.

He just needed to get started and since he knew Marinette’s identity, that made her the weak link, so he’d start with her.  He’d been hoping he could track her to the Guardian, but she hadn’t gone to him.  Probably because knew she was being tailed.  She hadn’t done anything definitive to show it, she was too good for that, so if he didn’t know the signs, he would have missed it.  But he did know the signs, so he hadn’t missed them.

He could see the way her shoulders would tense up when he was watching her soothe to one of her classmates when they were panicking. He could see it in the way her eyes lingered around the playground just a little longer than was normal when she was babysitting.  He could see it in the forced even breaths when she was feeding strays.  He could see it in the way she would be in a design trance, focused on sketching, her eyes bright, and she would suddenly snap her head up, snap her book closed and head home.  He could see it in the way her smile suddenly strained when she was helping a stranger.

After another few weeks of trailing her, he had finally decided it was time to take her miraculous.  Instead of trailing her to the Guardian then take her miraculous, he’d take her miraculous and trail Chat Noir to the guardian.  He was the second in command, therefore he was the most likely to approach the Guardian with the information and come up with a plan. Whatever plan they came up with didn’t matter, as soon as he knew where the Guardian was, it was over.

Now, he just had to come up with the perfect time to take it, without hurting her too much in the process, which was going to be a challenge no matter when he did it.  There was no way she would just let him take them and while he could definitely overpower Marinette, he was hoping to do it with as little violence to her as possible.  Everything he’d observed so far about her told him she would likely already feel like she failed once he took them, he definitely would have.  Hopefully she reacted better to it than he would have, because back then, when he worked with Bruce, when he had a home, or thought he did, he would have gone into a deep depression.  He already knew it was going to happen, but he didn’t want to make it worse. She didn’t deserve that.  She didn’t deserve any of this.

The easiest way seemed to be to knock her out as painlessly as possible.  So here he was, following her, hanging back more than a respectable distance so he wouldn’t alert her to his presence and waiting for the perfect opportunity to isolate her and use the tranquilizer dart in his pocket.  And that would have been the way things went except it seems fate had a change of plans, in a way that only a crowbar to the side of the head could do.  This time it wasn’t a clown wielding the crowbar, but the effects were just as devastating.

There was a somewhat sheltered part of the park Marinette was walking through, trees on either side of a narrow walkway, shielding the area from prying eyes.  If she kept the direction she was going, she’d walk right through it, and that was where he’d strike.  He gripped the dart tighter in his pocket, prepping himself for what he was about to do to her.  He’d just picked up his pace when someone burst through an apartment building wall. Or rather, something did.  

An akuma calling himself the Shusher jumped at the kids in the park, wielding a crowbar of all things, to silence all of Paris. Each hit stole a bit of volume, until it stole their life, which to Jason’s horror, he demonstrated on Marinette. She’d acted immediately, jumping in front of the kids, giving them time to run, drawing him away from the direction they ran.  She’d dodged well for the first few swings, but after that, she’d grabbed his arm and kicked his kidney.  If the man hadn’t been an akuma, Jason was positive he’d be on the floor, but with the magical reinforcement, the akuma didn’t even flinch.  Instead, he swung hard, and with the close proximity, she didn’t have the room to dodge this time.

Jason froze at the first swing.  Why did it have to be a crowbar?  He couldn’t get his body to move.  He couldn’t react.  He couldn’t help.  And he couldn’t tear his eyes away.  The first hit knocked him out of his stupor.  The sight was horrifying.  His body finally moved, but slower than normal.  It didn’t seem to respond to him like it usually did.  He didn’t reach them until Marinette was already on the ground, no longer breathing.

He watched the blood seep out from under her until it had saturated the ground around her.  A sickeningly satisfied smile spread across the akuma’s face as he examined Jason to see what he would do.  Jason looked to the side toward the sheltered part of the park and back to the akuma. He pulled his hood over his head until the only part of him that could be seen was his glowing green eyes.

“Game on, mother fucker,” Jason growled as he sprung at the akuma, catching him around the waist and rolling toward the shielded section of the park.  He let the akuma attack him, backing him up until they were fully shielded on all sides by the trees.  Once he was sure nobody could see them and no cameras could record them, he leaped up and attacked the akuma with a volley of kicks and punches that would have left any normal human dead and unrecognizable within seconds.

He continued to attack the akuma until he heard the miraculous team arrive.  He kept the akuma distracted while Marinette’s team found her body and took a minute to mourn.  When they approached with a new found determination, he backed into the trees, effectively disappearing from the scene.  The akuma switched targets quickly, more interested in taking the miraculous than continuing a pointless fight with him.  Jason watched the akuma jump away and the team follow him.

The fight was long and messy without their leader there to guide them and them emotionally thrown off by her death, but Jason kept a close eye on the news coverage of it in case he had to step in. Every fiber in his being was pushing him to join the fight and tear the bastard to pieces, slowly and in the most painful ways possible.  But he couldn’t do that.  If he did, Talia would know what he did, that he intentionally betrayed them.  He wouldn’t last the week, let alone Marinette.

And regardless of the outcome of the fight with the heroes, the man wouldn’t survive the week anyway.  Jason was going to make sure of it.  That thought was the only one running through his head as he watched Marinette’s lifeless body strewn out on the ground, her arms at odd angles, the bruises starting to form, the spots where the crowbar hit starting to puff up.  He could no longer make out the shape of her face.  Her eyes, which had always been so bright and hopeful and passionate, were now lifeless and dull.  

It stole his breath away.  He felt a sharp pain in his chest that wouldn’t go away, worse than if he would have taken a hit to the chest from the crowbar.  Which is exactly what should have happened.  He had training.  He had experience.  He should have been the one to jump into the fight, not Marinette.  She didn’t have any of that and she jumped in to save those kids.  She knew she wouldn’t be able to hold him off for long and she still did it.  

And he wanted to be angry or surprised but he wasn’t either.  Because he’d done his research.  He’d been observing her for over a month now in and out of the suit.  That’s just who she was.  That’s who he was supposed to hurt.  God, the idea of being the cause for her eyes to dull over hurt.  But he kind of was, wasn’t he.  And his plan, if he went through with it, would do it all over again.

After an eternity, a wave of pink and red ladybugs swept through the area, returning the surrounding buildings to normal. Marinette gasped back to life. She jolted up to sitting only to slump immediately after.  She took a few shuttering breaths before reaching up to feel her ears.  “No, no, no, no,” she started panicking and searched her surroundings.

“They’re gone,” Jason answered the unasked question.

She stared at him wide-eyed, fear lacing her eyes, quickly turning to a furious glare.  He held up his hands in surrender.  “It wasn’t me.  It was your friend so she could fight the akuma.”  She looked at him doubtfully, but nodded.  She was healed after all, so the akuma must have been defeated.  She kept her eyes on him and slowly urged her body to tense in preparation for whatever attack he had planned.

“Relax.  I’m not going to fight you, kid.  I’m not looking for a fight today… except maybe that guy with the crowbar,” he growled the last part of his sentence, his eyes wandering in the direction the fight had gone.

“No!  You can’t do that,” Marinette exclaimed loudly, almost lunging at him, but collapsing back down almost instantly from the shock of movement to her system.

“Are you serious, Goody Two Shoes?  He killed you.  He beat you until you stopped breathing.  He took your life from you with no remorse and you’re going to protect him?” Jason barked.

“It wasn’t him.”  Jason scoffed at her.  “I’m not saying he’s a good guy.  I don’t know him.  But, the akumas, they change a person, morph them, make them into someone they aren’t. It isn’t them.  And I don’t want anyone dead because of me.”  She met Jason’s glare with a determined one of her own for a few seconds before she looked away.  “And it’s Marinette, not Kid or Goody Two Shoes.”

Jason narrowed his eyes at her and pressed his lips together in frustration.  “Fine. I won’t kill him.  But you need to be careful because the League of Assassins is after your jewelry.  And stop telling strangers your name.”

Her eyes snapped back up to meet his.  “What is the League of Assassins?” she asked cautiously. “And like you didn’t know my name already.  You know it. Use it.”

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes.  “And you wouldn’t believe me about the League if I told you.” He shook his head lightly, but the serious expression on his face was enough to scare Marinette.

“Try me.”  Her voice held more confidence than she felt.  Like she was challenging him.

“It’s a league … comprised… of assassins.”

Marinette rolled her eyes and huffed out a long suffering breath.  He gave her a charming grin, maybe the first authentic, happy smile he’d given since before he died.  He looked in her eyes and suddenly turned away.  His smile faded to a frown.  “There's a timer on this peace.  They want the miraculous and they want them before you defeat Hawkmoth because they know they’ll have no way to track them once you’re not using them anymore.”

He looked back in her eyes.  “They'll send somebody else as soon as I leave here.  They’ll send more.”

“Someone better?” she chuckled mirthlessly.

Jason scoffed and gave her a roguish smile.  “Oh Pixie, there is no one better.”

Marinette actually laughed.  “Well then, I've already survived the best.  I'm sure I can survive the rest,” she said defiantly.  “And I told you to call me Marinette.”

Jason smiled proudly, but quickly shook it off.  As long as Hawkmoth was active, they were in danger, she was in danger and he wouldn’t be able to protect her.  The only way out of it was to become him.  “Not unless you're willing to kill them. They're not like me.  They won't walk away when they see who you are.  They'll keep coming until you kill them.”

She looked at him curiously.  “And who am I?  Who am I to you to make you stop?”

Jason looked away, his eyes unfocused for a moment before returning to her eyes.  “You're like me, like I used to be.  But better.  You're who I should have been, who I was supposed to be.”  His head whipped around to the sound of people calling her name. “Time’s up.  Good luck.”

“Wait…” she called after him.  She tried to get up and go after him, but he was already gone before she could ask more questions.

Two weeks later she received an email addressed to Pixie with a clear video shot through a window of Gabriel Agreste transforming into Hawkmoth.  A week later, she, Chat, and the rest of the team took him down, with video documentation of the whole thing and Officer Raincomprix as a witness.  Ultimately, once they knew who to go after, it was actually extremely easy to sneak in camouflaged and immobilize him.  They just needed that last piece of the puzzle.

The justice investigation was quick, as was the trial. Everyone involved was eager to get it over as quickly as possible, and with incontrovertible evidence against him, Gabriel didn’t have much of a defense to give anyway.  Waking up Adrien’s mother took a bit longer, but with the help of the monks in the temple, she made a full recovery.  Marinette’s memories of the previous three years, however never did.

Chapter 3

Tags:

@jasonette-july-event @jayjayspixiepop @aespades @how-to-function-properly

[magicrowiswritingstuff]

"Rings" - Din Djarin x female!reader

(GIF by Me ... this was a hassle to create, I tell you guys)

Summary: You give something up that is very important to you to save Din's life.

Warning: injury/blood, a bit of violence, near-death experience, death of someone close to the reader (only mentioned)

Disclaimer: I normally try to give the reader as little backstory as possible but that wasn't an option here. So, please just roll with it.

Category: angst/fluff

Words: about 8.000

Note: Today’s my birthday (it’s already the 30th December where I live) so, have this piece of my writing as a sort of present from me to you! I must say I’m very proud to have finished this before the end of 2020. Letting you decide what I should write next and just reading your interest in my ideas definitely motivated me to write. So, thank you! <3 Note 2: I hope y’all enjoy it, I was a bit nervous because I rewrote a lot of it since it always felt like something wasn’t right or missing. The first draft was 4.000 words and I only wanted to check for any grammar mistakes and … well, you see what happened xD I also wish y’all a (early) happy New Year! I hope 2021 will be better for all of us.

_________________________________    

“Rings” – Din Djarin x fem!reader

You sat on the pilot seat of the Razor Crest, staring outside at the dark void of space speckled with star streaks. Mando was sleeping, the Child too, so you had some time for yourself that you didn't know how to spend efficiently. The autopilot was on and the ship wasn't in the need of any repairs, so you didn't even need to be awake right now but you didn't feel tired enough to fall asleep either. Absentmindedly you twisted one of your rings in your fingers to pass the time. It was a metallic-silver ring that looked like two intertwined ones, nothing engraved into it, no jewels on it, quite uneven. It was an unremarkable ring, a simple ring. Still, from all the rings on your fingers this one meant the most to you. This ring was your go to distraction when you were bored and your comforter.

 "What are you doing?" a modulated voice asked behind you. Flinching you dropped your hands in your lab and spun around in the chair to face the Mandalorian. You furrowed your brows at him to silently scold him. How was he able to move without making a single sound in that metal armor of his? After a while you shrugged your shoulders in answer. "Nothing, really." Turning back around you stared out of the window again with a sigh. "I'm just ... bored." A small smile found its way on your lips as you crossed your arms before your chest and leaned back in the chair, knowing fully well that Mando stood dumbfounded behind you because you were sitting in 'his' seat. Though as long as he wasn't saying anything there was no problem, right? You had to suppress the small snort that would have threatened to spill over your lips otherwise. "Is the Child still sleeping?" you asked instead after a while in which you hadn't heard the Mandalorian move at all. But for all you might know he could have already walked back down or he could stand right behind you. "Yes" he answered shortly, his voice still sounded like he stood in the doorway to the cockpit. So, he hadn't moved. "Good" you retorted before standing up, thinking you had tortured the silent Mandalorian enough, and sat down on one of the co-pilot seats. Mando stood still for a few moments longer before also sitting down in his seat. You two stayed silent after that and after a while you resumed back to twisting the ring between your fingers in boredom.

"Do you ever take those rings off?" His rough voice startled you once more. Perplexed you looked up to see him slightly turned towards you in his chair and just blinked at him a few times. Then you raised one eyebrow at him with a mischievous spark in your eyes. "Do you ever take that helmet off?" you shot back with a grin. You of course knew the answer and Mando knew that too so you didn't expect more than a short huff from him. He let out a snort and shook his head in what you guessed was amusement. Sometimes it was hard to read his body language but you were proud to say that you slowly got better at it. "What do they mean to you?" he tried again. "Awfully chatty today, aren't we?" you teased but you had to note that you were grateful for him seemingly opening up to you more. Mando shrugged in answer. You looked back down at your hands and the many rings adorning them as your smile fell. "Most of them mean nothing" you explained. "I just think they're pretty. I like shiny metal." You shot the man in shiny armor a side glance and a sly grin, trying to fall back into a more carefree attitude. If he understood your teasing he didn't react, though you could swear he had wide eyes underneath that helmet of his. But maybe you were just projecting. After a while he cleared his throat which made you giggle. He had understood it after all.

 "You said most of them, so which do have a meaning to you?" You grew quiet, staring back down at the ring you had twisted in between your fingers until now. The grin vanished from your features and only left a frown behind. Your throat closed up. You have never told anyone about this but some part of you wanted to share this with the Mandalorian you had grown closer to after all these months on the Razor Crest. "It's sentimental and stupid" you began and removed the ring from your finger. You held it over your face and turned it in the dim light. "My father made it." "Is he a blacksmith?" You felt your body stiffen up and slid the ring back on. "He was." The silence was awkward and filled with tension as your eyes hardened in an desperate attempt to hold back the tears. You wanted to tell him this but you refused to cry. You wouldn't cry in front of him. Everyone had lost somebody. "I'm sorry." You shook your head, quickly wiped the wetness round your eyes away so he wouldn't notice and leaned back into the chair, crossing your arms before your chest once more and closed your eyes. "Don't be." You heard the Mandalorian busy himself with switches and buttons after that. Opening one eye you saw him facing away from you, shoulders tense and squared. Another small, and this time more strained, grin formed on your lips. You forced to look more cheerful again. "And as you just saw, I do take them off, tin head." The Mandalorian huffed a short, modulated laugh as you closed your eyes again, twisting the ring, your comforter in between two fingers once more.

  _______________

  "Where is it!?" Your desperate cry echoed through the Razor Crest, alarming the Mandalorian who immediately jumped up from the pilot seat and climbed down the ladder. When he turned to face you, his heart beating painfully against his ribs, he saw you kneeling on the floor, your hair still wet from the shower you had just taken, damping the shirt around the area of your shoulders and neck. He paused, furrowing his brows in confusion. "What are you searching?" he asked perplexed, his heart slowing down again when he realized you or the kid weren't in any danger. "My ring!" you exclaimed panicked. "I took them off to shower and now I can't find the one I- the one my father made." The Mandalorian's gaze followed you as you scanned the floor, worrying that it might have rolled away. With all the boxes standing around it would be impossible to find it if it really had rolled into the clutter of materials. You huffed under your breath. Mando let his eyes trained on you before a delighted squeak caught his attention. Slowly he turned to face the kid who was sitting on his cot, admiring a shiny metal ring in his tiny hands with big, round eyes. You, however, continued to mutter under your breath, cursing yourself and swearing to never take it off again. Only when you heard Mando's chuckle did you pause and stood up to face him. You stared at him in confusion, your eyes wide. You had never heard such a soft sound leave his modulator before. He did laugh around you sometimes, that was nothing new, but it only ever was a short snort of a laugh or a dry one. Never such a soft, pure sound of delight. And then it had to be the moment your heart was racing and your hands were shaking in fear of having lost something forever. You furrowed your brows. "What's so funny?" you asked irritated. Thinking about how he would react if he couldn't find a piece of his armor, or his helmet even. You knew it was petty. After all you had only lost a ring and Mando's armor was part of his creed, deep-rooted within his beliefs. You couldn't help feeling slightly angry though.

 The Mandalorian didn't answer and instead tilted his head to his cot, your gaze following his movement. And when you laid eyes on the Child holding your ring, you had to control yourself to not slap your hand against your forehead hard. Instead, you buried your hot face in your hands and groaned. How wasn't this your first instinct? You straightened up and sat down in front of the kid "Kid, give me that please" you demanded nicely with your hand outstretched. The Child tilted his head and looked at you with his big, round eyes in curiosity. "Please" you pressed staring at the ring that hovered dangerously close to the kid's mouth. You could try to snatch it out if his grasp but you didn't want to risk him accentually swallowing it if he refused and defended his newly found treasure. Mando watched you in silence, arms crossed before his chest. He was almost about to speak up, he wanted to remind you that the kid wouldn't give it back so easily. He as well as you knew that because of the small ball from the switch in the cockpit the little one always stole. But before he could even open his mouth the kid let the ring fall into your palm, leaving the Mandalorian in a loss for words. The Child looked at you, his eyes saddened as if to apologize. You slipped the ring back on immediately, staring at your fingers that now all had their respected ring back. Then you squished the Child's cheeks in thanks and he squealed in joy. "I almost had a heart attack" you jokingly said and looked at the still silent Mandalorian as a breathy laugh left your lips. It was this moment did he realize what a strong bond you and the Child had built over those months you had now been on the Razor Crest. And it left him with a feeling he couldn't quite place in any category. Was it joy? Pride? Maybe both, maybe something else. He shook his head, directing his attention back at you as you straightened up with the kid in your arms, an exhausted smile on your lips. "Crisis overcome" you joked, the relief in your voice however was unmistakable.

  _______________

  After that little incident you never took that ring off again. All the other ones weren't that important, you didn't care if the Child grabbed one of them but the ring your father had made was of limits. But you knew that Mando was interested in it, about its story and the importance it had to you. He hadn't told you much about him so you hadn't told him much about you either when he had first approached you with the proposition to you give you a job on the Razor Crest. Back then you didn't really care who he was, you just needed some credits and the Child was cute so that was a plus. You were mostly a mechanic for the ship and the weapons at first but you soon fell for the little one’s charm and became somewhat of a caretaker for him as well. Mando had offered to raise your wage many times since you took on more than he had planned but you always had and always would refuse. You cared for the Child because you wanted to not because you were paid for it. And to be honest, the credits he did gave you for repairs on the ship and looking over the weapons every once in a while, you always ended up spending for the kid or for something that was needed on the ship anyways. So, it really wasn't that much of a job anymore to you and rather ... a strange companionship of sorts. And because of that you decided to offer a deal to the Mandalorian because you also grew more interested in your mysterious travel companion. After months on board, you wanted to finally get to know him more.

 "Since you seem so interested in my ring, I'm going to propose a deal" you proclaimed, straightening up in the co-pilot seat you had sat down earlier. The pilot seat turned to you so Mando could face you more comfortably, his helmet tilted in question. You grinned, proud to be able to at least distinguish the different head tilts he had. "I'm going to answer the questions you have if you tell me something about you in return" you continued after quickly shaking your head to sort your thoughts. You weren't obviously to the way the Mandalorian tensed in his seat, seemingly expecting to have to answer the questions that were burning on your tongue ever since you grew to like him more. So you shook your head at him as an answer to his silent question. "I'm not going to ask you something directly so you can choose what you want to reveal about yourself. I'm satisfied with anything." He nodded, agreeing to your proposition.

 You removed the ring from your finger and grabbed Mando's hand, he stiffened up again immediately. You let out a short chuckle. "Relax" you snorted and placed the ring in his palm. His head shot from his hand to your face in what you knew was shock and confusion. With a toothy grin you shrugged your shoulders. "I know you want to know more about it. You aren't that hard to read after a while" you explained with a grin. "And I know you won't eat it, unlike the Child." That made the Mandalorian laugh in agreement before looking back down at the sliver ring in his palm. The soft sound of his real laughter and not the stifled snorts he would normally only let out made you shiver for some reason. For a while he just stared at the ring in complete silence, obviously not knowing where to start. Then he cleared his throat and tilted his helmet only slightly upwards, almost unnoticeably but you caught it, knowing that he was now looking at you. "You said your father made it?" You nodded but knew he wanted to ask more, however, he seemed unsure of how far he could go so you decided to elaborate a bit more. "Yes, he did. He was mostly an armorer, though" you declared. "That ring was the first and only jewelry he ever crafted which is why it's so bumpy." You let out a short laugh and leaned back into the seat, staring out of the window and only glancing at the Mandalorian from the corner of your eye from time to time.

"He taught me a lot about different kind of weapons which is why I'm so good at repairing them, not so much with creating them from scratch like he was though." You crossed your arms before your chest and bit your lip, just letting yourself think for a moment and trying to hold back tears that threatened to spill again. "Back then I never thought all that knowledge would come in handy. I often complained because I wanted to go out and play with my friends and not look at melted metal all day" you resumed, trying to distract yourself with it. "I never thought I would need the things he taught me to save a Mandalorian's ass." That made Mando laugh once more but this time in protest. "If I recall correctly, I save you much more often" he pointed out. "You recall incorrectly" you teased but knowing the truth in his words. You would never admit it out loud, though, you liked to joke around with him too much.

 "Something else you want to know?" you asked, distracting him from your teasing since he had grown quiet after that. The Mandalorian nodded. "Yes. You don't have to answer if it's too personal or you don't want to but-" he started, seeming conflicted. "How did he die?" You gulped, not having expected that kind of direct question from him. Your gaze returned to the large window, staring at the sparkling void that was space again. "He was killed" you stated, your voice suddenly sounding rather strained. You took a deep breath and forced yourself to carry on. "He got caught in the crossfire of some stupid criminal organizations on my home planet." You saw Mando slowly nod from the corner of your eyes before he stretched out his hand to you for you to take your ring back. You straightened up again and turned to face him, reaching for it. "I'm sorry" the Mandalorian said in a soft, quiet tone. Even fainter than the chuckle you have heard from him before. You froze mid motion before shaking your head and swiftly grabbed the ring, sliding it back on your finger. "As I said once already, don't be. It's been forever ago." You suddenly felt a bang in your chest and a tightness in your heart. It still hurt. And before you could prevent it you let out one sharp sob, clutching the finger with your father's ring on it with your other hand and bend over. You missed him, even after all this time you still missed him more than anything. After that one sob only silent tears dropped down your face but you didn't hear the Mandalorian standing up. Only when you felt his hands on your shoulders did you realize that he was in front of you. Your head snapped up to stare at the black of his visor through your tears. The touch felt soothing and you realized that you craved more. You didn't feel like you were allowed to hug him tough, so you stayed put, lowered your head and tried to calm down under his gaze and touch. When the tears finally ran dry, you nodded to tell him that you were fine and he could sit down again but he didn't move. You glanced up, raising one eyebrow at him in question. He didn't say anything and just stared back from behind his visor. Then he moved his hands from your shoulders to your face, cupping your cheeks. You froze with wide eyes as he wiped away the last traces of your tears. For a few moments you just stared at him, mouth agape but before you could form any words -even though you had no idea what you wanted to say anyway- he moved away and let himself fall stiffly onto the pilot seat. You two just sat there, still facing each other but neither dared to speak up. You were shocked and flustered. And the Mandalorian probably felt the same way. Out of instinct you began to twist the ring in your fingers again. Your mind was blank. Did this really just happen or had you hallucinated all that? You shook your head and cleared your throat. "So, ehm ... what did you decide to share with me?" you asked, changing the topic and distracting yourself from your thoughts. "What secret do you want to expose?" The Mandalorian didn't move or react, probably thinking about what to say, what to reveal or still wondering about what he had done just now. After many moments in which your heartbeat was the only thing you could hear echoing in your ears he finally spoke up, saying one single word.

 "Din."

 Confused you furrowed your brows at him. "Din?" You tested the foreign word on your tongue, weighting it as if you could understand its meaning that way. But you couldn't recall ever hearing it before. You shook your head, signaling him that you didn't understand. "Din Djarin. It's my name." Your eyes widen in surprise, your mouth opened and closed without producing a sound. You didn't expect him to reveal that. "I thought you would tell me something like, I don't know, you secretly like to dance or something like that" you stammered, caught off guard. The Mandalorian laughed. Not a small, soft chuckle but a load, heartfelt laugh that made his shoulders shake as he leaned back into his seat. You joined in, his laughter was too contagious not to, you didn't hear it often enough to not enjoy it.

 "Din..." you tested the word, his name, again after the laughter had died down. A sly grin found its way on your lips, the tears from before already forgotten but the ghost if his touch still lingered. "I wasn't that far of with ‘tin‘ head then." This made the Mandalorian snort. After that the ship grew silent once more and the two of you were staring out the window. After a while you leaned forward to steal a glance at him. "Do you like to dance?" you asked curiously with one raised eyebrow, shattering the silence without a second thought. "Wouldn't you like to know" he teased back, his grin audible by the challenging tone of his voice.

  _______________

  You stood there, the Child tightly pressed against your chest in a protective manner, body frozen, your eyes wide in worry and disbelief. You couldn’t remember how you ended up there, everything had happened so fast. One minute you and Mando stood next to each other near the arena of the dirty rust planet you were on (you had just wanted to get some more food and supplies) and spoke to some guy that had approached you. His eyes had something in them that made your skin crawl and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in uneasiness but you couldn't even open your mouth to share your concerns. The next moment the guy had pressed a button on his wrist band and Mando fell down a hole, ending up inside the arena. You ran to look over the railing to see him standing in the mud in the middle of the stadium that was halfway full with hungry eyes of spectators. Even from the distance you could see the anger radiating from Din by the way his shoulders squared. With an equally as angry glare you turned to the guy. "What do you think you are doing?" you snarled, pressing the kid against you protectively with one hand and grabbing your blaster with your other one, aiming it at the guy's head. "Release him this instant!"

 "If you shoot me" the man growled, pressing another button. "Your friend will be eaten alive." You heard the screeching of a metal gate and when you turned to look at Din again you saw a huge beast had entered the arena. The thing was at least three times larger than a mudhorn and immediately aggressive towards the intruder, towards Din. The beast ran towards him, it didn't even bat an eye when the Mandalorian aimed his fire thrower at the beast’s face. It clawed at him, grabbed him and hurled him across the stadium. Din landed on his back many meters away. Slowly he rose again, probably groaning in pain but you were too far away to hear anything except for the beast’s roars. He was only barely able to dodge another attack of the monster. You turned back to face the guy, your blaster slowly lowered until it was aimed against the floor. "What do you want with him? With us?" you asked, placing your blaster back into its holster on your hip. You needed to figure something out, fast. Or Din would get seriously injured if he wasn't already. "Do you know what a spectacle this will be? Spectators will come weeks after his defeat, hoping to see something equally as thrilling!" You shuddered, wondering what kind of sick planet you once again ended up on. You couldn't believe the audacity that guy had. Trapping a Mandalorian? Did he know what the Mandalorian could do when Din would get his hands on him? You turned to look down at the stadium in concern once more, just able to witness the beast pinning Din down with one of its claws. Any sound he could have made, very cry for help that could have been directed to you was drowned out by the cheers of the audience. Any bleeding injury he might have had was covered by mud, he might have suffered a concussion too by the way the beast had slammed him against the ground but you couldn't do anything and only watch in horror. The Child in your arms grew restless, obviously worried about the Mandalorian, too. You instinctively began to rock him in your arms and shielded his eyes with your body. He shouldn't have to watch this.

 "What do you want?" you questioned, spinning back around. "There is nothing you can give me" the man stated with a disparaging look. "What do you want? I'll give you anything if you just release him!" you yelled, your eyes wide in worry. Your heart beat against your ribs so fast you feared it would spring free any moment. You had never sounded so desperate in your life before. You had never feared so much for Dins' life before. The ringmaster took his time, however, stroking his chin theatrically. Seconds seemed to last for hours as the cheers of the audience echoed in your ears, your eyes tearing up in frustration. "Please!" you pressed, desperately reaching one hand out to the man. His eyes landed on it. "How about those shiny rings on your hands? Shiny metal is rather rare here on this rusty planet" he proposed. You froze, staring down at your outstretched hand. He wanted ... all your rings? "Deal?" he asked just when another roar of the beast shook through your bones. "Deal!" you yelled immediately, anger heating up your eyes. The man nodded and pressed a few buttons. You turned and saw the beast suddenly slumped over, lying unmovingly in the mud. The audience grew silent. Din didn't move. You grabbed the railing, leaning over as your eyes darted over his unmoving for still underneath the beast claw, unable to focus as your heart hammered against your ribs. "Mando!" Your scream echoed through the arena, your blood ran cold. Oh Maker, what if you hesitated for too long? You opened your mouth to scream again when you saw movement. Din freed himself from under the monster’s claw with huge effort. You sighed, your body almost falling completely limp and only help upright by your grip on the railing. You only dared to breathe in when he stood on his legs again. "Time to pay up, girly" the guy demanded as two guards walked up to Din to probably bring him out of the arena. You slowly turned around and gritted your teeth. The sleezy man had stretched out a hand for you to put your rings in it. With your eyes hardening you began to remove the rings from your hands. You heart seemed to break when you slid the last ring from your finger and laid it in the guy's hand. But you didn't hesitate, even though you felt like you just lost a part of yourself. The man nodded satisfied and put them in his pocket.

 "(Y/N)?" You span around when you heard Din's faint voice behind you and immediately ran towards the Mandalorian. You held the wriggling Child against your chest with one hand and put your other one on Din's chest in a small attempt to steady him. "Are you alright?" you asked in a hushed tone, looking him up and down with in worry furrowed brows. You couldn't see any blood, just mud. But that didn't have to mean anything. His ribs could be broken for all you knew. Your eyes landed on his side where his clothes were ribbed. Din winced, answering your question that way. Without another second to waste you stepped to stand beside him and wrapped your free arm around his middle. He didn't even protest and just leaned against your side, as you led him away from the arena and back to the Razor Crest. "Let's get out of here. Fast."

 Back on the Razor Crest you put the Child in his orb, closing it so he wouldn't have to see his adoptive father in that state. When you turned you saw Din slumped against the wall of the ship, his chest heaving. "For the love of- Din, sit down!" you yelped, grabbed his shoulders and pressed him down against the wall so he could still lean against something. He winced again as you ran to get the med kit. You kneeled down in front of him and scanned his body for wounds but you still couldn't see anything with his mud-covered armor in the way. Your eyes focused on the whole in the clothes by his side. "I need to take your armor off" you announced, your voice wavering even with your efforts to suppress it. "Not the he-" Din began but you cut him off. "I know! Maker, I know. Save your energy, please!" You didn't mean to sound so harsh but you were unable to control your voice as you felt the panic rise in your chest. You began to try and take off his armor but your hands were shaking so much you could barely hold onto the pieces. "(Y/N)" Din mumbled and grabbed your hands. You head snapped upwards, you opened your mouth to ask him what he needed when he suddenly slumped forward. "Din?" you asked with wide eyes and shook his hand that was still loosely around your own. "Din!" He didn't react. Cursing and with tears already threatening to spill out your eyes you let go of his hands and instead sneaked two fingers underneath his helmet and to his neck, searching for his pulse. You sighed. It was still there, he was just unconscious. You swallowed the panic down, put your arms underneath his armpits and heaved him away from the wall so you could lay him down on the floor. Not the most comfortable place but the most practical. Then you quickly removed his armor. When he only wore his shirt, pants and helmet you had to force yourself to keep going as you saw the blood had already covered most of his side in a deep red. With no time to lose you opened the med kit, grabbed the scissors and cut open his blood-soaked shirt. Your breath got stuck in your throat when you saw the deep cut going down his side. You couldn't even curse, you just froze. The scissors fell down to the floor with a clutter. You could stitch up wounds and treat smaller injuries but you weren't medically trained for this. You weren't qualified... How were you supposed...?

 The squeak beside you made you jump. Your eyes darted around aimlessly until they finally locked into the Child who was standing next to you. "How did you-?" you were unable to complete the question as the kid walked towards Din. Your eyes widen in realization and you immediately held the Child in your hands to get him closer to Din's wound. He stretched out his tiny hands and closed his eyes in concentration. At first nothing happened, the silence in the Razor Crest was deafening. Then the wound on Din's side finally began to close up and your heart leaped into your throat. The kid whimpered before he went limp after the wound had closed up completely. "Good job, kid" you praised and pressed him against your chest, your voice strained but relieved. You didn't put him in the orb this time and instead in the hammock above Din's bunk. "Get some rest" you whispered and stroker over his head. He would be fine. You furrowed your brows in worry and glanced at Din. You weren't sure about him yet. You patted the little one’s head one more time and then kneeled back down next to the still unconscious Mandalorian. You took a deep breath and began to look for more injuries he might have. But luckily you didn't find any more open wounds, only bruises that would continue to hurt for a few days if not weeks even with the bacta you could put on them. And even though he wasn't in mortal danger anymore, you still had to force yourself to keep going, your hands were still shaking violently.

 After you had treated his bruises and had made sure none of his ribs were broken you somehow managed to get him into his cot where he could find some rest. With a heavy heart you had decided to retreat into the cockpit. You had set a curse and activated the autopilot after that. With a sigh you slumped into the pilot seat. There was nothing left for you to do and even though you felt the tiredness in every fiber of your body you couldn't find any rest. Your hands were still shaking from all the fear and adrenaline and your mind was racing in tight circles. You were still worried even though the kid had healed his otherwise fatal wound and you had done everything else you could have. Absentmindedly you reached for the ring, wanted to twist it in your fingers like so many years prior to get some sense of comfort only to grab nothing. You flinched and stared at your hands in shock. For the first time you really felt the absence of your rings against your skin. You gritted your teeth and tried to blink the tears away. The frustration and anger rose inside your chest as you grabbed your hair, tearing at the roots as sobs tore through your throat.

 You must have fallen asleep at some point because the next time you opened your eyes and moved in the pilot's seat pain shot through your back, making you wince. What even woke you up and why were you in the pilot seat? Confused you let out a groan and stretched your back. "Are you alright?" You spun around in shock. The moment your eyes fell onto him you remembered what had happened. "Din!" your voice was sharp but your face was painted with worry. "I should ask you that. Why are you even up here? You should be resting!" You stood up, looked him over and were about to place your hands on his chest when you froze. With your hands hovering over his chest, you stared up at him. The only armor he was wearing was his helmet still but he had put on another shirt. "I'm fine" he said but immediately let out a wince after that. You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, right. Sit down" you commented and grabbed his arms to carefully direct him to the pilot seat. You let your hands on his arms as your eyes looked him up and down. "What is still hurting?" you asked and directed your gaze back to the visor. "It's fine" he repeated and let out a strained cough. You shot him a glare that made him clear his throat. "It's just the bruises." You bit your lip, holding your breath as you feared you would start crying again. You let go of him and wanted to sit down onto the co-pilot seat to take some deep breaths before heading down to get him some medications. But he caught your hand in his before you could, pulling you back to him. His visor lowered and he stared at your empty hands, not one single ring was adorning your fingers now. He knew what you had done to get him out of that arena and to say he felt guilty would be an understatement. "Thank you." You shook your head. "The kid healed you, I... I didn't do much" you explained, patting his gloved hand that was still around yours. "No" he shook his head. "Thank you." You stared at him in confusion before your eyes fell down to your hands. You furrowed your brows as you looked at your empty hands in sadness. "You gave them all up?" his voice was quiet, barely a whisper his modulator struggled to pick up. You nodded, eyes hardening. "Yeah? They were just stupid metal anyway, don't worry" you blocked with a shrug of your shoulders. You freed your hands from his. "I'm going to check on the kid and get you some painkillers. Don't move" you warned him with a small and what was supposed to be a playful smile but it turned out more like a strained grimace. Even with the false cheerful tone in your voice, you both knew that you had lied about the rings. The traces your tears had left behind were enough prove for that.

  _______________

  To say you didn't notice the absence of your rings, the absence of one in particular, would have been a lie. Even after weeks you still missed the metallic clank they would make whenever you touched something on the ship. You missed absentmindedly twisting the one ring between two fingers. You felt their absence more heavily than when they had been on your hands. You distracted yourself as far as that was possible. The first days you busied yourself with tending Din's bruises. You had already used all of the bacta on him but you had found some salve that should help against the swelling and pain. After maybe a week he was fit again so you had to find another distraction, which was the kid. And when the kid was asleep you busied yourself with repairs on the ship until you would pass out in your own bed. Din wasn't oblivious to your state and you knew that he felt guilty. After all you had traded them in for him. And even if you told him it was alright, you knew he didn't believe you. He would continue to feel responsible for it no matter what you told him which was stupid because his life meant more to you than some worldly possession. You still missed them but you would always act the same. So, you tried to not show him your gloomy state. But he noticed it anyway. He knew what that ring meant to you after all.

 You laid in your makeshift bed -too tired to busy yourself with any work today- while the kid played by your side with something he had found. You only paid attention halfheartedly, just enough to be able to react should he try to eat it. Din had gone out to the nearest town's market, asking you to stay on the ship with the Child. You didn't put up a fight, nodded and laid down immediately after he had left. The less you had to move the better. But Din had been out almost all day now, it was already getting darker and you began to worry. You wanted to grab your comlink you had placed next to you only to find nothing. Sitting up you scanned the floor, but the squeal of the Child attracted your attention. Slowly you turned to him and stared at the thing in his hands: your comlink. You smiled at him and stretched one hand out. "Can I have that back, please?" The Child stared up at you with his big, dark eyes, tilting his head in curiosity. "You can have it back after I called Din" you added. And if he understood you or not was open to debate but he let the comlink fall into your hand either way. "Thanks, buddy" you said and stroker over his head with a strained smile before booping his nose. He squealed in delight. Chuckling you placed him on your lap and let him play with the fingers of your free hand while activating your comlink with the other. "Mando, come in. Where are you?" you asked. No answer. You waited. You were about to repeat your question when the device sprang to life. "I'm on my way back" was all he said before the comlink in your hand fell silent again. Shrugging your shoulders, you gave it back to the kid, watching him play with it more closely than before.

 You were still sitting on your improvised bed, the Child had fallen asleep in your lap, when the ramp on the side of the ship opened up. Unmoving you watched as Din walked in, the ramp closing up behind him again. He didn’t address you but he seemed strangle energetic as he put the supplies he bought away. You raised one eyebrow at him in question but he didn't look your way. Only when he was finished did he walk up to you, coming to a halt a few inches before you. Tilting your head upwards you just watched him questioningly. "I have something for you" he said and by the sound of his voice you were pretty sure he was smiling. With a puzzled look you furrowed your brows. For you and not the Child? He nodded as if he had heard your silent question. Still confused you stood up, sitting the still sleeping kid down in Din's sleeping pot. "What is it?" you asked intrigued, unable to suppress the childlike wonder shining in your eyes. The Mandalorian didn't speak up and instead just opened up his hand. You froze. "What?" With wide eyes you stared at the small silver ring lying in his palm. A ring that looked like two intertwined ones. Your mouth fell open as your eyes shot up to meet his dark visor. "What is this? It's not the original one, it's far too shiny, unworn and too skillfully made but- what?" you rambled before your eyes fell back down. Hesitantly you reached out, grabbing it with two fingers and inspected it in the artificial light of the Razor Crest. The ring was fairly similar but... "It's ... heavy" you stated. Not necessarily 'heavy' just ... it weighted more than the metal rings you had worn before.

 "It's made out of beskar." Your mouth fell open once again as you stared into the black visor. "I let it be made out of a piece of my armor" he sounded strangely flustered, body stiff and unmoving. You were unable to say anything so you just smiled at him. It was small but grateful, the first real smile after you had traded them in. You realized that this was his way of thanking you for your sacrifice. You couldn't suppress the rolling of your eyes. Then your attention went back to the ring in your palm when you suddenly noticed something engraved into the inside of the ring. "What is that?" you asked him, tilting the ring so he could see it too. He chuckled slightly. "May I?" he asked as he reached for the ring. You nodded. He took the ring to read the words out loud to you. With a puzzled look you just stared at him. "It's a phrase in Mando'a" he added. For some reason you felt your face heat up. He let something engrave in it in his native tongue? "What does it mean?" "It translates to: 'I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.' It's supposed to be in remembrance..." he didn't finish but he didn't have to, you knew what he meant. You froze, blinking unmovingly up at the Mandalorian. He stretched out one hand, signaling you to put yours inside. When you did that, he pulled you a bit closer to him and placed the ring on the finger where you had always worn the one made by your father. You were stunned and opened your mouth to thank him but he spoke up first. "I know it won't replace the actual ring but I wanted to give you something because I ... I feel responsible." Your face fell as you drew your hand back. "Din!" you scolded him harshly, making the Mandalorian flinch. You would have laughed at that if you weren't so frustrated. "Stop that! It's okay, they were only metal. Even with the sentimental value it was still just an object." The Mandalorian shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head down as if he was embarrassed. With a heavy sigh you stepped closer to him and grabbed both his hands in between yours. "It hurts to have lost something my father had made" you continued, staring unblinkingly into the black of his visor. "But do you really think I would have let you die for it? You mean more to me than some stupid ring!" Without a second thought or any hesitation you wrapped your arms around Din and hugged him tightly. The armor was a bit uncomfortable but that didn't matter to you in that moment. Burying your face into the cold chest plate you furrowed your brows. "Sometimes you're such an idiot" you mumbled into his chest, tightening your clutch on him. The Mandalorian stood there like a rock, frozen in place and probably with wide eyes. Then, very slowly, he wrapped his arms around you too. And in that moment, everything felt worth it. Silent tears dropped down your cheeks. "I thought you would die, Din!" you pressed out between gritted teeth, burying your fingers into the fabric of his cape. "I thought I-" you couldn't continue as a lump formed in your throat.

Din hummed in an attempt to soothe your tears but it only made you sob more. Slowly he pulled you off of him. Your gaze fell to the floor, silent tears still dropping out of your eyes. When you felt his gloved hands cupping your cheeks you let him direct your gaze back onto him. He had bend down a bit, so your faces were almost level. "I don't know why I'm crying" you said helplessly, your eyes darting over his helmet, searching for an anchor. "It's okay, (Y/N)" he whispered. For a few seconds you just looked at each other in silence before he pressed his forehead against yours. The coldness of the beskar made you shiver as you stared at him wide eyed. "I'm fine." You couldn’t hold back the sobs as you cupped his helmet like he cupped your face. Pressing your forehead against his, you closed your eyes. And suddenly you realized that those tears were all the words you didn't say since that day at the arena. All those worries and fears you had felt in the moments you thought he could be dead already. All those pent-up emotions finally broke free. Only now did your brain realized that Din was alright. And when your tears eventually ran dry, did the fear clutching your heart for all those weeks vanish.

  _______________

  Later that night you sat in one of the co-pilot seats again, watching Din closely as he started the ship and left the planets orbit. Or at least you tried to because your eyes often fell back down to your hand, to the ring Din let be made for you. You two didn't talk much after your tears had finally dried out but you didn't have to. Everything that needed to be said had been with that little gesture of his. With a sigh you sank back further into the seat and took the ring of, twisting it in the light to look at the engraved words once more. A soft smile found its way on your lips. "Hey, Din" you spoke up after a long time of silence in the cockpit. The Mandalorian hummed, tilting his helmet in your direction. "I want you to know that you didn't have to do that for me" you said, staring into the darkness of his visor. "I don't blame you, I never have. I would have gotten over it eventually..." "I know" he answered, turning the seat so he could face you fully. "But I wanted to." He fell silent again but because he was still facing you, you suspected he wanted to say more. So, you waited. "Do you like it?" he finally continued after a long pause. "The ring, I mean." Your smile grew as you nodded. You straightened up and reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly. "I love it" you whispered, your eyes filled with honesty and gratitude. "Thank you."

[witchygirl99]

finding a photo of your enemy as a toddler, inukag

Ask, and you shall receive.

1800 words under the cut. Not edited. Written at work so it was a shoddy rush job and everything is very vague and you'll just have to accept this.

I'll write a proper, better video gamer AU one day. For now though...

Won't You Say (You Love Me, Too)

The thing is—

The thing is that Inuyasha isn’t meant to be here. Sure, he’s a little drunk. And sure, Koga’s stupid face dared him, because Koga is both stupid, has a face, and that face is stupid. Inuyasha didn’t have to listen, though. Inuyasha could have done a billion other things, like walk away, or laugh the dare off, or – or – could have even gotten himself another drink.

That… That would have been the smarter plan.

Inuyasha hiccups, flinching at the noise. He is so not supposed to be here.

“Inuyasha,” stupid Koga hisses from below. It’s probably supposed to be a whisper. It’s not. It’s like…quieter yelling, but yelling nonetheless.

Haughtily, Inuyasha glares down at his teammate. The window that he’s jimmied open to break into the Priestess House is still open. It’s unseasonably warm for an autumn night, but it’s strangely comforting. At least, Inuyasha thinks so. That could just be the alcohol talking, though.

“Inuyasha,” Koga hisses again, “what do you see?”

He blinks, frowns, and then squints into the dark room. There’s not a ton of illumination from either the moon, or the streetlights. He thinks, dimly, that this is a…bedroom? A bedroom. This is not, in fact, the office that they thought they were breaking into.

[Read the rest below the cut.]

He takes in a deep breath, brain pinging at him worriedly. He knows this scent. It’s familiar. Too familiar. Inuyasha should know whose room he’s in and it’s on the tip of his tongue – his nose? No, that’s not a saying – when Koga makes another hissing sound.

Ugh.

“What?” Inuyasha snarls, so desperate to glare out the window at his stupid teammate and at said stupid teammate’s face that he nearly stumbles. Bracing himself on the little table underneath, he makes a point to roll his eyes when the wolf demon waves alarmingly at him. “What is so urgent that you need to—”

“I hear them,” Koga whisper-yells, because he’s stupid. “They’re just down the street.”

“What?” he exclaims, but this time it’s desperate rather than irritated. “I thought Miroku said the girls would be gone for at least an hour.”

“Well, his intel is shit,” Koga replies. “Now get out!”

So much for sneaking into their offices to find out if any of their playing strategies would be visible. The regional gaming tournament is only two days away, and every single member of the six-person Priestess team has been dominating the competition. Their battle strategies have taken weaker characters and turned them into something surprisingly efficient. It should be impossible. Character stats don’t lie.

And yet. And yet. The women of the Priestess House have made a mockery of nearly everyone there. And the worst of them?

Kagome Higurashi. The absolute bane of his existence. She came onto the scene about three years ago, rising up the ranks. Inuyasha hadn’t even given her a second thought until The Incident last year.

The Incident, in which she—

“Inuyasha,” Koga hisses again, like an angry cat. A cat. Not a wolf. Inuyasha should tell him this. Inuyasha is desperate to tell him this. “You need to jump out the window, you fuck.”

Right. The Priestess girls were coming back. Kagome would be with them and that would be— That would be bad. Not just because of the breaking and entering, or the trespassing. It would be bad because Inuyasha would have to be around her for likely more than a minute, which would mean that he’d have to stare into those dark eyes and that too-kind smile – like they’re friends, which they are not – and then—

“For fuck’s sake, I’m going to leave you,” Koga states, and that finally drills through Inuyasha’s pretty drunk skull. Can skulls be drunk?

No?

Maybe.

“I’m coming,” Inuyasha replies, pushing upwards, but he’s an idiot. The table underneath him isn’t that sturdy, and so his pressure on it to climb back out the window from which he entered sends a picture frame crashing to the ground.

“Inuyasha!”

“Oh my god, say my name one more time and I will murder you!” Inuyasha snaps. Koga is not helping, that fucking fuck. “Hold the fuck on, we can’t let them know—” And he bends down to grab the frame and put it back. Hopefully whoever’s room this is won’t notice.

And then he sees the picture in the frame, practically mocking him. It’s fucking Kagome Higurashi, no more than four years old and clinging to a small baby who looks distinctly unhappy by the entire experience. It’s undoubtedly her. While there’s more chub to her cheeks, those are the same sparkling eyes and that’s the same beaming smile. He would know that smile anywhere because it always makes him feel off-balance, confused. No one just smiles at people, at strangers. No one just smiles at you while they’re getting destroyed in one-on-one battle, and then shakes your hand with that same happy smile when they’ve lost. They don’t use that exact same smile when they see you again later in the year, at another tournament, and only stop smiling when they beat you so badly—

Oh god.

Oh fucking god.

This is Kagome’s bedroom. This is Kagome’s bedroom and he’s in her room and—

Kagome Higurashi at four years old smiles the exact same way, and she’s clinging to a little boy and that’s a big purple dinosaur right beside her on the couch. A dinosaur. She likes dinosaurs, oh god this is the worst—

“Godspeed, fucker,” Koga whispers-yells. “We hardly knew ye!” There’s the distinct sound of bushes rustling. His own teammate has abandoned him. Inuyasha is going to commit murder.

Firmly putting down the picture frame, Inuyasha starts the careful climb back out the window. He’s got one leg out, half of his body strained to reach the little lip in the brickwork he climbed up earlier. His hands grab at the sill, twisting him, and then he sees it.

It.

The purple dinosaur.

It’s on her bed, perfectly placed and disgustingly cute.

“Oh no,” Inuyasha groans, and then promptly shoves himself out the window. It takes him ten precious seconds to balance, and then another ten seconds to close the window and hide the fact he ever broke in in the first place. At the first sound of voices, Inuyasha freezes against the brick, propped up in a little corner and distinctly not looking down. It’s not a far drop, but the last thing Inuyasha needs is to lose his balance, topple into the garden, and then have the Priestess women come running to see what the fuck happened.

He waits, breath nearly held, until they start opening the door. There’s enough fuss and discussion that Inuyasha feels safe in making his escape, running away like the hounds of hell are chasing him. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back.

When he finds Koga, lounging on the couch and drinking yet another beer at their shared gaming house, it takes a solid ten seconds of very slow counting to remind himself that murder is bad.

Besides, they have a tournament to win on Saturday.

X+X

The next day, Inuyasha finds himself looking for purple dinosaurs on Amazon.

This is, well, not ideal.

“What are you doing?” Hachi asks, eyes narrowed in confusion and then widening in concern when Inuyasha flinches to hide this embarrassing lack of restraint. “Wow, okay.”

“Fuck off,” Inuyasha replies, but he’s too mortified to even make it mean-sounding. He just comes off as pathetic.

There’s a snort in the doorway, and Miroku comes bumbling in with a clipboard. He takes his duties as team manager far too seriously. “What did Hachi do wrong now?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Hachi replies, eyeing Inuyasha again. “He’s the one that went all crazy when I asked him what he was doing.”

“And what was he doing?” Miroku presses. He’s grinning like a fool because he’s the worst. The worst best friend a guy could ask for. Inuyasha doesn’t know why he’s teammates with these idiots. It’s bad enough he’s got to deal with Koga.

“I wasn’t do anything,” he tries, but Hachi’s just shaking his head.

“Looking at his phone. I don’t know.”

Miroku turns to him, a shark that smells blood in the water. “Your phone? Who are you texting?”

“No one,” Inuyasha scoffs. “Fuck off.”

This gets a nod, and he has one moment of hope that Miroku won’t push the issue when his best friend hums. “You’re right. You have no friends outside of this team.”

“I’m not his friend!” Koga yells from somewhere else in the house.

Inuyasha sighs.

“So you must have been watching something.”

“No,” Hachi argues, “he was holding his phone like this. He was reading something, or maybe scrolling?”

“Inuyasha can’t read!” comes Koga’s voice again. They all ignore him.

“You’re not on Instagram,” Miroku hums, playing fucking Sherlock Holmes. “And you’re definitely not on TikTok. Discord is just another form of talking to people, so that’s out.”

Growling, he shoves his phone in the pocket of hoodie and gets up. “I am leaving.”

“Ooh, he’s leaving,” his friend continues, blue eyes alight with something dangerously close to glee. “Fuck, it has to be about Kagome then. That’s the only time you get this pissy.”

“Ha!” Hachi laughs because he, too, is the worst.

“That’s my future wife!” Koga yells from the other room, but that’s just because he’s delusional. As if someone like Koga could fucking rub two braincells together enough to impress her. Inuyasha’s face does a thing at the very thought.

“Oh my god, it is!” Miroku cackles.

“No,” Inuyasha answers, and he thinks he does a pretty good job of remaining calm. “But fuck you, anyways.”

“Are you reading her Wikitubia again?” his friend asks and that is it—

“One time!” Inuyasha yells, storming away from the main room. “That was one time!”

His teammates’ laughter follows him all the way back to his bedroom. Shippo, rubbing at his eyes after his nap – because he acts like a literal child, it’s embarrassing – just stares at him confusedly. “What did I miss?”

Inuyasha doesn’t stop walking. “Absolutely fucking nothing.” He gets into his room, shuts the door with a disturbing amount of care, and then leaps onto his bed to try and suffocate himself with a pillow. The walls of their gaming house aren’t that thick. If he tries hard enough, Inuyasha could hear the shit they’re undoubtedly still talking about him.

One time, Inuyasha pathetically whines in his head. He was only caught staring at her Wikitubia page one time. He was sizing up the enemy. Looking for weaknesses to exploit. That’s the only reason he did it. Just like that’s the only reason he watches her YouTube videos religiously, at least once a day, and always at night once everyone else has fallen asleep.

It’s not because of anything weird. It’s because she’s the enemy. She’s the competition. Inuyasha must figure out a way to destroy her.

Later that night, when he goes back to re-watching an old YouTube video of hers – one Kagome had posted within the first month of her rise to so-called fame – that he sees it.

It.

The purple dinosaur.

Sitting propped up on some pillows, like a prized treasure.

“Motherfucker,” Inuyasha snaps. He doesn’t stop the video, though. There could be secrets. Weaknesses to exploit. Yadda yadda yadda, he’s not in denial, this is only his third time watching it, blah blah—

Kagome smiles in the video and his chest does the thing.

Inuyasha sighs. Miroku can never, ever see his browsing history.

X+X

Tagging: @ideasthatbuildcities​ @wolfcry77​ @alerialblu​ @misspepperpottss​ @sailorbabydoll92​ @willowandfog​ @amethystablaze​ @fawn-eyed-girl​ @noyourenotreal​ @hnn-wnchstr​ @liz8080​ @nsr0716​ @superpixie42​ @itzatakahashi​ @mandirox89​ @inussunflower​ @cstormsinukagblog​ @nartista​ @hopidoodle​ @princessinume​ @lavendertwilight89​ @anxietyaardvark​ @omgitscharlie​ @theinuyashareader​ @ruddcatha​ @umacaking​ @kagometaishostory​ @cammysansstuff​ @sacred-arrow-writes @sacred-arrow @gicu2 @neutronstarchild @kalcia

[ragingbookdragon]

Ill Tidings From Down Below

Night Culture AU One-Shot

Word Count: 1.3K Warnings: Explicit Language

Author's Note: I am back once again with a fic based on this piece by @bunnvoid! This time it's one with Hal and Kyle's Night Culture forms in which they're "Wraiths"! I hope you enjoy the piece and do expect a possible sequel when Bunn and I converse more over what the other characters look like and such! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

“That’s a wyvern,” he said dumbly, gazing at the large dragon currently stretching out its wings in the sun. “It’s as big as my home in New Guard.”

The royal flyer descended from the deep blue silk saddle, landing just a few feet from Kyle. “She,” he corrected. “Nezyphis is a she.” He accentuated his point by scratching a section of smooth looking scales behind her head, cooing, “Aren’t you a pretty girl, Nezyphis? Who’s a pretty girl?”

A noise rumbled through the air from the dragon’s chest, something akin to a purr and she fell flat onto her stomach, digging her chin into the dirt.

“She’s a giant dragon,” he repeated dumbly, this time catching the golden symbols lining the harness she wore; recognition bled across his face, and he remarked, “I didn’t know you were apart of the Royal Flyers, Hal.” Kyle’s lips pulled in a satisfied way as he muttered to himself, “But that does also explain why your head is shoved so far up your ass as it is. Only members of the Kings Forces act like that.”

If Hal had heard him, he didn’t speak on it as he explained, “My father was one when I was a child. I followed in his footsteps.” Hal exhaled as he leant back against the wyvern. “Besides, I only boast about it when I know there’s no one around who can connect me to the Wraiths.” He looked at Kyle. “You don’t usually come along this side of the land. Something up?”

Kyle nodded. “Bruce is calling for the members to meetup at the sanctuary. All of us.”

“Why’s that? Is there new force he’s detected in his hidey-hole?”

“I’m not entirely sure myself,” he answered. “I haven’t been out of New Guard in a few weeks, but…he seemed concerned.”

Hal snorted and Kyle swore the wyvern did too. “As if the man could ever feel something like concern. You honestly expect me to believe Spooky is spooked?”

“Hal, I’m being serious. Even Jason called on me and told me that Bruce is trying to find out where that occult magician Constantine is so he can recruit him as well.”

The flyer’s face pinched. “I don’t like that guy. He’s trouble.”

“Regardless,” Kyle waved off. “Bruce is calling us all to the sanctuary.”

Nezyphis suddenly stood on her hind legs, stepping in front of both men, and growled loudly. They both shot each other looks of suspicion then a swirling evergreen cloud enveloped them both, settling moments later to leave behind ghost-like wispy trails of smoke along their faces, arms, and legs, almost as if their entire bodies were made of the substance; humans taking on the forms of spectres.

“I don’t know what she’s growling at,” Hal murmured, voice cold and low like the hiss of death. “I don’t sense anything in the immediate area.”

“I do,” Kyle replied, his voice only an octave higher than Hal’s, but just as frigid. “And it’s evil. I can feel it slithering like the serpents in the Wayward Lands.”

“I hate that place.”

“Only because you’re intimately familiar with it.”

Hal shot him a glare. “As familiar as one can be when you’ve died.” He drew a hand along Nezyphis’ side. “Take to the skies,” he said. “You will have a better view from the air.”

She obeyed, massive wings generating gusts of wind strong enough to kick up the dirt and rocks around them as she lifted herself into the sky above.

Hal stared at the tree line, flying next to Kyle. “It’s coming from there.”

The painter looked at him. “Shall we flip a coin to see who goes in first?”

“You go first.”

“What! Why me!”

“Because I have seniority and I said so.” He nodded towards the trees. “Go, I’m right behind you.”

Kyle all but hissed at him as he stalked to the forested area, then he paused and looked back at Hal. “If I get eaten because of you, I’m going to kill you.”

“Uh huh,” Hal mocked. “I’ll be sure to send your patron your regards.”

The two walked into the forest, white eyes cautious and waiting for anything, though the further they went, the darker it got, as if the trees were finding a way to block out the sun. In mere minutes they had reached the heart of the forest, a giant clearing surrounded by a circle of trees, though the canopy blocked the light of the sun above them.

“I don’t like this,” Kyle mumbled. “I feel like I’m being watched.”

“Don’t be such a scared child,” Hal chastised. “We’ll be fine—we’ve faced worse and come out unscathed.”

The younger man stilled, resting his hand back across Hal’s chest. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” he strained to listen. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly,” Kyle remarked, turning to him. “It’s too quiet.” They both started looking around. “Where is the wildlife? The birds and deer? There’s nothing around. It’s like—”

“Like everything has died,” Hal interrupted, nodding at the center tree and Kyle’s eyes went wide when he gazed at it.

The blackened char of the giant Blightwood tree gave off the scent of rotting flesh, causing both men to turn away, holding their hands to their faces. The ground all around the tree was covered in an oozing black liquid enveloping everything in its path.

“I’ve seen necromancy before,” Hal started. “But nothing quite like this.” He shook his head, taking a step back. “This is greater and far darker than anything I’ve ever encountered.”

Kyle nodded, stomach churning with every waft of the smell up his nose. “This must be what Bruce was worried about. But…is this an extension of the other phenomena? Or is this a new one cropping up?”

Hal shook his head. “I don’t know, but we need to leave and report this to Bruce and the others at the sanctuary.” He looked to the sky, what little of it he could, and his eyes widened. “Kyle,” he breathed. “It’s sundown.”

The painter’s head cocked up, jaw going slack. “That’s impossible…it was only eleven when we entered.” He reached into his chest, hand disappearing only to come out a moment later with a brass pocket watch. “My God,” he whispered. “We’ve spent eight hours in here. But how? It’s only felt like minutes?”

“The dark magic here must be distorting reality as we know it.” He urged Kyle to turn back. “We have to get out of here. Now, lest the others send someone to find us and experience the same.”

“This isn’t good, Hal. Something is seriously wrong with this forest. And not in the good way.”

“Save it for Bruce and the others.”

By the time they exited the forest, the sky was a deep mahogany, signaling the start of sunrise, and Hal raised his fingers to his lips, whistling sharply. The cry of the wyvern sounded above them, like she’d been circling the forest all day and night and into the early morning, then she landed.

Hal climbed into the saddle, holding his hand out to Kyle. “Come on.” Tugging the other man behind him, he dug his heels into her sides. “Go Nezyphis. To the sanctuary.”

The wyvern ascended into the dark sky and Kyle lifted his hand. “Guy and John have both tried to contact us during the hours. The forest must’ve distorted the signals of our rings as well.”

“We’ll be at the sanctuary soon enough to explain.”

Kyle frowned as the land passed by beneath them, the wind whipping across their faces. “Something tells me this is only going to get worse, Hal.”

The flyer’s expression darkened as he leant the wyvern in the direction of the sanctuary. “You and me both, Kyle…you and me both.”

[pitch-pearl-void]

Hi! I love your work! Do you take requests? If so, would you mind doing something like maybe Skulker is looking for Phantom so in the middle of the day he comes to find Fenton to use him as bait while he's in the middle of class? And the class' reaction, because holy crap Fenton knows a ghost, and Phantom coming to save him? If not, that's totally fine, too!

I love the idea! I may have gotten a little carried away...whoops ^-^’ I focused more on Fenton and his classmates than on the romance, but I hope you’ll like it!

A paper football smacked directly into Fenton’s neck. Fenton cringed and gritted his teeth. In the desk behind him, he heard Dash snicker and the dull smack of two hands connecting as he high-fived Kwan. Mr. Lancer continued droning on about Shakespeare’s career, too passionate to notice Dash’s behavior—assuming he would care. He would probably just see it as another form of punishment for Fenton’s actions.

Not punishment for taking too many bathroom breaks or arriving late to class, though. No, Fenton’s days as a misbehaved student were supposed to be over, brought to an end by his and Phantom’s separation. He no longer needed to escape class to fight ghosts. He no longer needed to think about ghosts at all.

In theory…

Avoiding ghosts might have worked if Fenton could just stop thinking about his other half. 

For weeks after they had separated, they had barely spoken, but then Fenton had to go and open his big mouth, invite Phantom to play a round on his video game, driven by some instinct or by some longing he couldn’t put a name to. Phantom was just…he was his missing half. Being around him felt right. It wasn’t that crazy that Fenton had missed him, right? That they had stayed up nearly all night talking, playing, and joking? That Phantom visited almost every night, that they were rebuilding something new between them?

There was just so much to talk about, so many things to share, so many things to experience together in ways they never had as one. A month had passed with the two of them growing closer, and Fenton was losing his mind, he was sure of it.

What else but madness would have made him meet Phantom’s kiss with one of his own?

He had gotten caught texting Phantom. There was just so much they needed to figure out about what they were feeling… Lancer had confiscated his phone and moved Fenton to the front of the class where Lancer could “keep an eye on him.”

A fourth football landed without Lancer’s eye seeing a thing.

Fenton groaned and dropped his forehead onto the desk.

“Head up, Mr. Fenton,” Mr. Lancer ordered without looking.

Amazing, Fenton thought irritably as he lifted his head. He knows and sees everything except—

An invisible hand seized Fenton’s wrist, cold metal plates painfully squeezing his arm. He drew in a sharp breath. Before he could call out a warning, the ghost flew above his desk, lifting Fenton by his arm until they were at eye-level several feet from the ground.

Skulker, fully visible now, grinned viciously at Fenton’s stunned face.

“Crime and Punishment!” Mr. Lancer yelped.

The other students jumped from their seats, screaming. They ran for the door, but Skulker activated something by flicking the fingers of his free hand, and green electric bars sprang up in front of the door and the windows. The students cried out in fear and backed away from the bars. Fenton grabbed the arm holding his wrist and tried to pull himself up or at least relieve the strain on his shoulder and wrist. He grunted, kicked his feet, but he couldn’t manage a chin-up one-handed. He could barely do them with two.

“A bit overkill,” Skulker mused aloud, staring at Fenton’s classmates, “I have my bait, I don’t need hostages, but perhaps one of you lot can perform a service for me.”

“Skulker,” Fenton growled under his breath, trying to slip his voice underneath the fearful screams and yelling so he would only be heard by Skulker, “what the heck are you doing? You know I’m not half-ghost anymore, let me go.”

Skulker laughed, a cruel, creepy sound due to the robotic speakers and the natural echo in his voice. Fenton’s classmates shrank back from him. “You now serve a new purpose for me, whelp.” He swung Fenton by his wrist, Fenton’s legs swinging freely, and then, before Fenton could squeak a protest, he tossed him.

Fenton cried out and tried uselessly to activate powers that were no longer there. It took five seconds. Five seconds of falling before he landed on the cement floor. 

Air burst from his lungs. Pain and shock exploded from his back. He tried gasping in a breath, but his lungs didn’t seem to be working. He choked before managing a ragged inhale.

Skulker’s boot pressed down on his chest before he could roll over and curl into a ball. Fenton groaned, his back screaming, but he wrapped his fingers around the boot and tried to shove it off. He couldn’t. Without ghost powers, he was too weak. He was too disoriented. Had he hit his head? He thought his back took the full brunt of his fall, but his head might have bounced back.

Add super healing to the list of powers I wish I had right now, he thought woozily.

He had never hurt so much during a ghost fight, not even when he had been thrown through buildings. He had made craters in pavement and climbed out of the pit with only a sore shoulder. If this was the sort of dangers full humans faced during every ghost attack…

No wonder they always ran away.

Except Sam and Tucker… Fenton pried his eyes open and turned his head toward his classmates, desperately searching for the friends he knew wouldn’t be there. They shared a math class with Valerie during final period. Skulker must have waited until Fenton was isolated from any other ghost hunter who could help. But why?

“Where is your communications device?” Skulker asked him.

Fenton turned his head and blinked stupidly up at him. “What?”

“Your…” Skulker snapped his fingers together as he searched for the word he needed, “rectangular device. Phone. Phone! Yes, that was it. Where is your phone, whelp?”

Fenton tipped his head back and looked toward Lancer’s desk. It was probably there somewhere, but…he could see Mr. Lancer and a few of his classmates huddling behind the desk. He lowered his chin and looked incredulously up at Skulker again. “That’s why you’re attacking me? My phone? What the hell do you need my phone for?”

“Dude,” one of the jocks, Brad, hissed. “What the fuck are you doing, Fenton? Shut up and do what he says!”

Skulker snorted—or mimicked one, anyway. “Better do as the other whelps advise, child. You’re a great deal more delicate without your powers.”

Fenton hissed in a breath, but his classmates would hopefully miss the implication—if he spoke fast enough and gave them something else to think about. “Tell me what you want my phone for, first.”

Brad groaned.

“He’s a dead man,” Kwan whispered.

“To contact your ghost half, why else?” Skulker said disdainfully.

Fenton wanted to scream. “I don’t have one!” he said, the words almost tripping over each other as they rushed from his mouth.

“What?” Skulker’s menacing tone softened into something almost civil. “A phone? You don’t have a phone? Perhaps I can make one for you. I understand these devices are important to human development. And it would serve my purposes to be able to reach one ghost child through the other.”

“Stop—Damn it, Skulker! I don’t have a ghost half!” Fenton tipped his chin up and raised his voice. “I am one hundred percent human!”

“Oh yes, now,” Skulker grumbled bitterly. “You two have cheated me of a unique specimen.”

“Wow, sorry,” Fenton deadpanned.

“What the fuck are they talking about?” Dash demanded. He tried to whisper it, but his high-pitched voice easily carried his words to Fenton and Skulker. “What the hell is a ghost half? Why is that robot ghost after Fenton?”

Fenton glared pointedly up at Skulker, trying to communicate a silent “look what you did” reprimand, but Skulker only moved his head in a way that made Fenton think the tiny ghost inside it was rolling his eyes. A blade shot out of the armor’s wrist. Skulker touched the flat side to Fenton’s cheek, and Fenton drew in a breath, the cold touch of the blade spreading throughout his body.

“Your phone, whelp,” Skulker said, once again sounding menacing. A few of Danny’s classmates wailed in terror.

Fenton snapped, “I don’t have it!”

Skulker twisted the blade, the edge pressing into Fenton’s cheek. “Last chance, whelp.”

“Wait!” Lancer stood from behind his desk. Paulina and a couple other students stood with him, looking petrified. “Stop, stop!” He lifted Fenton’s phone above his head. “I have it! You can have it if you release him.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” Skulker blade moved away from Fenton’s cheek, however, allowing Fenton to breathe a little easier. “Awaken it for me.” Skulker’s false lips spread into a wicked grin. “We shall be making a little phone call…”

Fenton narrowed his eyes.

“Uhh…” Lancer began, uncertainly. “It’s, uh, it’s asking for some sort of password?”

“His password is numerical!” Mikey called from within the crowd of students clustered around the door. “A pin! Seven-eight-nine-zero.”

“Hey!” Fenton cried. “How do you know that?”

“You have other things to worry about, Fenton!” Kwan reminded him pointedly.

Lancer typed in the pin number and then stared down at the phone like he was facing down a complex puzzle. “How, uh, do I make a phone call on this thing?”

“Oh here!” Paulina snatched the phone from Lancer’s hands. “You just press the little phone icon, see?” She glanced up at Skulker and seemed to shrink in on herself, her confidence faltering. Fenton couldn’t really blame her. He remembered being terrified of Skulker the first few times he had met him too. “Um, what’s the phone number?”

“Child?” Skulker nudged Fenton’s cheek with the flat of his blade again.

Fenton kept his head turned toward Paulina and glared at Skulker from the corner of his eyes. “What?”

“The phone number, human child.”

Fenton snorted. “You haven’t said what you want to call him for yet.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Spell it out for me.”

“In my efforts to study my prey’s habits, I have noticed the two of you getting…” Skulker tilted his head, “closer, shall we say? You have been spending a great deal of time together, lately. I don’t know how far things have gotten, but the signs of a ghost in love are fairly obvious. That is a weakness I can use. You are a weakness. Once he knows I have you, my prey will come to me.”

“You should change your name to Stalker,” Fenton grumbled, blushing.

The blush worsened as his classmates made little “ohhh” sounds of dawning understanding.

“Fenton has a ghost boyfriend,” Mikey said, his laugh too strained to be natural. “That must be what they mean by ghost half!!”

“Idiot,” Kwan groaned. “If this ghost doesn’t kill him, his parents are going to.”

Dash cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Hey, Fenton, maybe you should dump your kinky ghost boyfriend before you get the rest of us killed over it!”

“Oh, fuck you!” Fenton shouted back, turning into the blade in order to glare at his classmates. “We’re not dating! We just kind of—He just…it’s complicated!"

Skulker snapped, “Whelp!” and turned Fenton’s head with the blade until Fenton’s glare had resettled on the ghost. “His phone number. Now!”

“No!” Fenton snapped back. “Forget it! I’m not going to let you use me as bait so you can—”

He cut off with a shriek of pain as the point of Skulker’s blade sliced across his cheek. Hot blood gushed from the wound and spilled toward his ear. He writhed under Skulkers boot and reached up to cover the wound, but Skulker’s blade slapped his hands away. Fenton’s classmates were screaming again, the tentative calm Fenton’s behavior had inspired shattered by the sight of so much blood. Tears streamed from Fenton’s eyes. Skulker slapped his hands away again before he could touch his face.

“You!” the hunter pointed at Paulina who quailed and shrank into Lancer. He protectively wrapped his arms around her. “Those devices can capture photos, can they not? Take a picture of this and send it to my prey as well.”

Paulina, trembling, shrieked, “I don’t know the number!”

Skulker looked down pointedly at Fenton. “Shall I give you a matching gash on your other cheek or will you cooperate for once, whelp?”

Fenton glared up at him and gritted his teeth against the pain.

“Look through his contacts!” Mikey shouted.

“Stop—” Fenton gasped in pain as speaking stretched the wound in his cheek. “—Stop helping him!”

“We’re not helping him we’re helping you, you suicidal maniac!” Dash shouted back.

Paulina’s hands shook as she maneuvered through Fenton’s phone. “What would the contact be? What—what do—h-how will I know which one is…?”

“He was texting someone during class,” Lancer said quickly. “That may be your best bet.”

“Mr. Lancer!” Fenton protested.

“Alright!” Paulina nearly sobbed. “Alright, I got it!” She pressed the phone to her ear, and Fenton squirmed under Skulker’s boot.

“Paulina, don’t!” he pleaded. “He’s just going to spring Skulker’s trap!”

“Hello?” Paulina gasped into Fenton’s phone, apparently ignoring Fenton. “Are you Danny’s ghost boyfriend, er ghost half? Yes, my name is Paulina, you have to come quick, there’s a ghost here!” Fresh tears escaped her eyes. “I don’t know his name!”

Skulker grinned. “He’ll know me once you take our picture.” He nudged Fenton’s chin with his blade, forcing his head to turn toward Paulina so his right cheek rested on the floor and the wound on his left cheek was exposed to the air. “Behave, child. Let him see the injury.”

“Uh, hold on,” Paulina told Phantom, “he wants me to take a picture…I don’t know! I’m just doing what I’m told!”

Fenton glared at Skulker from the corner of his eyes as best he could. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“I know.” Skulker grinned viciously down at him. “It’s part of the fun.”

Fenton heard the camera on his phone make an artificial shutter sound and clenched his jaw, the wound on his cheek shrieking.

“O-okay,” Paulina stuttered. “I’m sending it.” She pressed the phone to her ear again. “Did you get it yet? Danny’s bleeding really bad. If you can find Danny Phantom, tell him we need his help!”

Skulker tipped back his head and laughed. “Yes! Tell Phantom to come at once!”

“Oh!” Paulina exclaimed. “You got it? Yeah, it’s a lot of blood, but—” Her expression froze. Her eyebrows furrowed and she pulled the phone away from her ear so she could glare at it. “He hung up on me!”

Skulker chortled. “Excellent! He will rush over here at his fastest speed, don’t you think, human whelp?”

“Probably,” Fenton bit out through his clenched teeth.

Skulker removed his boot from Fenton’s chest, and Fenton didn’t waste any time rolling onto his stomach. He frantically pushed himself onto his hands and feet and scrambled toward his classmates huddled by the door. They backed away from him like he had some sort of disease. Skulker fired something at him—a net—and Fenton crashed to the ground again. He screamed his frustration and struggled against the ropes. Kicking. Pulling. Twisting.

“Damn it!” he howled.

Skulker laughed delightedly at his efforts. He stomped toward Fenton, his mechanical boots making hissing, clicking noises as he approached. “I see you are as fierce as ever, whelp.” He grabbed ahold of the net and lifted Fenton into the air. Fenton hissed as his weight caused the thin ropes to bite into his skin. “But woefully weak. I wonder…if I tied to you to your other half, would you slow him down?” His grin grew more vicious. “That would make for an interesting game.”

Fenton wiggled in the net, trying to get comfortable as he glared at Skulker. “You’ll have to catch him first.”

“It’s only a matter of time, now. His protective instincts and weakness for you shall be his downfall this day.”

Fenton growled through his teeth and kicked Skulker’s chest as best he could through the net.

Skulker snorted. “That tickled…”

“Are you guys sure this was a good idea?” Nathan asked anxiously. “I mean, inviting another ghost here? Isn’t that just going to result in this classroom turning into a battlefield?”

Fenton’s classmates murmured uneasily to each other.

“Not if Phantom gets here first,” Dash declared, his voice only trembling slightly. “He beat this ghost before! He can do it again, no problem!”

“Would you like to tell them, or shall I?” Skulker asked Fenton in an almost conversational tone.

Fenton scowled at him and slumped in his unwelcome hammock. All of his and Phantom’s efforts to keep whatever was building between them secret until they could figure things out for themselves had just been shattered by Skulker’s attack. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Go ahead. They’ll find out when he gets here, anyway…”

Skulker threw his arms outward, Fenton and his net swinging from his fist. Fenton hissed his name in complaint, but Skulker ignored him. “I am Skulker!” Skulker declared in a ringing voice they probably heard from several classrooms down. “The greatest hunter in all the realms! I have vowed to capture the ghost child known as Danny Phantom, and now thanks to all of you and Phantom’s other half…” Skulker raised the net and grinned victoriously at Fenton’s scowling face, “my prey is at this moment speeding toward my trap…”

The quiet that fell over Fenton’s classmates was deafening, tension adding an oppressive pressure to the air so that it felt like Fenton was suffocating.

It was broken by Paulina.

“No!” she screamed. Fenton flinched, assuming her reaction had to do with him and Phantom’s feelings for each other, but Paulina proved him wrong as she fumbled with Fenton’s phone. “No, no, no!” She pressed the phone to her ear. “Pick up, pick up, pick up! Don’t come here, Ghost Boy! Don’t come!”

Skulker laughed. “It’s far too late for that! I have studied my prey well. His temper is always at its most irrational when one he cares for has been harmed.”

Fenton pushed against the confines of his net again. “You bastard,” he growled.

“It’s just Fenton,” Dash said weakly. “Phantom wouldn’t risk everything just for Fenton, would he?”

“But Danny is his ‘other half,’” Mikey pointed out. “That’s what the robot called them. It might be a ghost thing? Danny could be special to him.”

“What, like soulmates?” Kwan asked, sounding almost intrigued.

“It’s Fenton!” Dash gestured at Fenton’s hunched form inside the net. “Just look at him! There’s no way he could be Phantom’s…other half. Soulmate. Thing. No!”

Others murmured their assent.

Fenton groaned. “I can’t decide if being called Phantom’s soulmate is better or worse than the alternative,” he whispered.

“Better,” Skulker whispered back. He lifted his other arm and stared at the screen on his wrist, only partially listening to the humans. “It’s far more amusing.”

“Yeah, for you.”

“Excuse me?” Amanda shoved Dash’s shoulder and pointed at Fenton. “Danny can’t be Phantom’s soulmate?’ Who here has been acting like a total badass? Who just bantered with a ghost while they were threatening him? Who got his cheek slashed because he was trying to be a hero? Like, uh, hello? Are you guys blind? They’re practically the same person!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Fenton groaned.

Skulker chortled.

“Fenton is nothing like Phantom!” Dash objected, sounding offended.

Fenton struggled in his net and searched the classroom for signs of Skulker’s trap. The only thing Skulker had activated were the glowing bars in front of the door and windows, but that was just to keep the humans trapped in the room, wasn’t it? That was why they only blocked physical exits and not the walls or ceiling.

Fenton narrowed his eyes. None of his classmates had actually touched the bars, they had only backed away from them. Skulker might have used the bars for the fear factor, not as a true barrier, and if that were the case, it made sense for them to only block the door and windows. He only needed to stop the humans from getting or receiving help.

“Hey!” Fenton shouted. “Someone run through those bars and get Sam and Tucker!”

His classmates stared incredulously at him. None of them moved an inch.

“It’s far too late for that as well,” Skulker said gleefully. “My prize shall be here in five, four, three, two…” he paused dramatically, “one.”

Phantom flew through the ceiling, his hands already coated with green energy. His head jerked left and right as his eyes searched the room, coming to a stop on Fenton in his net. His eyes widened and his jaw clenched. Fenton swore. His classmates shouted, some cheering Phantom’s name, others screaming for him to run, but Phantom’s eyes narrowed and he looked too pissed to think about running.

“Skulker,” he growled, his glare moving toward Skulker, “let him go.”

“That would be counterproductive.” Skulker lifted Fenton in his net and gave it a little wiggle. Fenton grimaced as he swayed. Phantom’s gaze jerked back to him. Something dropped to the floor, but Phantom’s eyes had become fixated on Fenton again. “If you want him, Ghost Child, come and get him.”

Phantom bared his teeth.

“Don’t do it!” Dash shouted.

Phantom shot forward, one fist pulled back for a truly epic punch. Skulker floated back a few steps, and as soon as Phantom flew over the space where they had been standing, a beam of light shot up from a small cube on the floor. Phantom’s eyes widened. Fenton didn’t understand until a vortex began to pull Phantom down into the cube.

“The Fenton Thermos,” Fenton gasped.

“Inspired by it,” Skulker corrected. “I have endured the indignity often enough to replicate its effects.”

Phantom fought against the pull, struggling to fly out of its range, but the cube floated off the ground and followed his movements. The tip of his spectral tail touched the cube, and in moments it sucked him in completely.

“Phantom!” Fenton and his classmates shouted. He struggled against his net, pulling on the ropes and kicking his feet outward.

Skulker laughed his triumph as he walked toward the cube. Fenton stared in horror at the little black box, his chest aching. Phantom had been captured because of him. It wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but…it wasn’t looking good. Skulker bent down and picked up the cube. He looked between it and Fenton, a wide, vicious grin splitting his face.

Fenton glared at him. “What?”

“How long has it been, human child?” Skulker asked him. “Two years?”

“Just about,” Fenton mumbled.

“It has been a long hunt…”

It’s not over yet, Fenton thought. He tried fitting his fist through the gaps between ropes, but it was no good. The holes were too small. “You cheated!”

Skulker’s eyes narrowed. “Cheated?”

“Cheated!” Fenton repeated.

“I baited and set a trap!”

“You cheated!” Fenton looked at his classmates. They were muttering and staring at the black cube in Skulker’s hands like they had just witnessed something impossible. “Right, guys? He cheated!”

They stared back at Danny with haunted eyes until Dash surged forward, pointing angrily at Skulker, and shouted, “Cheater!”

Starr gasped and exclaimed. “Yes! Cheater!” Her voice took on a practiced tone, and she chanted, “Cheat-er, cheat-er!” until the rest of the class caught on and began to chant it with her.

“I did not cheat!” Skulker yelled, offended, but the class continued chanting. He growled viciously, growing increasingly infuriated by the witnesses to his victory calling foul. It was exactly the kind of pride snatching maneuver Fenton had hoped for, and he waited anxiously to see if Skulker would take the bait.

He did.

“FINE!” Skulker roared. He lifted his arm higher and glared at Fenton as the other students quieted and shrank back from him. “I shall give you and your other half one last chance, whelp.” Slowly, he spread his metal lips apart in an angry grin. “I believe you know how this game is played. Let’s see how well Phantom can keep you alive when he’s tethered to you.”

Fenton sucked in a breath. It wasn’t unexpected, given Skulker’s previous comments, but all the same it was frightening, being hunted. He looked at his classmates. They were his only chance to leave a message, and he shouted, frantic, “Tell Valerie!” before electricity arced through the net into his body. He screamed, arching his back, before everything went mercifully black.

 I would absolutely love to continue this as an actual short story. Like, you’ve all heard of “Danny’s classmates taking a field trip into the Ghost Zone,” now get ready for “Danny’s classmates leading a rescue attempt into the Ghost Zone to free Phantom and his other half/boyfriend Danny!” Ahh it would be so much fun. Valerie would place herself in charge (because she’s actually been through this before, and because she won’t say why they all assume its because she once dated Phantom too which pisses her off) and she and Sam would butt heads a bit on what to do. Tucker would 100% brag about how much he knows about the GZ to Dash and friends like “yeah, that’s right, I’m a badass” but they’re all still reeling over the idea Phantom is 1) gay 2) dating Fento-loser.

Phantom and Fenton, meanwhile, are doing their best to stay alive on Skulker’s island while also dealing with the romantic tension between them.

I would absolutely love it. I have no idea how I would pull it off. Action scenes are my weak point, and I’m not entirely sure how I would sneak all these kids past the Fenton parents, if Jack and Maddie should even be told, if Lancer should go with the kids, or even if they could all fit in the Specter Speeder. RIP my idea lol. I think I might put it up on Ao3 just as a potential story some day? I’m not sure. It needs work, but I made leavemyelevator-alone wait long enough for this prompt lol

[cotccotc]

♡ 10:56 am ; safe space

set in the domus amoris universe !

genre/s: comfort, angst > fluff, established relationship au, hyunjin x gn reader

wc: ~2.6k

warnings: non-sexual nudity (mc, not hyunjin; vague descriptions of body parts), anxious/depressed/self-deprecating thoughts, in-depth description of a panic attack, mc has hair that’s long enough to brush

a/n: this one’s based on a suggestion by the lovely @crscendoforsung​ !! i wanted to make it a bit angsty for ya since,,,, i Know You :) it’s also a pretty exact account of an experience i had as well so.. that’s fun... lol. if you ever have a suggestion for the series feel free to check out the suggestion box !!

there are always going to be times where nothing seems to be going your way. sometimes days, sometimes weeks, sometimes years… and it’s hard opening up about those things. those things that eat away at your psyche until it seems as though there’s little to nothing left; the things you never say out loud for fear they might manifest themselves; the things you even dread telling the man you love for fear of worrying him. it’s times like these where you don’t want to be heard or seen, but rather to curl up into a ball and let everything you need to out of your system. it creeps up on you. right now, as beads of hot water pierce your back and your face rests in your trembling hands, you’re reminded of this feeling. it plagues your body, haunts your thoughts… and honestly, you’re not sure how it happened. but you know that if hyunjin sees or hears you, he’ll take on your troubles as if they’re his own. so you stay quiet.

you’re honestly just confused. angry at yourself. frustrated. you’d caught yourself staring into space again. it happens every so often, but each time it does you get more and more fed up with your lack of self control. your dazed, dissociated mind will get the best of you at times. it can get to the point where, like today, you can be in the middle of a simple, everyday task - taking a shower, brushing your teeth, sometimes even doing work - and you’d just be stripped of your attention span. and, it can last for as short or as long a period of time as it so chooses. it makes you feel like you’re out of control of your own body; as if the vessel in which your spirit is contained is caving from the outside in, crushing your spirit in the process.

heart racing against your thoughts, shallow breaths rising and falling at a staggering pace, fingers trembling as you fold your hands together and squeeze them closer in a weak attempt to make it all go away. you begin to wonder why you’re like this. how you can go from applying shampoo to your hair to feeling the water grow lukewarm as your mind wanders into oblivion. oftentimes, you blame yourself, citing a simple lack of intelligence for the way your head takes over like this. you don’t even know when it began. prior to moving in with hyunjin, of course, but… were you always like this? was this always how your brain decided to occupy itself? have you always been so spacey… so vacant, so stupid? why are you like this? why are you so broken? why won’t it all just slow down or stop? why don’t you just-

whoa. where did that come from?

these thoughts strike you, almost as if you’ve been slapped in the face. your cheeks heat up as a stinging sensation overtakes your eyes. tears. droplets of disparity, dripping down the drain. what feels like a chill courses through your body, making your bones shake and joints buckle. seeing stars, your knees give out, sending you to the porcelain floor of the bathtub. you sit with your legs folded, leaning over with your face in your hands. heaving breaths, hot tears, piercing beads of water shooting out from the showerhead to the sensitive skin on your back. shaking, shuttering, ashamed. especially since you’ve given up trying to stay silent.

you hear the bathroom door creak open. shit. but just like any other instance, you can’t seem to stop convulsing nor crying.

“baby…?” you hear hyunjin’s soft, youthful voice calling to you over the running water. “baby, are you okay?” he must’ve heard you fall.

you try to catch your breath. and, of course, you fail. just like you failed to pay attention to the task at hand, failed to conceal the breathy sobs over which your lover must now worry… you’re choking on your own futility. “no,” you whisper, your face still contorting in your hands.

before you can object, a hand reaches into the shower and shuts the water off before hastily pushing the shower curtain to the side. now, more than ever, you’re hyperaware of the volume at which you’ve been sobbing. the chill of the air rises over your naked form but is quelled by hyunjin’s warm hand against your back. he’s taken a seat next to the tub, a look of concern and shock spread across his face. you can’t even look at him. you can’t bear the fact that he can see you right now. your physical bareness doesn’t even concern you. it’s the emotional nakedness that sends you deeper into your descent.

but oh, what it’s doing to hyunjin.

he feels so helpless. so terrible. so guilty. he doesn’t even know what happened, and yet his only wish is to be able to go back and stop it from happening. guilt, responsibility, fear... it’s enough to force a tear from his own eye, as well. “what’s wrong,” he whispers, his voice trembling as his face tightens and lips quiver. you can’t help but let out another bout of choked sobs and convulsions. he leans into the tub, gently pulling your wet hair out of your face and draping his arm across your bare back. he presses a kiss to your spine, then rests his cheek against you. as more teardrops emerge from his eyes, he strokes your hair. “breathe,” he murmurs. under his breath, closing his eyes, he adds, “please, breathe.”

mind you, this isn’t the first time he’s seen you like this. maybe not in the same circumstances, but you’ve had similar episodes while out in public, while doing work, or even while trying to fall asleep. however, when he’s around, he’s able to help calm you down before things get this extreme. many times, his prolonged embrace alone is enough to drag you out of your daze and back to reality. but every time he holds you close enough to feel your heart fervently pulsing within your chest, his pangs for you. whenever your heartbeats are not aligned, he wants nothing more than to trade. 

you do as he says. you try to concentrate on your breathing. though your mind is still fuzzy, you rely on your senses. with the aid of hyunjin’s caresses and directions, you’re able to begin breathing at a semi-regular pace. though a stutter remains in your breathing pattern, everything seems to have slowed. he lifts himself from you, leaning toward your face to get a better look at you, regardless of the agony your aching expression puts him through. “you did so well,” he mutters. you sit up, wrapping your arms around yourself as the air hits your wet skin. “here,” he says, quickly rising to grab a towel from the metal rack on the wall. wrapping it around you, he holds onto your arms as you use the side of the tub to lift yourself up to a standing position. he helps you step out of the tub and onto the floor. despite the humidity of the confined room, the tile beneath your feet is chilling.

you sniffle, wiping your face with your hands. he takes two fistfuls of the towel and replaces your hands, patting your face dry. that’s when you notice he’d been crying too. you look into his pink tinted eyes with an overwhelming twinge of guilt. “i’m-” you croak. but he knows what you’re going to say.

“don’t be sorry,” he interjects, looking deeply into your eyes and cupping your face in his hands. “please?” you nod, averting your eyes from him. he makes you so happy. so comfortable. so at home. and yet, you feel so embarrassed. he’s seen you like this before. but the feeling never seems to lift. he licks his lips, placing a kiss against your cheek before travelling across your jaw and down to your neck. then, he begins patting you dry with the towel, gently brushing over your skin with the cotton fabric.

you’re so grateful for him. he shouldn’t have to do this for you. he shouldn’t have to care for you as if you’re a child; you should be able to do basic tasks. it’s all you can think about as he travels down your body, blotting the water off of you. so much so that it brings back the wetness in your eyes. you think you’re undeserving. you think you’re hopeless.

he stands back up, getting ready to towel dry your hair. that is, until he sees the single tear dripping down your cheek. his stomach drops. he wonders if his efforts aren’t enough. he wonders if he deserves to be the one who takes care of you. if he can’t do that, what can he do? at least that’s what he’s made himself believe.

so much unspoken.

“love, what’s wrong?” he asks, tilting your chin toward him with his thumb and forefinger.

“i…” you start. you don’t even know where to begin.

you glance away, eyes flicking to the clothes you’d picked out to wear after you showered - the main component being one of his t-shirts. he follows your eyes, hastily setting the towel down and grabbing the garments. “let’s put these on. i’ll help you.” you nod, sniffling. he gives you a bittersweet smile, crouching down to help you step into your underwear. once your undergarments and shorts are on, he picks up the t-shirt and smiles to himself. he didn’t quite recognize it as his own before. it’s a mixed feeling. he helps you into the shirt, his warm fingertips pressing against your waist as the fabric settles atop your form. his thumbs rub back and forth against the material. it’s a small gesture, but it’s soothing.

you shakily place a hand against his chest. “thank you,” you mumble, your voice still small and strained.

he gives you a half-smile before taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss onto your knuckles. you know he’s trying his best. and he knows you are too. that’s why he doesn’t prod. instead, he grabs the towel from the counter and a hairbrush with his other hand. “come on,” he says, leading you out of the bathroom and into your shared bedroom. he takes a seat on the bed, his back resting on the headboard. he taps a hand to his thigh. you climb onto the bed, then onto his lap, facing him. “close your eyes, baby.” and so, you do as instructed. his efforts are beginning to elicit more endearment than guilt out of you. it’s dawning on you that he’s enjoying the surface level elements of taking care of you just as much as you’ve relished in receiving them. he wraps the towel around the back of you, placing it atop your wet head. as he massages your scalp with the towel, rubbing and compressing your dripping locks, you hum in relief. it feels so warm. he makes you feel so warm.

you take a deep breath. he smiles at you, even though you can’t see it. he thinks you’re adorable. and he’s relieved you can breathe again.

after he’s done drying your hair, he tosses the wet towel down onto the floor beside the bed and grabs the brush. placing his other hand on your waist, he says, “tell me if it hurts. if i’m hurting you, i’ll stop.”

opening your eyes, you let out a small giggle. “you could never hurt me,” you reply. and, it’s true. he never has, and he never will. you pinky swore on it a long, long time ago.

a breath escapes his nose as his smile grows wider. “ok.” he tilts your head to the side. ever so gently, he begins brushing through your still-damp hair, carefully and slowly untangling any knots. eventually, he turns your head to the other side so he can reach more of you. once your hair has been fully detangled, he places the brush down on the bedside table in favor of wrapping his arms around you, pulling you closer to him. “all done.” you encase his neck in your arms, resting your head against his shoulder. the pads of his fingertips roam all over the expanse of your back, lulling you into a relaxed state of mind.

“thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

“you don’t need to thank me.”

“yes i do,” you respond, sitting upright. “you shouldn’t have to do all of this for me. but you did. but you do.”

he cuts you off slightly, hands passionately gripping onto your hips. “i do this because i want to. we take care of each other. you would do the same for me.”

you roll your eyes. not because you’re angry or annoyed, but because what he said is true. you would do the same for him, any time. but that’s because he deserves it. why do you? “yeah, but…” you trail off, eyes drifting to the side as that familiar tingling arises in your face. your lip trembles, signalling to hyunjin that, once again, his efforts were ineffective.

“baby, what’s wrong?” he whispers, placing a hand on your cheek to draw your face back to center. you look at him, your brow furrowed and a tear escaping your eye, reaching up to hold his hand as he strokes your cheekbone with his thumb. he wipes the salty remnants of your pain off of your skin, though the sentiment remains.

you climb off of his lap. he lifts the covers and blankets so the two of you can slip inside. laying down and facing him, you let out a deep sigh.

“it’s just… it happened again,” you say. he pulls the covers over your bodies and shifts closer toward you.

he tucks your freshly brushed hair behind your ear before placing his hand upon your side. “mhm.”

“and i couldn’t concentrate on anything else. i forgot where i was, and what i was doing…” you sniffle. you don’t want to send yourself back into such an emotional state, but you want to help him understand how you’re feeling. so, you do your best to explain. everything. everything from zoning out to your body becoming fragile, and even to the feeling of worthlessness that accompanies it all.

he comes close to crying again, but he pulls himself together for your sake. he doesn’t want you to feel guilty for feeling. instead, he pulls himself closer to you and presses a kiss upon your cheek. “i’m proud of you, you know,” he says before kissing your face again.

“why?” you ask, chuckling with a slight smile spread across your lips.

“because!” he objects. he tickles your side, prompting your smile to widen and laughter to continue. “you were brave enough to tell me.”

“i thought i was a baby,” you tease. you playfully grab his hands off of you… but you know you won’t get too far.

“you’re not a baby.” he climbs on top of you, pinning your arms above your head and placing a trail of kisses along your cheek and neck. then, with his hands traveling back to your sides to tickle you some more, his voice deepens. “but you’re my baby.” you can’t help but giggle, bombarded with kisses and blushing from the contact. your reaction only eggs him on. he smiles into the crook of your neck before leaving a series of kisses against it, tickling you all the while. 

sure enough, you’ve forgotten all about what had happened just an hour ago. it’s as if nothing occurred at all. not because you’re distracted, not because you’ve dismissed it, but rather because you felt comfortable enough with your lover to share your deepest, most vulnerable inner turmoil. and he received you with open arms, an even more accepting heart, and a trail of sloppily laid kisses that’ll leave a swarm of butterflies aflutter in your stomach for days to come.

he succeeded, finally. and the both of you couldn’t be more pleased.

another note: if you’ve experienced something similar to this, please know you’re far from alone, and i’m always here if you need someone to talk to. i hope this can comfort you in some way. love u ♡

tags: @magglesx, @crscendoforsung, @stayndays, @hanniiesuckle17, @leggomylino, @freckledberries, @pixielix, @skzctnightnight, @serenityswords-main​, @childofthecosmos, @changbinniee​, @kpopscape​, @skzwriternet, @hyunsins, @sleepylixie​, @ncityluvvs​ (send a 🍓 in my ask box to be added for skz !)

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