#(also thank you fray for the link!)

[oldxenomorph]

just finished watching shin godzilla and ohhhhhh my god. ohhhh my godddd. hideaki anno, king, you've done it again.

[ellecdc]

the pilot - Pretty Woman

slow burn poly!wolfstar Pretty Woman (1990) au: established wolfstar, escort!reader, side jegulily, eventual dorlene, political heist-type situation, depictions and descriptions of sex-work

I // II

cw: discussion of experienced transphobia, discussion of someone else's homophobia, the Black Family, writers poor understanding of UK politics, mature themes and discussion of full service sex work [3k words]

link to series masterlist

“Absolutely bloody fucking not, are you out of your mind?” 

“Cas, please.” You begged as you followed your roommate out of her room and into the kitchen.

“You have plenty of bags, why do you need to borrow mine?” She grumbled as she flicked on the kettle. 

“The room is booked at the Ritz, Cas; I cannot walk in with my fraying duffle.” 

Her movements paused as she turned to look at you incredulously. “The Ritz? Fucking hells, babe, where’d you find this guy?”

You shrugged your shoulders helplessly. “He found me.”

“Blimey…if he has enough money to throw around for a casual stay at a hotel like that and-”

“Me.” You finished for her. “I know…I- I’d like it to go well, in case…”

“In case he decides to book again.” 

You nodded solemnly at Dorcas who continued staring at you, only looking away when her water came to a boil. 

“Fine. Fine…okay, you can borrow my Prada bag.”

You squealed as you hugged your friend from behind as she prepared her tea, ignoring her grumbling on account of the pleased smile she had on her face.

“Thank you, Cas. Really…this….this could be good for us, yeah?”

Her face softened as she turned to look at you as you backed towards her bedroom to retrieve her bag; guilt, grief and hope intermingling in her eyes as she nodded at you. 

*ೃ༄.ೃ࿐

Your cheap heels clicked across along the marble floor which reflected the lights like diamonds under the many crystal chandeliers hanging on the high ceilings. You were wearing your most expensive jacket, but you still felt horribly out of place; you weren’t exactly wearing a whole lot underneath it (everything was going to be coming off shortly anyway…), and you were delusional enough to feel like everyone in the lobby was somehow onto you.

This late into the evening, most guests were dressed to the nines as they made their way to casinos and orchestras; cocktail dresses and more than a few tuxedos painting your vision in every direction you looked. You couldn’t get to the elevator quickly enough, though you were forced to spend the ride up staring at your reflection ad infinitum on account of the parallel mirrors in every direction.

Fifth floor, room 522. 

The room itself had its own miniature chandelier hanging above the room number illuminating it in the hall. You looked back at the text on your phone to confirm you were at the right place.

Great! Looking forward to seeing you: room 522 on the 5th floor

You’d had high paying clients before – men who could afford to spend their money on sex – but not like this, never like this.

You suddenly felt incredibly nervous and hoped you could make a good impression; if he was pleasant, you’d be more than happy to have him as a repeat client.

You’ve been through worse.

You took one last look through your borrowed bag to make sure you had your essentials, as well as your ID and taser in case of emergencies, before taking a deep breath and knocking gently; cautious of the hall of other rooms who may be winding down for the evening and not wanting to draw attention to what was very clearly an escort.

Please let this go well.

“Okay, so, explain to me again why you couldn’t just hire an actress or some theatre student?” James asked as he rubbed painfully at his temples.

Sirius groaned and threw his head back. “Because James; an actress will have a portfolio – a history - that my family can dig into. They’ll also have dreams of pursuing other acting jobs after this one. I need someone nondescript, unheard of, and not going anywhere so that my mother and her cronies can’t poke holes into our story.”

“Same reason he can’t use a friend.” Regulus added from his place on a tufted chair in the luxurious hotel room currently being paid for by his and Sirius’ family.

“Right. Mother and everyone will know if I’m using a friend, or an acquaintance and it will point back to this larger scheme.” Sirius agreed readily.

“But wouldn’t it make more sense if you had met your new fiancé through a friend?” Remus questioned.

“Sure. If my friends weren’t the two of you, Lily, and Marlene.” Sirius added simply.

“I just don’t understand how we jumped straight to prostitution.” James muttered.

“Look,” Sirius levelled, “I’ve thought about this long and hard. I’ve also discussed this with Andromeda and our Uncle Alphard, and they both agree this is the best way to go. Our family won’t have any reason to have met our prostitute unless they themselves have hired a prostitute, and this girl is supposed to be from the opposite end of town, so I doubt there’d have been any overlap anyways. She also won’t have much of a background for them to dig into – and she’d be hard to get to if they tried.”

“Why would she be hard to get to?”

Remus grimaced and answered James for him. “Prostitutes often have pimps, James. Men that...organise the contact for the girls. Sirius would have had to go through one to find this girl.”

“I thought that was a myth?” Regulus interjected, but Remus shook his head.

“It’s estimated that approximately 65-85% of prostitution is pimp-dominated.”

“So, some guy sold her to you?” James asked incredulously.

“Sort of...I guess.” Sirius admitted.

James groaned and looked at the ceiling “I hate this.”

“This is the beginning of the end, James. We’re taking the Black’s down once and for all; they won’t be able to hurt any of us ever again.” Sirius lamented, his eyes moving from James towards his younger brother at the end of the sentence.

Regulus nodded at his brother before there was a gentle knock on the door.

“Well boys, show time.” James said as he stood from his seat and moved to answer the door.

Sirius wrung his hands nervously as he heard James greet you at the door, sharing nervous looks with Remus and Regulus who both sat up straighter.

“-get you anything? There’s a full bar here, you can help yourself to whatever you want.” James was saying, though Sirius could almost hear your grin and polite shake of your head.

“I’m alright thanks, I’m not-”

But the second you stepped into the suite's living room you fell silent and looked at the three boys in horror; Sirius realised what he’d done wrong too little too late.

Both Remus and Regulus stood to greet you, and you pulled your bag into your chest and stepped back so quickly that the picture frame on the wall you slammed into shook. 

“It’s okay, we-”

“What is this?” You whispered overtop of Sirius, eyes darting nervously between the four men now all standing with their hands raised in placation, though Sirius felt as though it likely had the opposite effect. 

“Fuck this looks bad, doesn’t it?” James muttered nervously.

“Shut up, James.” 

“What is this?” You repeated a little louder.

“Y/N, right? My name is Sirius, love. I’m the one you spoke with on the phone.” Sirius offered as calmly as he could muster. “I’m sorry we surprised you, but I promise you’re okay, this isn’t what it looks like.”

“We just want to talk.” Remus added, and you let out a hysterical laugh.

“You hired an escort to chat?” You deadpanned, and Sirius’ noticed your eyes turning glassy in your panic.

“Okay, okay. Hang on, just…” Sirius started, moving in slow motion as he stepped towards the side table his wallet was sitting on whilst holding your eye contact the entire time. “Look, this is the price we agreed upon, right?” He asked, only breaking your eye contact to count the bills out in his hands as he inched closer to you. “You can take this right now and leave if you want, but-” he continued, fanning out the rest of the cash he’d withdrawn, “It’s tripled if you stay and just hear us out.”

You looked at him in pure discombobulation as he placed the agreed upon sum in your hand and closed your grip around it for you before backing away slowly. 

“Sit, please; we can order room service, you can help yourself to anything from the bar. Just…hear us out.” Remus offered as he gestured towards one of the wingback chairs. 

You swallowed thickly and let your gaze drift over the four men again; Remus who was looking at you pleadingly, Regulus who looked very pained on your behalf, James who looked very embarrassed by this whole misunderstanding, and Sirius who was looking at you like you were his only hope. 

“This…it’s not-?”

“No. No, there’s…no. No sex, nothing funny, just…a sales pitch.” He offered awkwardly. 

You scanned the room again, and though your knuckles were no longer white, you were still hugging your bag tight against your body.

“Can I take your jacket?” James offered, taking a step towards him. You simply looked at him before your gaze fell to the rather informal clothes everyone else was wearing.

“Do you have something more comfortable to wear in your bag?” Remus offered, obviously reading your worry for what it was as you nodded at him. 

“The washroom is right there, if you wanted to change? Or…if you wanted to call a cab.” Sirius offered. You nodded at him before disappearing through the door and locking it behind you. 

“Fucking smooth, Sirius.” Regulus muttered as he sat back down with a dramatic sigh. 

“Well I don’t fucking know, Reg! I’ve not exactly done this before, either.”

“That could have been bad.”

“Well we don’t know if she’s going to agree or not so it still could be bad.” Remus countered.

“I don’t think I can stomach having to hire another one.” Sirius muttered as they heard the door to the bathroom click. 

You exited, still looking nervous but you were no longer wearing your jacket which Sirius took as a good sign.

You were wearing a pair of well fitting jeans and a black turtleneck with a pair of black heeled boots - classic and nondescript. You looked put together enough, but like you wouldn’t draw attention to yourself. Though, Sirius figured a girl as pretty as you was likely to garner a few stares regardless of what you were wearing. 

That was probably good for business, which reminded Sirius why you were here. 

“Are you hungry? Do you want to order something to eat? Anything to drink?”

“No, thank you.” You replied as you accepted the chair Remus was gesturing for you to sit in. You allowed James to take your jacket, but kept your bag in your lap. 

“Water?” Regulus asked, and you finally managed to make eye contact with one of them.

“I have a bottle of water, thank you.” 

That seemed…fair, Sirius supposed. He guessed you were used to spending time in the company of rather predatory men.

“Okay, so, I’m really sorry about the confusion, but the reason I hired you is that I was hoping for your help.” Sirius said as he hooked up his laptop to the TV and started his slideshow. 

“You did not actually make a presentation.” James snorted, causing Sirius to look at him nonplussed.

“Of course I didn’t.” He responded simply, blushing only when he turned to notice you were looking at him with one raised eyebrow. “Regulus made it.”

“Someone had to.”

“This really is a sales pitch?” You asked almost disbelievingly; the ghost of a smirk on your lips. 

“Okay, well, if everyone would shut up, I’d get on with it.” Sirius chided with a smile, glad that you were relaxing enough to at least chuckle lightly at his expense. 

And Sirius told you.

He told you that his name was Sirius Black, that he came from the rather ignoble Black dynasty that had their claws (and more importantly, their heavily lined pockets) deeply entrenched in the rightwing government; currently backing the particularly problematic Tom Riddle who was running for Prime Minister. He explained that he’d run away from home at only 16 to live with James and his family due to the abuse and hostility his parents held, and how he could not support what they stood for. However, when his younger brother came out as trans to his parents - his parents who were now relying on their only remaining child to continue their legacy and help paint a picture of themselves as the proper, wholesome political family they pretended to be - they were desperate to play damage control. 

They promised to leave Regulus alone - they���d have nothing to do with him, but they wouldn’t publicly shame him - if Sirius played nice. Nice, meaning living a respectable, traditional lifestyle. This meant that Sirius and Remus had been dating behind closed doors for almost eight years now whilst Remus worked as Sirius’ personal assistant, and Sirius pretended he wasn’t in contact with his younger sibling should the press ask. 

His parents folded at Sirius’ friendship with James and Marlene, simply because no one would be able to explain away Sirius and James’ nearly lifelong friendship (he’d lived with his family for Christ’s sake), and even the Black’s understood the power in having ties with other wealthy and powerful families like the Potter’s and MacKinnon’s, even if their politics didn’t align with their own. 

“How does this all involve me?” You asked then, surprising Sirius out of his well rehearsed schpiel to find your eyes trained on him. 

“Right, so…my parents are tired of my bachelor lifestyle.”

“It doesn’t paint a very traditional picture to have the heir to a powerful family pushing 30 and still living in a bachelor pad with his unmarried mate and employee.” Remus offered dryly. 

“They want you to find a girlfriend.” You deduced.

“They want me to find a wife.” Sirius corrected. 

“And that’s…me?” You asked around a chuckle, your smile falling when you realised no one was laughing with you. “Oh my god…”

“I’ve told them I’ve been seeing someone for quite some time now, but didn’t want to bring them into this world until I was sure about them - until I was sure they weren’t ‘just after the family money’.” Sirius explained solemnly. “They want me to make it official, and they want me to start bringing you around.” 

“Around…”

“Events; galas, fundraisers, press opportunities. The likes.” Regulus explained flippantly. 

“Right…” You offered in monotone. “And you want to show up to galas, fundraisers, and press opportunities with a hooker?” 

James turned to give Sirius a look that seemed to read ‘see?’, but Remus responded first.

“Well…we were sort of hoping he could show up with you.” Remus corrected gently. You seemed surprised and more than a tad confused at Remus’ apparent defence of you. 

“They’re terrible people, Y/N.” Sirius blurted. “They are terrible and they stand for terrible things. They put all of their money into anti LGBTQIA+ propaganda and organisations, they actively work towards harming a large portion of UK citizens, they want to reverse any progress the country has made in reproductive healthcare and women’s rights, they’re trying to ban fucking children’s books, I-”

“Then why play along? Why play nice, as you said? Marrying an escort seems like a very dramatic way to keep your brother out of the limelight.” You argued.

“Clever girl.” Regulus murmured as he leaned further back into his chair. 

“Family inheritance.” Sirius offered plainly. “I have access to use family money, but do not have access to direct family money. Not until I fulfil the requirements of my inheritance.”

“The requirements being an approved heterosexual wedding.” James filled in. 

“Regulus is no longer entitled to his sum of the inheritance after my parents disowned him.” Sirius continued. “But that means that, should I be successful, I would inherit both of our portions.”

“Which would make Sirius the primary shareholder in the Black estates.” Regulus continued. 

“Meaning you’d have final say over allocation of funds…” You finished for him. 

“You are clever.” Remus agreed with Regulus’ earlier sentiments. You turned bashful and looked down at your lap to avoid having to look at any of them, Sirius found himself smiling at the top of your head. 

“And I just…play along?” You asked then.

“You’ll be paid - handsomely - any time you’re with any of us. And once I have access to the estate, you’ll be given a portion of it.”

“It’s no small sum, either.” Regulus assured you. 

“I will make sure it is well worth your time, Y/N.” Sirius promised. 

He let that sit in the air as he moved towards the bar and poured himself a drink before picking up his wallet. “And here.” He added as he handed you the other portion of the cash he’d taken out for you.

“What?”

“I promised you triple if you heard us out; you’ve heard us out.” He responded simply as he took a seat beside Remus. 

You fanned out the bills in front of you like you couldn’t believe your eyes; you weren’t counting them, necessarily, but proving to yourself it was real. 

“They’re terrible?” You asked then, but when Sirius looked up, he could see you were asking Regulus. 

“Awful.” Regulus murmured, eyes staring unseeingly at the coffee table in front of him as James placed a comforting hand on his knee. “Honestly, I’m…scared; not necessarily for myself, I mean, I know I’m safe and have people in my corner, but…there are so many people out there like me who don’t and…”

You nodded in understanding as Regulus trailed off. 

“Okay.” You whispered as you folded up the money as best you could and put it in your bag before standing.

“Okay?” Sirius asked as he stood, too; quickly followed by Remus, James, and Regulus.

“Okay.” You repeated, nodding once to yourself before meeting Sirius’ gaze. “I’ll do it, I’ll…I’ll help.” 

Sirius felt a smile take over his face as he looked at you - his dame in shining armour for all intents and purposes - as you accepted your jacket from James. 

“Tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it; I’ll help.”

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 7: Only for emergencies, magic with a cost

Legend again! Legend angst lovers rejoice! And also Time because I love him and Legend as a duo and I’ve barely hurt him so far this year.

Warnings: violence, blood, magic exhaustion.

Ao3 link

——————————————————————————

They always took a lot out of him. Legend’s medallions.

He never said it outright, but Time could tell after the rare occasions that he used them he was always a little more worn out, a little faster to sit down, hands shaking around his sword. The pure magic they used drained him nearly dry, and you didn’t have to be able to sense magic to see the obvious drain on Legend’s energy.

It was a lot like when Hyrule went too far with his own magic. Exhaustion, dizziness, a green potion or two, and a need for a good night’s sleep all obvious markers. Time was glad that Legend rarely resorted to using the medallions, but when he did he trusted the veteran to know his limits.

He shouldn’t have. So far Legend had used all three of them in this fight.

Time slammed his blade into a moblin, and watched in concern as Legend stumbled against a wall, using it for leverage as he stabbed a bokoblin. His face was as pale as the skin of the beasts they were fighting, and Time could see his legs shaking from here.

Trapped in a cave system by a portal spewing endless monsters, they were both exhausted. Magic whispered to Time from inside of his bag, but he ignored it for now, separating a stalfos’s head from its shoulders.

Not yet.

Only if things got really bad.

Time continued to work his way towards Legend, cutting past monsters with both normal blood and black. The majority weren’t infected, but enough of them were that it made the fight a lot harder. A clatter rang through the cave, and Time saw Legend’s sword go flying, torn from his hand by a swing from a poe’s lantern.

Legend stumbled, barely throwing his shield up in time to dodge a slice that would have taken his head off, and Time fought his way towards him even faster. He grit his teeth as he spun through a small cloud of keese, stabbed through a poe of some kind, and then ran forward just in time to block a slice that Legend wouldn’t have been able to dodge.

“Thanks,” Legend gasped, and Time nodded, quickly scanning the veteran before going back to the fray.

Legend was paler than ever, and his hands shook as he grabbed another weapon from his pouch. Time’s eye itched, but he ignored it as he viciously defended the veteran, refusing to think about it. Not unless there’s no other choice.

A roar shook the cave, and Time and Legend both faltered as two lynels ran into view, nostrils flaring. They weren’t Wild’s version of the beasts thankfully, but lynels were tough no matter the breed.

Legend’s eyebrows narrowed, and Time cursed under his breath at the look in his eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said sternly, stabbing two blins at once.

Legend stumbled back against the wall again, and didn’t look at him as he began patting at his tunic.

“No, gotta... use it again,” Legend panted, hands fumbling as he tried to grab the cord around his neck. “Gotta...”

“Legend you can’t,” Time said sternly, throwing up his shield to block a swing. “There’s no way you have enough magic left to use that.” I’d rather use the mask—

“Too many,” Legend shot back, finally pulling the medallion from under his tunic. “Keep coming, gotta clear... clear p-path. Those lynels...”

Time had to look away to slash at some monster he didn’t recognize. “Legend we’ll figure out another way, do not—”

A wolfos lunged for Time’s face and he cried out as it threw him to the ground, fangs snapping at his nose. It bit down on his arm and he yelled, kicking up at it until he knocked it off. Time snatched his sword and stabbed it, breathing hard as the beast fell dead.

Magic prickled in the air, and Time whirled around. His eye caught on the medallion clenched in Legend’s hand, his teeth gritted and eyes screwed closed.

“Legend!”

Lightning crashed into the cave, monsters shrieking as electricity coursed through them. Most of them fell dead to the ground, but Time’s attention wasn’t focused on them.

He was too busy catching Legend as he collapsed.

The veteran crashed into his arms, completely limp, and Time scrambled to pick him up while the monsters that were still standing were stunned.

Blood trickled from Legend’s nose, his arms shaking where he still clutched at his necklace. Time had no idea if he was conscious or not, but he didn’t have time to check right now.

“Legend you fool,” he muttered worriedly, holding Legend tight to his chest, then bolted, leaping past stunned monsters. Legend’s actions had given them a window, and he wasn’t going to waste it.

The strongest monsters were already shaking off the hit, howling in anger as they realized their prey was escaping. One of the lynels had gone down, but the other was already getting to its feet, eyes blazing as they zeroed in on Time.

It bolted, and Time pushed himself to run even faster, stretching past his exhaustion, ignoring the stinging lines on his cheek begging him to give in. He was nearly past the portal, he just had to get outside the cave and find the others, come back with backup—

A different sort of roar came from behind him, and Time whirled, grabbing his shield and deflecting the fireball that burst out of the lynel’s mouth.

He didn’t stick around to see what it hit, but another roar rang through the cave as he bolted away. Legend was still motionless in his arms, and Time held him tight as he leapt sideways from a blade, twisting around another one.

Nearly all the monsters that had survived were chasing him now, and Time dodged and sliced, stabbed and lurched out of the way, all while Legend lay halfway slung over his shoulder.

Then something slammed into him, Time lost his grip, and before he knew what was happening he was on the ground, Legend gone from his arms.

“Vet!” he shouted the moment he realized, and scrambled to his feet, frantically casting his gaze around. And felt his heart stop as he saw Legend.

The veteran was lying motionless on the ground, the lynel’s hoof on his chest.

Time ran, ignoring his aching body, yelling as he sliced past endless monsters. They seemed to swarm to block him, and fear hit Time like a bolt of lightning as the lynel held out a blade, raising it above its head.

It was about to plunge it through Legend’s neck, Time was too far away, there were too many beasts, too fast too thick too many—

His pouch sang with urgency as Time’s eye burned and he didn’t even think as he pulled the mask out and slammed it onto his face.

His world narrowed, power rushed through his limbs. Someone screamed, a monster roared, a blade swung outward.

A spray of black.

Another scream.

Pain.

Then nothing.

(...)

Link floated.

He had a vague sense of moving, of muscles being used, his sword swinging in wide arcs. Muffled sounds reached him, but nothing distinct. Nothing clear penetrated the strange whiteness he was swaddled in, and so Link drifted, exhaustion keeping him under.

“...an...”

He stirred.

The whiteness pulled at him, cottony and safe, but Link pulled away a bit, listening.

“...ol...m...”

That sounded familiar.

The deep white pulled more insistently as he tried to listen more, sticking to his limbs, crooning and urging him to just sit back, let go, rest for a bit longer. But Link was waking up more by the second, and he began to struggle, pulling against the magic he could feel clinging to him now.

“...ime...”

Link had a vague awareness of his limbs now that he didn’t have before, one gripping something tight, his eyes staring at something. There was a greyish figure, too indistinct too make out, but the shape looked familiar.

The sight of it made something in Link’s chest pound, and he felt suddenly aware of the mask on his face, pressed tightly to his skin, meshing seamlessly with the markings on his cheek.

“Link...com...ack...”

Link raised a hand, the cottony magic turning sharp, wailing at him, begging him to stay down, stay safe, sink back into the protection he could offer, but Link fought past it.

“Almos...ere”

He raised his hand higher, ignoring the siren song of the magic coursing through him, vision still indistinct and washed out, then caught his fingers on his chin.

Then Time fell to the floor, the world snapping back in a wash of color, the clatter of a mask hitting the ground like thunder in his ears.

Time could only lie there for a moment, breathing harshly as his vision wavered. He felt exhausted and drained like he always did after giving in, and looked over at the mask, grimacing as pain streaked across the scar on his face.

Every time it was harder to let go.

“T...Time?”

Time turned his head the other direction, and saw Legend lying a few feet away, eyes half-lidded and full of worry. It was then Time realized that the cave was eerily quiet, and he slowly blinked, trying to get his vision to focus.

“They’re... gone?” Time croaked, and Legend nodded, dried blood coating his upper lip.

“All gone,” Legend breathed, his eyes sliding closed.

He coughed weakly, and Time dragged himself across the floor with shaking limbs, his eye burning. It took him a long time, but he finally managed to lean himself against the wall, and pull Legend’s head onto his lap, the veteran nearly limp as he moved him.

His vision was swimming enough that he couldn’t get a good look at Legend, but he was alive, and not suffering from any grievous wounds as far as he could tell.

It had been worth it.

Time closed his eyes, trembling with exhaustion as his breath wheezed. There was a sharp feeling in his ribs, his leg— he could smell blood, both monster and not, and he was sure he was coated in it. But he was alive. Legend was alive.

They’d made it.

“Hyp... hypocrite,” Legend whispered, and Time cracked an eye open, looking at him.

“Hm?”

“Hypocrite,” Legend repeated, giving him an exhausted glare. “You... chewing me out for... magic, then... using that m-mask.”

Time breathed out a laugh, and let his eye slide closed again, resting a hand on Legend’s head.

“You’re right,” he admitted, voice fading. “But... I don’t regret it.”

“Me neither,” Legend murmured.

Time ran a trembling hand through Legend’s hair, and the veteran didn’t resist, further relaxing into his lap with a sigh.

It wasn’t long after that that the both of them passed out, Time’s one hand in Legend’s hair, the other still holding tight to his sword.

[blaisenova]

hello, my beautiful, awesome, coolest husband.. ♡

I demand a killer x dust fic !!! do it!!! It's an order!!

thank you ❤

your wish is my command and all that

putting this one under the cut since it's got some vulgar language and is just generally pretty toxic. y'know, it's killer and dust. all par for the course LMAO. also i would just feel bad taking up too much of someone's dashboard if they weren't interested XD

as usual, the link to this fic on ao3 will be in the reblogs, and if YOU want a fic like THIS!!! my requests are open. i cannot promise swiftness, but i do my best

please do enjoy :)

or don't. i can't make you

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh, lover boy!”

That lilting voice was carefully crafted to be as infuriating as it was unmistakable, and the reaction it evoked was equally instinctual; the tensing of the shoulders, and the crackle of magic. Dust didn’t have to turn around for Killer to know exactly what expression would twist his features: one of undeniable annoyance; thinly veiled fury that Killer knew exactly how to pull taut until it snapped.

The moment he laid his hand on Dust’s shoulder, the skeleton whirled around, hand wrapping around Killer’s neck as he slammed him into the wall. The impact was enough to rattle the glass lantern mounted high above them, providing a meagre amount of golden light that was just as quickly swallowed up by the castle’s darkness. 

Nevertheless, Killer didn’t even flinch. In fact, his grin widened. “Geez. Handsy today, huh?”

And, there was the snap; just as sudden and quick as it always was.

A growl erupted from Dust’s throat as his grip tightened enough to hurt. “What the fuck do you want, whore?” he snarled, sounding every bit as furious as he looked. “Haven’t you been indulged enough today?”

Indulge he had, but wasn’t indulgence the point of their missions in the first place? Nightmare had plenty of negativity to not only survive on but, also, to thrive, but that never stopped him. Plentifulness, Killer had learned, was naught but a tool through which to obtain the true ecstasy of life: shameless, unnecessary indulgence. 

Gluttony was one hell of a sin and, often, Killer found, lust went right alongside it. Pleasure of the body was far holier than pleasure of the mind, for not even the most powerful of deities could take away the physical sensation of pure instinct; not even his own, innate numbness could douse the heat sparked between one body against another (or, more, if he was really feeling shameless).

Whore, Dust had said, and wasn’t it true? 

He knew how to use his body to draw attention, and he did just that. He’d pluck the frayed string of his soul and offer it to whoever would take it so that they could pull him apart at the very seams, and, then, he’d thank them. There was nothing quite like the feeling of being unravelled, over and over again, and, so, Killer indulged in it. If that made him a whore, then he’d be one gladly.

“Oh, stop, you’re making me blush,” Killer drawled, undeterred. “I’m afraid I’m entirely insatiable, as always.”

As if disgusted – and maybe he was; Killer was never sure – Dust immediately released his grip, backing away and grimacing at his hand like it had been contaminated. Then, his vitriol turned right back towards the source, and he made a point of keeping eye contact while he wiped his hand of Killer’s filth. “Do you care about anything other than getting your dick wet?”

Absentmindedly, Killer raised a hand to rub at his neck; it would surely bruise, but it wasn’t as if he minded the idea. “Sure I do,” he hummed. “I’ve got a pussy, too.” Then, he grinned, wide and sharp. “And a mouth.”

Scoffing, a soft purple tinted Dust’s cheeks. “Didn’t have to mention your mouth with how often you fucking use it.”

“I have a lot to say,” Killer said, snickering.

“Yeah, and all of it is needlessly vulgar,” Dust hissed in return.

Gracefully, and too quickly to be stopped, Killer stepped around Dust’s frame before pushing the shorter skeleton up against the wall, switching their positions. The motion was notably more gentle than the furious pin of earlier, and Killer’s arms boxed Dust in on either side without touching. Purple rushed to the hooded skeleton’s face in an instant, and it almost would have been unnoticable in the dark shadow cast across his face if Killer hadn’t known it would be there. His fingers curled into fists against the wall while Dust’s hovered uncertainly in front of his chest, as if he hadn’t quite decided whether or not to push him away.

“I’m thinking all sorts of dirty thoughts right now, actually,” Killer finally agreed. “Wanna hear them?”

With a shaky inhale and eyelights pointedly avoiding Killer’s face, Dust nodded.

“Are you sure? They’re absolutely filthy,” he breathed.

“Just spit it out already,” Dust hissed.

And, with all the tenderness in the world, Killer took Dust’s hand into his own. Their fingers interlocked perfectly, like they were made for one another, and it would have been impossible to miss the way that Dust’s breath immediately hitched at the contact. His eyelights stared at their union with an uncharacteristic longing, and Killer relished in it. 

Then, he snickered, and the sound made Dust jump. “See?” Killer chirped. “What’d I tell you? Premarital hand holding. We’re fucking disgusting.”

The almost reverence that had beheld Dust’s expression fell away into complete and utter distaste. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not in the slightest!” He wiggled his fingers, testingly, enjoying the feeling of them against one another. It wasn’t a new sensation, by any means, but, nevertheless, it never got old. “I mean, my god! Is this lewd or what?”

Again, Dust scoffed, though he didn’t attempt to pull away. “You’re not funny.”

“I think I’m hilarious,” Killer mewled.

Like the words were a spark to gasoline, Dust immediately bristled. His grip on Killer’s hand tightened, their bones grinding together achingly. “You’re leading me on,” he hissed. “Why? Because you think it’s funny?”

With an over-dramatic gasp, Killer placed a hand to his chest as if he’d been scorned. “I’ve never led you on. I’m just getting started.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s next? Premarital kissing?”

All at once, Killer yanked Dust’s hand, forcing him forward and against his chest. His other hand wrapped around to press against the small of Dust’s back. He smiled wickedly down at the other skeleton, and a fresh wave of flushed purple magic dusted the other’s cheeks. It was a pretty shade, Killer had to admit, and he’d always loved that wide-eyed, unabashed desire that the slightest touch seemed to elicit.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he purred. “Not before premarital eye-contact.”

“I hate you,” Dust snarled, though his furious expression was subdued.

Laughing, Killer pulled Dust along in a half-hearted, clumsy sort of dance through the hallway. The floor was plush against their feet, and the walls were too narrow to allow for any sort of grace in their movement, but it was enough to be pleasant; enough for them to dance anyway. Each time the warm, orange light of the hall’s lanterns shone onto Dust’s face, Killer drank in every expression he tried to hide beneath his hood, or harsh words, or violence, and it was enough to be pleasant; enough for it to feel like love.

Clutching tightly to Dust’s hand, he spun away, then allowed himself to be pulled back, flush with Dust’s chest as they continued down the hall, and he smiled down at him wryly. “You wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Dust pressed his head against Killer’s shoulder, shrouding his face from view, and, when he spoke, it was almost too quiet to be heard. “I just want this.”

Browbones furrowing, he snickered, though there was something about Dust’s tone that made his soul wobble and the sound of his laughter come out hollow. “What, terrible dancing?”

“No,” Dust immediately corrected, and there was more insistence to his tone this time. “To be held. To be with you.”

And, Killer’s smile widened. And, he ignored the way that it didn’t reach his eyes. “And, nothing more?”

“Isn’t that enough?” he asked, and it sounded like a plea. “Aren’t I enough?”

It was difficult to speak around the inexplicable knot in his throat. The one that always showed up when it came to conversations like this. “Of course you are.”

Slowly, their dance came to a stop; the hallway couldn’t go on forever, so neither could they. But, neither of them released one another, still clinging to what they could reach as if they were afraid for the dance to end. To dance without movement is simply to embrace, but there’s something more intimate about that, that Killer cannot face.

“Then, why…” Dust choked, and the words were lost, but they both knew them anyway. 

Why are there others?

Why isn’t enough enough?

Why does this have to be indulgence?

Why can’t this be love?

“Let go of me,” Killer whispered.

Dust scoffed, and there was something rueful in it. His grip on Killer’s shoulders tightened. “Thought you never led me on.”

“Get off,” he hissed, and he pushed away from Dust as if he’d been burned. Feeling the way that his bones buzzed, he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t been. Something burned in his chest, and it must have been fire. There was no other explanation. “Go fuck someone else if you need it so bad.”

Stumbling backwards, Dust caught himself on the wall, and his eyelights glowed dangerously when he looked back up, shining ever brighter as they reflected off of unshed tears. “Fuck you,” he spat, venemous. “I’m not some fucking slut that sways his hips to get the attention of strangers. I’m not like you. I don’t need that. Enough is enough. You are enough.”

“You’re making this into something it’s not,” Killer breathed.

“Fuck you,” he repeated, even harsher. He stepped forward, and Killer fought off the instinct to step back in tandem; another dance. “Why isn’t it?”

“It can’t be,” he said.

And, there was the snap; just as sudden and quick as it always was.

Again, Killer found himself pinned to the wall by his neck, feeling an awful lot like cornered prey, with his teeth gritted into a smile. His hands wrapped around Dust’s wrist, though he didn’t attempt to pull it away. Sharp fingertips pressed into bone, almost as sharp as the look on Dust’s face; features alight with magic that sparked between his joints and made the spots where there was contact tingle unpleasantly, like a warning. Maybe it was one.

“I love you,” Dust said, and it sounded an awful lot like a damnation.

Killer didn’t answer – couldn’t find the words, or, maybe, refused to. His grip on Dust’s wrist tightened as the hand around his throat turned vice-like and stole the breath that he didn’t really need.

“Say it back,” came the demand.

With a laugh that came out more like a wheeze, Killer spat thick, black determination into Dust’s face. “Or, what?”

All at once, with a crack that Killer wasn’t sure was entirely in his head, his skull connected harshly with the wall. He bit back a noise of pain and forced it to come out as another laugh. Once the stars cleared from his vision, he was met with another furious flush of purple and white hot tears as Dust wiped at his face, and he wished that it meant anything to him.

“You think I won’t kill your little side hoes?” Dust hissed. “You think I won’t make you fuck their dust?”

Wasn’t that indulgence, too? To kill that which got in your way? It wasn’t necessary. It was strictly something done because it felt good to. Wasn’t that, by the definition of the word, indulgence? Maybe Dust hadn’t spent as much time under Nightmare’s care as Killer had, but, clearly, he’d learned something. 

Violence, which clung to indulgence’s hand in the same way that lust did; equally disgusting; equally unnecessary; equally beautiful. Killer couldn’t help but to laugh at the thought.

Dust cut him off with a growl. “Is this funny to you?”

“It is, actually,” Killer purred. “You’d find a way to be jealous of a pile of dust if I gave it attention in front of you.”

A choked sound fell from Dust’s throat, and, for just a moment, he averted his gaze, hand squeezing Killer’s neck harshly and drawing a matching noise from him. Then, it loosened, and his eyelights bore into Killer’s empty sockets once more. “I love you,” he said again. “Say it back.”

“Or, what?” Killer wheezed again, undeterred.

“Or, I’ll kill us both,” came the response.

His expression was carefully even, sockets half-lidded and mouth smoothed into a thin line. Magic crackled dangerously through his form, making his eyelights flare that same bright, terrifying purple, and the glow of his magic reflected prettily off of his tears. His touch burned like fire; the same one that burned in Killer’s chest that not even the instinctual, icy dose of panic that flared in his soul – because both of them knew that Dust wasn’t bluffing – could put out. It was perfect. Disgusting, unnecessary, beautiful indulgence.

“God, I love you,” Killer breathed.

And, in an instant, their mouths crashed together in a sloppy, desperate kiss, pressed up against the wall like art.

[silentium-symphony]

A Lamb in Wolf's Clothing (Link x Reader) SMUT

(a/n) hey ya'll! i'm so sorry for going MIA for a few months--as some of you may know, I have just recently graduated from college, so there are a lot of big changes happening in my life right now! i appreciate your continued patience with me :) this fic was commissioned by the lovely @mistressofdeathsblog! thank you for giving me such a fun prompt, I had a lot of fun trying smth new and I hope you enjoy it too!

before you start reading, please take special note of the cw below. also, please remember that this is not a healthy relationship you want to emulate and is written for the sole purpose of entertainment. if you are in a relationship that strips your autonomy and you feel unsafe bringing this issue up to the offending party/parties, please reach out to someone you trust. there is no power in staying if there is no freedom to leave. stay safe out there.

and ofc, since this is smut, minors do not interact with this piece.

cw: dubcon, afab!reader, ooc!link since i highly doubt Hylia's Hero would be so life-alteringly possessive of their lover, tp!link, reader being chased, reader being held against their will, blood, tight spaces, swearing, name-calling, dumbification kinda??, cunnilingus, doggy, mirror/standing sex

wc: 5k

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Sweat and blood dribbled down your forehead, stinging your eyes with a salty, metallic bite. Thorn-kissed hands grasped and blindly waded through thick patches of bramble. The dark, bristling whips that surrounded you worked every exposed piece of skin into a raw, bloody mess quivering from the forest's cruelty.

You couldn't care less.

The birds overhead guffawed at your efforts as splotches of pale moon danced mockingly, titillatingly along the cold earth. You chased every moon patch with the frenzy of an escaped convict a morning away from freedom.

Because that's what you were, really.

The beginnings and ends of thoughts knotted and frayed into each other, flurrying your head into a cohesive garble. Just how big was this forest? It looked like a sprawling mess from the fortress you were locked up in, but it was absolutely impenetrable now that you were in the thick of it. It was as if the very woods were enchanted to keep you from ever escaping.

A ring of pain hooked the topside of your foot, propelling all of your momentum downwards and towards the forest floor. You couldn't even scream before you bashed your cheek through a thin layer of crusted mud. The cold soil caked your flushed cheeks--the only shred of relief you've felt since your mad sprint to freedom.

Your spine slinked up into a curl--a pathetic attempt to get up, to begin your chase again, but your battered body refused to endure further abuse. (E/C) eyes flitted about you, trying to interpret the shadows that danced and weaved through the trees.

Running in this state would be pointless. You dug your forearms and elbows to crawl towards an ivy overhang that promised hidden refuge and curled into as tight of a ball you could muster. The silky white dress he gifted you had been ripped past recognition. The airy fabric that once brushed your ankles now clung tightly to your blood-laced thighs, soiled from the toils of flight. You pulled your legs closer; your lungs fought for precious breath against your pounding heart.

What a shame. If only it weren't beating so fast, you might have heard the crack of a single twig located too close for comfort.

From several paces into the unseen was a pair of blue eyes misted over with sinful hunger; your quivering, shorn form was scintillating to watch and feasted his mind with imaginations more heart-racing than the last. Your blood, sweat, and tears mixing with your natural scent proved to be the most tantalizing olfactory cocktail, scattering his thoughts into overdrive.

He hated the rush he got from seeing you like this--lost and confused without his guidance through these nested thorns, yearning for warmth and safety he knew he could provide (and had been providing since you stumbled into his castle that fateful day).

Why did you leave him? Was he not enough for you? But he'd given you everything! Everything! Freshly made home-cooked meals, tailored clothes that hugged your form, a bed warmed by him, his body...

He could still feel the soft plush of your flesh sinking and dimpling in his hands as he thrust into you with the faux tenderness of a starved man. Your beautiful eyes locked with his own, only leaving to disappear into the back of your head. Your mouth agape to let the cutest sounds escape...

If you were happy with him, why were you leaving him?

Not waking up to your face smooshed into his pillows, not beholding you in all the pretty silk and ribbons he had lying around, not fucking you in every position you could possibly think of, not spending every waking moment with you...

Why, he'd rather die.

If it made you happy, he'd allow the ambrosial drippings of freedom to bead your lips.

If it made you happy, he'd let you delude yourself into thinking you were far enough from the castle to be away from him.

But only for now. Link prided himself on his chivalry and patience, but even that was growing thin from your incessant attempts of escape. He was going to have to show you why it was such a good idea to stay here with him, forever and ever and ever.

You were nodding off now, it seemed. The way your head kept dipping and rising in a futile attempt to stay wary was so adorable, he just had to ravish you right then and there! He had barely managed to stave off his intrusive thoughts as he stalked closer to you, still clinging closely to the dark cloak that hung off twisted branches.

You saw something shift from the corner of your eye; your neck snapped up and a croak clawed out of you.

"Who's there?!"

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Why was it so quiet?

Had it always been so quiet?

Where have the birds gone?

A familiar silhouette emerged from the trees.

"L-... Link..." Your throat, parched and scratched from heaving the cold night air, rang a voice unfamiliar to you.

Azure eyes that once beheld you with all the love in the world now stare back with deadpan coldness. Words need not be exchanged here; his presence alone blew any hope of escape in the next breeze that ruffled his fur.

A calculated step towards you retreated you further into your little alcove, a prayer that the ivy could take you in as one of its own on your lips. There was no telling what he was thinking, or how close to the edge he was. But that look, that hunger.

That familiar, craved look your body knew too well pulsed anxious tingles through your fingertips.

Another step.

Then another.

Another.

Finally,

He was here.

You could feel him, all of him--his hot breath against your arms, his fur bristling against your thigh, his warmth freezing your blood where it ran. You hadn't realized how much you were shaking until you heard the rhythmic shifting of ivy buzzing into your ear.

He pressed his head into your lap, prying you open to make way for him. And you sat there, obeying him like the perfect little doe you were. As he lazily dragged a tongue across your thigh, lapping at the dried blood that crusted your flesh, he looked up. Relief, adoration, love. That stifling comforting, possessive protective obsession love that he had so readily wrapped you in the moment he met you. For a moment, he looked like a lamb in wolf's clothing.

So many thoughts swirled inside you, your brain numbing to prevent overstimulation. But amongst the chaos, a single thought backdropped every complicated emotion you were feeling.

He had found you.

Had it not been for the blood drumming through your ears and temples, you would have thought time had frozen in this purgative state. He was splayed atop you now, seeming to rest from his hours-long stalking; he wasn't crushing you, but it was clear he had all the control in this dynamic. Any undesirable shift away from him, to preserve your own personhood, would most certainly have led to a 'gentle' nudge toward him.

A single cobalt eye lazily cracked open after a million years ticked by. His piercing gaze, though fringed with some life, made it abundantly clear that your race to freedom was placed at an indefinite standstill. He had never once snapped at you, but the fear lodged in your chest informed you not to test him further.

He hauled himself up, joints locked from inactivity popping to life as he arched into a long stretch. His carefree pose hinted at obliviousness--borderline forgiveness--to your impertinence, but you knew better.

Link never forgets.

He eyed you again with a sort of child-like excitement that twisted your gut into a sickening pattern. His tail arced to and fro, painting his excitement in broad strokes. He wedged his snout between the small of your back and the wall and firmly pushed you forward, scooting you a couple inches toward your prison home.

You knew better than to anger him.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Link's skillful navigation through the thorns was unimpeded by your clinging onto him. It had taken hours to get to where you once were, but a quarter of that time for the wolf. The gloomy castle you had called your home for months (years?) broadened into view until you could clearly see its spires puncture through occasional clouds. The moon, basking in its celestial sovereignty, jeered at your return.

Link slipped through a tiny crack in the iron-clad door, made by the wolf confident in its tracking and retrieving abilities. You slugged off him with practiced movements; a sound akin to obscene magic asundering flesh preluded your captor's transformation. Grisly black fur gave way to sand-blonde hair; the worn, patchwork shirt which heralded his humble beginnings as a rancher ran taut against the back you had spent several minutes clambering onto.

He continued looking ahead unblinkingly as you idled a few paces behind him, your chest constricting and mind frenzying with murky anticipation. Your nerves, frayed from adrenaline and brain-altering fear, now swam in the heavy nothingness of silence; you were a breath away from weeping before a tenor tone disturbed the still.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

Silently, you both moved through the halls, paying the torchlit shadows the special type of attention one gave to the mundane in moments choked with awkwardness. Worn, freshly torn hands bunched the hem of your dress until your knuckles whitened. A part of you wished to never reach your destination, preferring thickened stillness over the unpredictable inevitable. You rounded a familiar corner and gathered the shreds of your sanity to brace yourself for whatever may come.

The sullen wooden door gave way to the man's heave and you followed him in. A large bathroom decorated only with the essentials filled your view. As Link ran the faucet, your eyes absently glazed over the rickety plumbing he had installed to transport hot spring water to the tub. For the first time since his transformation, he turned to you.

"Strip."

His clear, authoritative tone cut sharper than any thorn that had shredded you. Eyes downcast, your fingers wrought the straps of your dress further, further down your shoulders. Your skin burned from your clammy fingers; you blamed it on the steam that had begun filling the corners of the room and ignored the heavy, heated stare placed on you by the male.

Link followed your dawdling, hooking his fingers under the hem of his shirt and lifting it to reveal a stomach sculpted by years of farm work and adventuring. The straps of your dress coiled close to your elbows before settling by your ankles. Your hands immediately scattered to cover your exposed parts as Link finished undressing himself, his fully erect length blurred by warm mists and (eventually) a deftly wrapped towel.

He reached over to squeak the faucet shut; the comforting, monotonous lull of running water now halted to scant droplets. After pulling out the small basket of rags and soap, he sat on a bar stool and beckoned you with a lone finger.

"Come here. You're filthy."

You shuffled out of the shredded dress and forward, keeping your eyes trained on the end of the tub where he sat.  The wanton desire for a hot bath waived your concerns over the situation, dulling your fears enough to throw a leg over the edge and sink everything but the top half of your face below the water.

The warm panacea cloaked you in an elixir of ease, and a satisfied groan unintentionally lapsed your lips; your hand figuratively slapped over your mouth when the air honeyed into something...

Sinful.

Link dipped a small bucket into the bathwater and slowly poured it over your head, calloused fingers expertly combing through knotted, crusted strands. The hardened skin tenderly brushing the back of your neck jolted heated memories to the forefront of your mind.

You could still feel the harsh, almost desperate grip laced in your hair as he pounded you from behind, panting sweet promises to give you more for the rest of your lives. Your face, buried in his pillows, blindly nodded along to the specifics of what he had said, your mind too blurred to focus on much else aside from your umpteenth high of the night.

The warm water felt like a cold deluge and a noticeable shiver ran through you. Soapy hands stopped caressing your scalp.

"(F/N)?"

"H-Huh?"

"How about we play a little game?" Link murmured suddenly, absently twirling your locks in his fingertips. Had it not been for the taut fingers interweaved through your hair, your surprise would have been more apparent.

"What... What game?"

"A little game similar to hide-n-seek." He started languidly, as if savoring every vowel that lisped his tongue. "If you can evade my capture until dawn, I will guide you to the forest's edge so you may leave. However..."

Rough fingerpads traced up the side of your bicep as darkened ears caught your quiet, involuntary gasp.

"If I catch you... You're mine. Deal?"

Throat tightening and heart palpitating, your mind fought to keep its last ounce of calm as your captor's hand circled to your front to cusp and knead your--

"What's the catch?" You breathed, somehow managing to divert your attention away from Link's sinful reaches.

"There is no catch, but there are rules." He pecked your cheek, his lips curving into a soft smile that thinly veiled iller intents.

"You are allowed to hide anywhere in the castle grounds and use whatever means necessary to hide from me, so long as neither of us gets seriously injured... The moment you step foot in that forest, I will claim you where you stand. Is that fair?"

Was this a trick?

A sick joke meant to dangle tonight's failure in your face?

Surely it was... But what if it wasn't?

His steady stare that peered shamelessly through your soul conveyed a degree of seriousness and sincerity required to make a truthful statement.

"How do I know that you won't go back on your word?"

"I have never lied to you." He gritted his teeth. "Can you say the same?"

The genuine hurt masking his eyes ached your chest, but the tiniest shred of dignity you had left netted the apology that almost escaped your mouth.

"Is there anything else I should know before I make my decision?"

"No. I have told you everything you need to know and will uphold my end of the deal. The final decision is yours."

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Moonlight masqueraded through the gaping windows, streaking drab grey pillars with hints of alabaster. The halls which you have called home for what felt like time immemorial now crowded your vision with a foreign bite, sinking into your flesh an unnerving uncertainty around every corner.

Your neck swiveled on all axes, one eye trained in front of you and the other separating the benign from foe that hid in every dancing shadow. Bare feet pattering against olden stone filled the gaps in between each racing heart beat, drumming your ears in a never-ending symphony of chase.

Legs aching, quaking, begging for proper rest are promptly ignored, outcompeted by the more urgent matter at hand.

Your final gambit for freedom.

You cursed under your breath as you ascended a spiraling staircase, your lungs burning with the rage of a thousand suns from heaving in the cold, arid air. The stone floor kissed knicks into the soles of your feet as you skidded around a corner and madly dashed down the hall, shifting down a narrow crawlspace that branched off from the main hall.

Whispered hisses and curses bounced off the tightening walls as rough-hewn stone jagged into your skin, reopening recently closed wounds from the brambles. You could only pray that Link was far enough away to not pick up on freshly streaked blood.

A familiar carpet--the one from the main hall--filled your view and you slowed your shimmying into a momentary pause. You fought to see through your grimace to peer around the corner and hoped that your heart wasn't beating loud enough to mask the signs of your stalker.

All good...?

You scooted out of that uncomfortable position and ducked towards the exit.

The private gardens opened up to you. Trails of ivy found residence in the cracked grey of decayed walls and the fountain was spewing the most delicious water your parched throat had ever seen. You circled the mini courtyard, your frenzied mind shunting the garden's haunting aesthetics in search of a practical hiding place. To your right was the more open space of the main courtyard, and to your left were the untrimmed topiaries of Hyrulian heroes commemorated only in flora.

Streaks of morning were just beginning to tip the horizon.

Your feet teetered toward the right, but a certain non-human shadow slinked past the threshold. All color drained from your pallor as you scurried around the topiary's wide base and hid behind the cloister's stone pillar. The sounds of flesh ripping and reanimating shot through the air; tears began to freely flow as a carefree whistle ambled closer to you.

"My, my... It's almost daybreak. I must find my beloved soon, or else I'll lose her forever."

The sky was just beginning to tinge a magenta-red.

"Is she... Hiding by the door?"

Boots clicking against stone rang like a departed's dirges. Your clammy fingers dug into the side of your face--a feeble attempt to muffle your whimpering.

"Is she... Behind these topiaries? No? Hm... But I'm getting close, aren't I, (F/N)?"

All strength, all hope, had been sapped from your body; your knees locked and buckled.

"Oh? Have we always had a little walkway back here? What a wonderful surprise! I know my darling would love it here."

Your vision darkened.

Leather nestled softly into your face as the heat of another poured and mingled with the cold stone pressed to your back.

"Guess who?" He sang.

You felt all your muscles simultaneously release their tension; your legs folded in on themselves, but secure arms hooked them under and hoisted you bridal style.

As you were carted inside the dark fortress, the morning sun greeted you in its soft-rayed glory.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

The stale castle air flooded your lungs as your body was unceremoniously tossed onto the bed. A hand tightened around your wrists and hot, agitated lips locked with yours before your brain could register the cotton plush of your sheets. His other hand feathered up your thigh, learned fingers grazing all your tender spots and teasing your thoughts into a foggy mix of want.

Your figure writhed uselessly under him as he flattened you further into the bed, using his full weight to keep you pinned where he wanted. The hand that carried out its sinful ministrations below shot up to seize your cheeks. Rough fingerpads bruised the softer flesh as he craned your neck to make way for his lips, flushed with a feral red and coated with soft proclamations of domination.

"You're mine... All mine..."

Hot breaths ghosted the surface of your neck, tickling a heated whine out of you. Your needy noises hitched into a gasp when you felt moistened lips lock onto your skin, suckling and teething the flesh into discolored patches. Rich vermilion fringed with a sinful violet bloomed below your jawline, trailing down and darkening with each claim closer to your chest.

He yanked the noisome dress down, exposing all of your chest to him. The snaps of cloth ripping from its handles and the sudden whip of cold air across your most sensitive parts pierced a jolt through your body. He pulled away to admire the shades of purple and red marring your fair complexion, a visual reminder to the dust haunting old halls and courtyards lost to time that you were his, and his alone. A lone tongue swirled around an irritated bud.

Trembles quaked through you--from heated anticipation or disgust, you were unsure. He hooked his fingers back into your cheeks and pried your face to look into his own. Sky-blue eyes, which once beheld you in crinkled happiness, had dimmed into a hazy navy clouded with lust.

"So pretty... My gorgeous, gorgeous girl."

Soft lips brushed your forehead, ambled down to your nose, and finally settled on your lips.

"My good girl."

Lips warmed with depraved whispers silenced around your bud. Starved suckling backdropped the more apparent whimpers scratching your throat, dredged in pleasure with a dulling edge of resistance. Scarred skin delicately cusped your mounds, tweaking and flicking your perkiness until it was a rosy red.

Your growing sensitivity stung tears into your eyes. Achy hands, now free from his grasp, grappled onto sinewy shoulders but did little to convey genuine discomfort. A deep groan purred from his chest as Link balanced your sore bud in a soft knead between his teeth. A pop filled the room.

"Let me see those eyes."

Your eyes wedged open to see blown-out blues taking all of you in. Your heart pounded a flush into your cheeks and christened an unholy flame to spread through your core.

"That's it... Now watch me..."

He dragged his body lower and lower, his eyes unwavering from yours for even a second. Steady hands balled into the collar of your dress and tore through the silk, the symphony of rips bouncing off the walls and knocking coherence out of your head. His lips matched the pace of the ragged unveiling and chased progressively exposed flesh with soft kisses, down, down, and farther down. Feverish breaths along your inner thighs sent chills up your spine.

"Watch me as I make you cum for me."

Hands gnarled from knighthood knotted into the delicate lace separating him from his prize, tearing it apart with ease.

"Link, hold--ah!"

Your eyes shot to the back of your head as your mouth gaped into a silent 'O.' An orchestra of colors, conducted by a madly indulgent maestro, symphonized into a crazed, otherworldly experience. His tongue coiled and stretched into you with the practiced precision of many amorous nights while his thumb circled the space around your clit, teasing the nub until agony. It was only a matter of time before your impassioned gasps and pleas competed with the downright sinful wetness Link lapped below.

"Tell me you love this--that you love me."

"Link, please! Just give it to me please, please, please...!" The top of your head rolled further into your pillow when the painful prick of a pinch shot too much for too short a time.

"Don't look away. Don't you dare look away, you filthy slut." Deft fingers plunged into you until pleasure fried your brain. "You'll cum when I tell you to."

Your whines and whimpers hiccuped into full sobs for release, whistled with pleas and promises you both knew you wouldn't keep.

"You'll love me forever, right? You'll be my good lil' cock slut forever, right?"

"Yes! Yes, I promise! Please Link, just let me cum already, please!"

You damn liar.

He pulled away, coldly gazing at the weeping, quivering, gasping mess of his beloved.

"Link...? W-why did you--"

"Your heart may have forgotten, but your body remembers..."

His sweet lips, tinted with a hint of bitter longing, moved with yours in a desperate, crazed dance. Every lust-filled, haggard groan ripped from his lungs masked the quieter crack running up his heart.

The bed creaked from the sudden redistribution of your weight as he spread you on all fours. He aligned himself to your entrance and, in a single motion that he had done hundreds of times, completed you. A wail, colored in pleasure and streaked with pain, contrasted Link's blissed-out groan. Tears brimmed the corner of your eyes; each droplet slipped down your cheek in time with his frenetic pounding until it had thickened into a steady stream.

He wasted no time in his pursuit for pleasure, hitching his pelvis to your ass, pulling away, and slamming back in with the gentleness of a starved wolf ripping into a lamb. His fingers dug crescents into your hips as he adjusted himself, propping one of his legs up to angle himself deeper and faster into you.

He was stretching you past your limits, and every thrust was accompanied by a heated flash of pain. Your upper half sunk towards the bed as he moved your hips higher, closer to him. Helpless (E/C)s stared at the creaking bedpost while your whitening knuckles dug through the sheets clumped in your hands. A salty mixture of tears and saliva pooled on your pillow as honeyed cries haunted your walls.

"What, is my princess not having a good time?" He jeered, reaching over to give your engorged clit a cruel flick and your ass an even crueler slap. "What does my baby want me to do to her? Huh? What do you want me to do to your tight pussy?"

"L-Link, It hurts! It's too--!"

The side of your quivering hips slammed into the mattress and forced you on your back. Your face snapped into the pillow when his writhing tongue replaced his thick cock, tonguing and lapping at your dripping pussy as if your ambrosia would be the last thing he was to taste. He pulled out and spat on your entrance, pressing his tongue flat against your pussy and swiping up towards the clit that he coiled.

"Mmph... Fuck, I love you... Give me more... Gods, give me more."

A bruising ache pressed into your hips as his frenzied circling spurred faster, faster, faster. Pleasure dizzied your senses towards a dark void; the familiar knot in your stomach that ached to unravel popped with the abrupt re-emergence of Link.

"Mm, tight as ever... How're you feeling, my dove?" He husked, ragged breaths encapsulating the shell of your ear.

"Too b-bi--Link, you're too big!"

"Shhh... You can take it. You've taken it hundreds of times. C'mon, squeeze my cock like a good girl."

"It's so--Link, you're stretching me out, I need to--"

"Not yet. I'm not done fucking you yet." He swiveled you back on all fours and pounded you into the mattress, your cries and pleas be damned. Slender fingers snarled through your tresses and strained you away from the pillows that held your screams.

"When I'm ready, I want to watch you cum all over my cock." His erratic pounding slowed for a split second, enough time for a certain thought to come and go. "I want you to see it too."

Your abused cunt finally had a moment to breathe and process; if only your brain had that same luxury.

The bed sighed a relieved groan as Link crawled out and wrapped his arms about your lower abdomen to hoist you up. When it was evident that this pathetically limp curl was the best you could do, toned forearms hooked under your knees and spread your legs in the most vulnerable position you've ever been in. With a huff, Link brought you front and center to the mirror. You both watched breathlessly as he lowered you onto his slicked cock, sinking every inch into your gummy walls.

"Fuck, you're so tight... I need you, (F/N)..."

His crazed pistoning began once more; the sensations that ransacked your body were unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. The tip of his cock so easily, so effortlessly rammed into your sweetest spots; every thrust he slammed into you turned you into a shamelessly shaking, overstimulated mess.

"Look at you," he hummed darkly, "look at all the sin running down your legs."

Link's voice was so far away now. The way he kept disappearing into your sopping cunt and your juices dribbling over your thighs consumed your every thought. The only tangible you could feel was the building pressure coiling in your gut, tightening with each passing second.

"So beautiful... So tight... Don't you want to do this forever? Hm? Don't you want to be ruined by me forever and ever?"

His teeth sunk into your neck, adding to the carnal collection and ripping a hoarse cry out of you.

"You're my good girl, aren't you? My good girl... You're all mine--all fucking mine."

Veins marbled his arms and forehead as he nuzzled into your neck, tongue tracing the edge of every bite. The labored grunts that occasionally wheezed out of him, along with his stuttering hips, signaled that he was teetering closer and closer to the edge. Hooded blues stared piercingly into your own, weighed down by mindless intoxication. His lips brushed a flame through the curve of your ear.

"Look at me..." He purred. "Look at me and confess your lust to me."

A shattered cry, followed by a wave of profane heat, collided with your system. Winced eyes lolled to the back of your head while you spasmed and twitched in still arms. Your violent clenching and knowledge of your release strained a guttural growl through Link's chest as he spurted his cum as deep as it could go. Thin, white threads coated your walls and trailed out your still-plugged hole until drips of sin stained the stone below.

Link tripped to the foot of the bed, his body folding into the sheets the second his foot made contact with the wooden post. With arms wrapped comfortably around you and the familiar presence of your spent lover, you passed out the moment your body recognized blissed finality.

As you commenced your near-immediate foray into the realm of dreams, a familiar voice--soft yet broken--rang through your last layer of consciousness.

"Sleep well, my dove. If eternally precarious possession is the closest thing we will ever have to love, I will gorge myself on it."

[eunxhan]

E ( 💭🪶 . • ✧ ) TILL x M!READER 𝟸𝟶𝟸4

─── © 🎞 film by EUN.X.HAN⠀

# ⋆ ⩉ ANON𝂅 📰 : Yo, whats up? So nice see a male reader blog, and you also write for alien stage! I actually want some fluff. Male reader x Till. I know you'd prefer us to specify when you're going to place an order, but I'm not sure I'll be able to do that well...Anyway! I had two ideas. The first is very simple, something like a reader having the habit of greeting Till by touching his foreheads whenever he sees him (more like a curiosity) and the focus of the narrative would be us consoling Till while he was having a crisis. I thought of a more physical approach to consolation, like doing some hairstyle on him or just handing kisses all over his face while we hug him, then you can develop as you want.The other idea would be a reader who suffers from vasovagal syndrome (the person faints out of nowhere, in short), would like something cute and with a bit of drama too, about Till always striving to be on the reader's side and hold him when that occurs, cuddling with him until he is sure he wakes up and is okay!You can choose the one you like, both with a male reader and I would like Till and the reader were a couple!< Anyways good afternoon!

# ⋆ ⩉ EUNA 𝂅 🖋 : This is honestly an amazing idea.. even when I still can't over to his.. yk. Thank you for requesting and for making it as detailed as possible. <33

❛ 𒀭 : DISCLAIMER — ANGST SPOILER IN THE END. BAD GRAMMAR. VASOVAGAL SYNDROME.

❛ 𒀭 : READER — Male , [Name] , HE/HIM

❛ 𒀭 : LINKS — Request rules

In the early stages of their relationship, Till and [N] are a private couple, keeping their affection mostly to themselves. [N] can't help but show his love through constant touching, much to Till's initial discomfort. Whenever they greet each other, [N] insists on pressing their foreheads together, a gesture that Till finds both endearing and overwhelming.

Till, not used to gentle touches or being touched in general, is stiff and tense during their early encounters. He often scolds [N] for being too touchy, his face flushing red at the unfamiliar sensation of being held and caressed. As their bond deepens, Till begins to crave [N]'s affection, allowing him to braid his hair and pepper his face with kisses.

Despite his growing comfort with physical intimacy, Till remains a private person, preferring to express his love through subtle gestures and quiet moments. He enjoys the feeling of [N]'s fingers gently massaging his scalp as he braids his hair, the soft brush of [N]'s lips against his cheek, and the warmth of [N]'s embrace.

Till's private nature is put to the test when [N]'s vasovagal syndrome causes him to pass out unexpectedly. Till becomes paranoid and anxious whenever [N] collapses, his heart racing as he rushes to his side. They had discussed what to do in these situations, but Till can't help but fear the worst each time it happens. He's willing to help [N] and to avoid the triggers that stress him.

If [N] passes out at night, Till immediately puts his head on [N]'s chest, listening intently to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The sound is a soothing balm to Till's frayed nerves, reassuring him that [N] is alive and well. In the days following a fainting spell, Till seeks comfort in [N]'s embrace, often asking for affection that involves resting his head on [N]'s chest, finding solace in the closeness and the reassuring thump of [N]'s heart.

Through their ups and downs, Till and [N]'s love only grows stronger. Till learns to embrace the gentle touches and affectionate gestures that once made. Till has grown comfortable opening up more to [N], allowing himself to be vulnerable in ways he never thought possible. He begins to initiate affectionate gestures, such as wrapping his arms around [N] from behind, or resting his head on [N]'s shoulder at a random moment.

[N] has a habit of humming softly to himself when he's deep in thought or working on a project. Till finds the melodies soothing and often catches himself humming along, creating a gentle harmony between them.

Till has a habit of twirling [N]'s hair around his finger when they're lying in bed together, finding the silky strands soothing to touch. [N] often falls asleep to the gentle tugging sensation, a content smile on his face.

Whenever Till is feeling overwhelmed or anxious, he seeks out [N]'s company. He'll slip into bed beside [N], burying his face in the crook of [N]'s neck and breathing in his scent until he feels calm enough to face the world again.

[N], in turn, cherishes these moments of intimacy, marveling at the trust Till places in him. He takes care to be mindful of Till's boundaries, always asking for consent before engaging in any physical contact. Over time, they develop a language of their own, with subtle touches and glances that convey their love and affection.

Until the very end, Till could feel [N]'s gentle caress wiping the blood from his chin. The tender touch was a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded them, and Till clung to it like a lifeline. Even as the world crumbled around them, [N]'s presence was a source of comfort and strength.

Till could hear [N]'s soft, quivering hum. It was a sound that he had come to associate with safety, a melody that cut through the noise and reminded him that he was not alone. Till leaned into [N]'s embrace, drawing strength from the warmth and solidity of his partner's body.

In the end, [N] could only clung onto Till's body. Hearing as his heartbeat comes close and the man's body grows cold.

@𝑬𝑼𝑵𝑿𝑯𝑨𝑵. Do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and/or confirmation.

[her-devils-advocate]

Everyone I've cared about has either died or left me. Except for you.

pairings: Levi Ackerman x (GN!) reader

genre: Hurt/comfort, fluff

summary: Based on the prompt from the list found here. You and Levi have a moment amidst the final battle

Warning for the final chapter spoilers. This is just a small drabble I wrote after getting inspired by one of the sentence starters!

word count: 1,106

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54683590

The hot air rushing past you causes your hair to uncomfortably stick to your forehead. You, Levi and Gabi soar across the sea of wall titans, somewhat safe atop Falco's back. How the kid had managed this, you would never know. Honestly, you are more than happy to try and not focus on anything now. Too much is happening. Too much has been happening in such a short amount of time and you can feel yourself hitting your limit. You want to praise yourself for having such a fairly sturdy limit, all things considered, but the overwhelming amount of nerves squash that thought before it can take root. Too much has happened, too much has been lost, too much can still be lost. 

Your head throbs as you attempt to ignore the onslaught of thoughts rushing through it. Your eyesight grows hazy as you try to focus on the view below you, it's all too much.

Your hands shake as they cling onto the harness attached to Falco's titan, tears pooling in your eyes as you try to blink them away. Levi is next to you, struggling to hold on tight with his newly missing fingers, which had yet to start their healing process properly. His solid presence helps to quell your rising anxiety as you reach over to hold onto his arm tightly, doing your best to help keep him secure. If he were to fall now, a piece of your heart would fall with him, never to be reclaimed.

You smile to yourself when you hear his thankful grunt, his eyes not once leaving the skeletal horror, as if his glare could lure Eren out. Once upon a time, it just might have been possible. The sight of his towering titan still causes your heart to break. The Eren you once knew has slipped between everyone’s fingers, the young cadet is now a beacon of destruction. Where had things gone wrong? How had you not seen him drifting?

For the first time in your life as a scout, a part of you is glad for the head injury you had sustained during the first assault on the founder. The events are a blur, you remember flying through the air while dodging all the rocks thrown by a beast titan. You remember a sharp pain shooting through your skull as the feeling of something sticky begins to slowly run down your temple. You remember the shout of your name from several voices before the world faded to black.

Now you are on the sidelines, simply watching rather than having to bear the pain of helping to end the kid you once helped train. 

You feel some guilt for inadvertently forcing the burden onto your scouts, his friends. But the nagging tug at your heart, paired with what is most likely a nasty concussion, would only get in your way. This way, you can also keep an eye on the captain, who is more than happy to keep throwing himself into the fray despite his injuries, something you will never get used to. Your heart plummets each time he doesn't hesitate to throw himself around with his ODM gear.

You look towards Levi with a small frown, his injuries are only a few days old and yet he still fights. How much of himself is he willing to give to save humanity? How much of him are you willing to lose? You knew becoming involved with anyone in the Survey Corps was a recipe for trouble and heartbreak, but at the time, you weren’t expecting a threat bigger than the titans you had been facing. You don’t regret a single moment and while you are both still alive and fighting, you don’t need to regret anything. 

You repeat his mantra of ‘no regrets’ until it slowly begins to sink in through the rising haze of panic, the two of you are still alive, yet your mind races faster than the scouts below fighting for their lives. 

“Pull it together, now isn’t the time to falter…” You risk bringing a hand to rub your eyes, smudging the dirt and blood further around your face, groaning as the dull pain worsens. 

Your stomach drops as Falco dips through the air, dodging stray attacks while circling the battleground below. Bile rises in your throat and you’re unsure if it's due to the head injury or the harsh movements.

“Those kids are fighting to save the world and here I am, worrying over losing him when we’ve already lost too many. How can I be so self-centered?” 

“Oi,” Levi says, his voice cutting through the near-deafening wind surrounding you. He’s looking directly at you now, seeing past the mask of professionalism you like to wear when on duty. He looks through and sees the swirling anxieties, the shaking of your hands, the tense shoulders and the way you bite at your lip in worry.

“Everyone I've cared about has either died or left me. Except for you.” Your heart breaks at his words, the tears you had fought back now happily run down your cheeks, parting through streaks of mud. You try to hide your face from him, refusing to show weakness in such a moment, but he continues, capturing your attention once more.

“So you better survive, understood? Get out of your head and back in the moment, we need you alert.” 

His eyes soften as he stares you down, letting you see a glimpse of the worries he keeps shackled deep down. He has managed to shuffle closer towards you while you were lost in your thoughts, now subtly pressing himself against you for support. He hooks his arm around yours, giving you a gentle squeeze as he averts his gaze to the horror below.

He can feel your eyes lock onto him, the smile on your face widening despite the tears. “Don’t get all smug, it’s hard to grab onto this rope with eight fingers.”

He always did have a way of dissolving your worries and bringing you out of your head, even when staring down hell. Wall’s know you both need to keep your eyes forward and your minds focused, no matter what.

“Whatever you say, captain. That goes for you as well, you know. If you die on me, I’m breaking into the paths and giving you such an earful.”

The small scoff you get in response is almost lost to the winds, but you don’t miss the way he places more of his weight against you. 

“Well, we can’t have that, can we? Guess we’re both making it out of this one alive then.”

[syneilesis]

[fic] Pampertime

Pampertime

Love and Deepspace | Xavier (Shen Xinghui) x Main-Character!Reader | Explicit | 6.7k words | ao3 link

Butler Rule No. 1: From the moment you accept the role, be prepared to obey your lady’s every command. The bunny butler outfit makes a grand return. In bed.

Content tags: Established Relationship, PWP, Roleplay, Bunny Butler Xavier, Dom/sub elements, Sub!Xavier, Strip Tease, Hand Jobs, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Cunnilingus, Face-Sitting, Cowgirl Position, Riding, PIV sex, Creampie

A/N: My contribution to the bunny butler Xavier train. Only gave a cursory edit once, so any mistakes still my fault. I'm just glad I'm done, whatever. Divider by @/saradika

One bright and sunny afternoon, Xavier texts you: Emergency can U come up here to help me?

You're in the middle of cleaning your living room, after weeks of neglecting your household responsibilities due to the sudden influx of Wanderers in the neighboring city. The Hunters Association had been scrambling to send out their hunters due to the sudden invasion of Wanderers that resembled bafflingly like corgis—which was both a blessing and a curse, if one were to be asked. Blessing because, well, they were a breed that incited cute aggression and fluffiness, and civilian evacuation had resulted in minimal problems, if one ignores the influx of people into doglike Wanderers. A curse, because—well, they did look like corgis—fluffy like a bread with a cute butt, the kind that you would expect to see in the plushie line sold at Twinkle Toys Store. They're irresistible to drag your hand across their soft coat. A not-inconsiderable number of hunters realized the error of their ways in overlooking the fact that these floof of creatures were still Wanderers, and as a consequence, Linkon hospitals suddenly found themselves busier for a week or two.

Regardless, the corgi Wanderers were easy to take care of, once you saw past their clever ruse. The difficulty lay in the numbers. Like a relentless tsunami flooding the city, they undulate in droves, shaking their butts and bouncing around and generally making an oxymoronically cute menace of themselves.

As one of the hunters dispatched to the area, you valiantly resisted the siren cute-call and eliminated as many as you could. It took you and your team more than a week, and it would have been shorter than that, had Xavier been in the fray. But he had been sent in another region the week before, and was unable to join you in your fluff-filled resistance.

But now it seems that he's back and is in need of your assistance. Flashback to that time when his oven exploded due to his attempt at baking tarts, and you drop everything you're doing and fly outside, towards the elevator, fueled by fear and sheer panic.

When you burst into his apartment, using the spare key he left you, you cry out, “Xavier! Sitrep!”

A cursory survey of the area indicate neither fire nor flood, and his apartment seems undamaged. Fear subsiding, you finally take stock of the situation.

Perhaps it's not a kitchen emergency after all? There’s no smell of something burning, thank heavens for that. You do not want to apologize to his neighbors in his place again.

You call once more, “Xavier?”

“In here.”

His voice is coming from the bedroom, and that makes you waver. Why is he still in his bedroom? Maybe he's stuck in bed? Did he sleep for three days and wake up in an unusual position and in need of assistance to set back his limbs again? Weirder and weirder thoughts spiral in your head, and your lack of response prompts him to speak once more.

“You can go in, if that's what stops you.”

“Why can't you just go out?”

“I ... can't.”

The hesitation captures your attention. Xavier is probably entangled in the bed. You may as well help him.

“All right, I'm coming in then.”

When you open the door, you're expecting some sort of layers and layers of blankets, a sea of them, not just on the bed but also on the floor and other furniture. Xavier might be underneath in any of those blankets, and it's your duty to locate him and fish him out. You're ready to swim against these blankets, fight your way into it. Do your utmost duty as a combat partner.

Except.

Except it's not a sea of blankets that welcome you once you enter the room. It's—different.

So different.

So utterly different that you drop your phone. It clatters muffled against the carpeted floor, where it slightly nudges a gift-wrapped box. And that gift-wrapped box sits next to another gift-wrapped box, and another. And another. Until you lift your widening gaze to see that Xavier's bedroom is littered with a lot of them. And Xavier—

He's on the bed, all right. But he's—

He grins lightly, leaning back from his sprawled position. The pillows behind him sink under his weight.

“Kjalfjdsj?” you say, eloquently.

“I'm glad you came ...” A pregnant pause, before he drops the bomb. “My lady.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Xavier is sprawled on the bed, bunny ears on his head, waistcoat and tie, and—you just know, you can feel it in your bones—bunny tail on behind. It's exactly what he wore when you had your couple's photos back then. The fact that he's wearing it and, judging by the sudden change of interior design of his room, that he's replicated the decoration of the studio—actually, you don't know what you can glean from those points, because you're too busy picking up the remains of your brain matter to form a coherent thought.

He drops another bomb: “Why are you just standing there, my lady?” he says, and going by the quirk of his lips he knows the effect he has on you. Compared with the first time it happened, the shy reluctance is no longer present. “This bunny butler is ready to serve, just say the word.”

Your brain melts.

“Wha—I mean—um, guh—” You studiously reacquaint yourself with the concept of words. “I just—what is going on?”

Xavier blinks, and the bunny ears on top of his head twitch as if they are truly connected to his head. Your fingers twitch themselves in response, that urge to touch and feel them again.

“I just thought,” he begins, slowly at first as if testing the waters, “that you need to relax and get pampered after that difficult mission you've just had.”

The words percolate in your mind and you scrabble for an appropriate reply to that. To be fair to the man, Xavier is sweet thinking of your well-being like that. Or maybe he's guilty that he wasn't there to help during that corgipocalypse of a week. Regardless of his intent, you have to ask:

“You thought I need to relax and your solution is to dress up as a bunny butler?”

He has the gall to think about it at length. “Yes, my lady.”

You don't miss the way he spreads his legs a little wider at that.

And really—you're only human, with wants and needs and desires. It just so happens that the common denominator of those three aspects point to the ridiculous man before you, in that ridiculous bunny butler getup that you secretly love and hope to see again. Which—yeah, it's definitely the perfect solution.

Stomping your hesitation and pride, you stride towards the bed, and Xavier, watching your every step, reclines further, giving you space for you to place your knee on the soft mattress, between his legs.

The bedfoam dips, and he shifts to avoid sinking down the indent your knee makes. Your other knee follows, and you move towards him until the heat of his inner thighs touch the outer sides of yours.

At the proximity between the two of you, Xavier tips forward, and in spite of your positions he doesn't need to tilt his head much upward to meet your deliberating gaze. An anticipatory sharpness falls on his expression and, oh, you realize, he must've wanted this too.

Which is all that you need to fall into this completely.

And it's a transformation: a reshifting of limbs and the straightening of spine, something like a lock unlatching.

“Mr. Bunny Butler,” you begin, low and relishing and shy of being predatory, “bow your head.”

Xavier's nostrils flare at that. After a couple of seconds he complies, and seeing the sliver of his exposed nape opens something within you.

Against your shoulder the bunny ears snag, their length not allowing to fall along Xavier's pose. You bring one hand up to trace an invisible line across an ear, the fur short and soft. Xavier's quiet beneath you, but you can feel him stiffening at your every move. Braced a little behind his sides, his hands clench tightly.

“Can you feel it?” you ask, pinching the colored tip of the ear, pushing it back to observe its make. It's well-made, and you wonder if this one costs more than you'd expect.

Xavier shakes his head. You want to hear him, however, so you tap the back of his head in warning. He exhales loudly; breathes out, “No ...” and then tacking on: “Master.”

Your eyes narrow in pleasure, the flesh of your cheeks bunching from how wide your smile is. “That's my good bunny,” you praise him, caressing the curve of his head. He shivers—whether from the praise or the touch or both, you don't know.

To see him like this—a formidable hunter with centuries of experience, the force of stars pulsing underneath his skin, ready to rupture at his command—head bent low before you, hands closed in restrained fists, the lines of his body intersecting into a show of surrender. Yielding. It heats the core of your belly and your blood, and you can't help but bite your lip as you savor the image.

Leaning back and sitting on your calves, you catch Xavier's downcast stare. His brows furrowed as if concentrating, and when he notices you trained on him, his eyes do something that reminds you of the existence of the concept of puppy dog eyes.

Every time he does that, you think, you want to gobble him up.

Closing in on his face, you raise your left hand and cradle his jaw, tipping it up, gazes never leaving each other. Then you draw nearer, and nearer, until your lips almost brush against his. The sharp sound of his inhale is deafening in this lack of distance. Your eyes never leave his, but his drop down, nearly crossing, as he's distracted by your lips. His breaths are hot on your skin, and finally you aim at the corner of his mouth, and open your own to say:

“Don't move.”

And then you descend, trailing butterfly kisses along the edge of his lips, his cheek, his temple. Xavier goes spine-rigid at the first contact, forgetting to breathe for a second, before slowly exhaling, as if trying to hold himself together. His brows knit again and his eyes flutter closed, the line of his lips sloping downward.

He's controlling himself. And that delights you so much that you shift to kiss his earlobe and tug it once, then whispering directly to his ear, “That's my obedient bunny. Keep this up and I'll reward you.”

You stop to wait, and when nothing happens, you tug his jaw and take a bite at the shell of his ear—he gasps—and continue:

“What do you say?”

Xavier's shoulders lurch. He breathes once, twice, before answering.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Good boy.”

The first reward: a kiss on the lips. A quick, initial press before you pry him open with tongue, and he welcomes you eagerly from the way he surges to meet you. The hand on his face holds him back, but his own hands fly to your hips and plant themselves there.

You slap them away, he resists. You break the kiss, and he makes a disappointed sound, chasing you, and then realizes what he's done.

“I'm sorry—my lady,” he stumbles, putting his hands back in their previous position. He looks so properly chastised, you love it.

Outwardly, you sigh in disappointment, and he whips his head up, stricken. “After I said that you're obedient, you do this. What shall we do, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

“What—” He swallows. “What do you want me to do, my lady?”

In all the times you've tried to fluster him, Xavier doesn't really redden. At best his skin produces a soft sheen of pink across his cheeks that linger over his ears. Never tomato-red though.

But now, his face glows bright pink that gradiates to a noticeable crimson, ending at the tips of his ears. This is good development, you decide, something that you want more of. So you push further.

“Are you truly sorry, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

He nods meekly.

“Then”—a finger pokes at the center of his forehead and pushes, his head docilely tilting back, exposing his slender, beautiful neck—“don't move this time.”

You slip two fingers under his tie and pull it loose. The unobstructed slide of the silken fabric echoes around the room, punctuated by the hitch of his breath. The bunny ears jerk. To his credit, he's still as a statue, and the giddiness that you've been feeling for a while now mounts to a dull yet insistent ache that pools between your legs.

Then you unbutton his collar, which reveals more of that pretty neck. An alarmed sound forms in his throat, and you call his name in warning. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows whatever he's about to say.

And that Adam's apple becomes your next target: your mouth molds around it, sucking, and Xavier gives a full-body shudder. A groan bursts out of him. He's trembling, his hands—leather-gloved and creaking at the strain of his fists—his thighs, his shoulders. You can see how he wants to turn his head, to retreat from your hot mouth, but thinks himself the better of it.

You place your left hand under his head and kiss him under the angle of his left jaw.

“Ah—”

With your free hand, you trace down the outline of his neck to shoulder. His breath catches, he jolts away, his eyes shoot you a betrayed look.

“My lady—”

You plant another kiss in the dip of his collarbone. “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?” you ask against his moist skin.

He releases a shuttered exhale. Behind you, his legs move in a way that comes across as avoidant, as if he's hiding something from you. You glance down and realize the reason for his discomfort.

Saliva pools in your mouth.

But you swallow the surging desire ignited by the image of his arousal. It isn't time yet; you want to draw this out as long as you can.

Head still tipped back, Xavier doesn't see your discovery of his want, his eyes half-mast and his focus directed on reining himself in. If you remove yourself from the scene and study him from head to toe, you'd find Xavier the perfect picture of temptation, restrained, controlled on the surface but a collapsing star underneath, gravity pulling you to him and there's no way to escape.

Not that you'd like to escape in the first place.

You repeat your question, this time against his Adam's apple: “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?”

“My la—” He chokes. Tries again. “Whatever my lady wants.”

Ah. Such a good bunny.

Your hands drift down to the next closed button. His tie is loosened enough that you can remove it in one hard tug. And isn't that a nice thought: one strong pull and he's dragged along by the force, his lips inevitably landing on your lips, a welcome collision.

But you don't follow that path; instead, your hands drop lower, to the last button of his waistcoat. The sides of your hands brush against the seam of his pants, dangerously close to his already obvious bulge, and it dawns on Xavier that you're already aware of his worldly response, if the widening of his eyes is an indication. He whips his head to shoot you a meaningful look, as if begging you to ignore his lapse of control—as if that is an unwelcome development.

Sometimes, you think, Xavier wants to show you a side of him that only exudes assurance, a sharp blade and sturdy shield that envelop you in sidereal protection. Be it from outside forces and his own—and even yours. Physical dangers, most especially, but curiously enough: information. Knowledge. The matters of the past. The matters of the heart. The both of you may have confessed that day, the words of your promises embedded in your heart like an oath under the stars, but there are times when a shadow passes through Xavier's expression, and he seems so far away. Light-years away.

But right now, that thought isn't at the forefront of your mind: it is the way the redness climbs up his neck, his face, his cheeks, painting him a beautiful hue that reminds you of a recently blossomed rose. He truly is gorgeous this way.

One of his hands encloses around yours, stopping your ministrations. Minute tremors hum under his callused palm.

“I'm—” A quick breath. “I'm supposed to serve you, my lady.”

Ah. Truly such a good bunny.

You capitulate, hands retreating from the button of his pants, but not before caressing his trembling hand and squeezing it once. An indulgent smile unfurls in the line of your lips, and you make a snap decision.

The second reward: freedom. Xavier has expressed his desire to serve, to please, and you'll give him the freedom to choose how to enact it—

Under a specific instruction, of course.

“Yes, of course,” you say, tapping his warm cheek fondly with your index finger. “Serve me, then, Mr. Bunny Butler. Strip for me. Slowly.”

He catches that finger quickly with his mouth, bites it lightly, like it's a warning—or a promise. You let him nibble and lick your finger for a couple of seconds, the wetness sending electricity down your spine, and you can't stop the shiver that echoes throughout your body. Xavier narrows his eyes in satisfaction at your response, hints of a smirk around his lips, and that's insubordination if you saw one. So you snatch your finger away from him, and punish him by dragging your wet finger along the column of his neck.

He jumps at the sensation.

“Strip, Xavier,” you repeat firmly. “Make sure it's a good show.”

It just proves how dedicated he is at this roleplay: by this point he should have already ended this little act and would have taken over, but he's holding your critical gaze as his hands settle over the topmost button of his vest.

“I'll try, my lady.” His voice drops to a low, husky murmur, one that summons pinpricks down your nape and the back of your shoulders, crawling in a slow, deliberate tease.

He does try, indeed. He moves back, affording you space to see his torso without having to change your position. One hand to brace his weight, the other deftly maneuvering each button at a comfortable pace. For every button opened, he takes a deep breath, gives you a confident smile, albeit awkward at the edges. But the rhythm of it lulls you, and you find yourself playing with his bunny ears again—a right decision, because he makes a surprised sound, which morphs into a moan.

The returned proximity grants you the ghostly brushes of his knuckles against your clothed stomach when he opens another button. Because of this, the way your stomach contracts every time he brushes you becomes known to him, and Xavier huffs a laugh, and proceeds to be more purposeful with it.

You tug at his bunny ear, hard. “Mr. Bunny Butler,” you warn.

His shrugs his vest off as his reply.

Now, only left with shirt and tie, Xavier stares down at them, thinking about what to do next. You help him by pushing yourself flush against him, making sure that your thigh grazes his cock. He judders, shoving his face on the crook of your neck and groaning. Idly, you continue playing with the furred ears.

“My lady, my lady,” he mutters, and you feel him sighing, “don't tease me.”

You hum. “Then put more effort in your show.”

He peeks up at you under those pretty yet underhanded lashes of his, and you spy hints of a smirk in that mouth.

But before you can question him about it, a hand grabs yours and guides it to his tie, wraps it around the silk fabric, and pulls. Slowly, carefully. From this angle more skin is revealed under your wandering gaze—the tease of a nipple, flashing beneath that white shirt—and you gulp at the flutter in your belly.

Once the necktie is completely off him, he takes it from your hand and, indeed like a show, re-ties it around his neck, a ribboned gift. At this point you're ready to combust—and he's not even naked.

“Do you like it, my lady?”

“Yes,” you rasp, suddenly off-kilter, “very much.”

“Then ...” He resumes undressing, the buttons of his shirt easily extricated, his movements economical, and bit by bit his bare torso opens before your anticipatory eyes.

He stops at the tucked-in part of the shirt. Glances at you, bites his lip, and goes back to pull the front off so the shirt opens just below his shoulders, presenting you such a gorgeous view.

Xavier sinks into the propped-up pillows—and you unconsciously follow—and smiles. “All yours, Master.”

He knows—that little shit—the allure of incomplete nakedness. The gap, the gape, the patches of exposed skin surrounded by fabric. Xavier's using it to his utmost advantage.

By now you could have clawed his clothes away from his body, but somehow, this tastes more delicious, the promise of a tease, the prolonged heat-pulse that thrums in your core, and you're pretty sure, if Xavier's shallow breaths are an indication, that he's into this too.

Well. May as well take advantage of this luxurious present.

One hand descends on the side of his neck, and you see him tamp down the surprised jolt. This hand, light in its touch, ghostly, virtual, traces the edges of the necktie. You can hear Xavier's bated breath, waiting for your next step.

Then down, down, down to his collarbone, the dip of it, your index finger making laps twice, end to end.

Then further: his chest. And this time, it's not only your hand that wants to participate. You brace yourself on his shoulder and bend down to kiss the center of his chest. Xavier lets out a sound, and inhales sharply.

Next: his left nipple, with an additional teasing nip. His hips buck from the sensation.

You stay where you are, lifting your gaze to ascertain his expression. His head is turned away, hiding his face, a hand covering half of it. But it's useless for him to hide, because his ear is in your direct line of vision, and it's a glaring red.

This propels you to indulge more: the hand on his shoulder slides down to pay his other nipple attention. His legs shift, restless. The sounds of his gasps and moans occupy the room. You feast on him, laying your tongue flat on him and dragging it wetly until you hear him stutter your name.

“M-My lady—I—”

You surge forward, and the force topples the stack of pillows behind him. In the midst of this, you reposition your legs so that you're finally straddling Xavier, your skirt bunching up just below your waist, and—teasingly—grind against his straining cock.

He jerks, grabbing at your hips, attempting at more friction, but you remind him who's in charge, and he eventually relents, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

“Sorry about that, my lady. I'm—I'm good now.”

“That's my good bunny.” Then you continue exploring his body with your tongue.

He tastes faintly of sweat but also the scent-taste of his body wash. He's showered just before calling you up. And for some reason, that does you: you rise to kiss him again, and your free hand sneaks itself under him—and grabs his bunny tail.

Xavier yelps, scarlet, shocked at the action, gaping at you and your smug face.

You squeeze the fluffy ball of a tail in response.

“M-My lady...!” he blurts.

“Shame that I didn't get to play with this last time,” you muse, feeling up the soft thing. It twitches under your curious touch. Delighted, you shift around Xavier's torso to lift his hips and study and poke at the tail repeatedly, entranced at the bounce and fuzziness of it. “A wasted opportunity, don't you think so?”

When you check Xavier's reaction, you have to hold back your laugh. He's clearly uncomfortable, but the discomfort is brought upon by embarrassment, as evidenced by his squirming and the persistence of his blush.

Words have left him, so he just averts your leery gaze, bury his face into the nearest pillow, and groans.

Taking pity on him, you release his tail—but not without giving it one last flick; he jolts—and slide your hands around the waistband of his pants. You're fumbling for the button and then the zipper when two gloved hands hinder your actions.

Xavier's face is rearranged into an indulgent yet mischievous smile. “My lady can enjoy me as long as you like. There's no need to hurry.”

But that's the thing, isn't it? You have already enjoyed him so much and enough that at one point things are bound to snap. He as your focal point of your want, the desire that thrums alongside your veins, almost like blood.

“But Mr. Bunny Butler,” you start, adopting a light, airy voice and tilting your head up at him, “there are a lot of things to enjoy from you. I'm not sure if one evening would do.”

Before Xavier can even get a word edgewise, you tear his pants open and yank his boxers down, freeing his cock.

“My la—”

His cock is a firm, solid weight on your hand, and Xavier bucks at the first contact, a halfway gasp ripping out of him. You watch his reactions as you stroke him slowly—painfully slowly, tantalizingly slowly—as your other hand crawl up his waist, flat palm spanning his side.

You know, intellectually and objectively, that Xavier is pretty. Gunmetal-grey hair that shimmers under the starry night sky. His smooth, unlined skin that you're harboring unholy envy for, soft under your curious fingers, almost pristine, untouched all his life. The column of his neck, strong bones underneath the layer of skin and muscle, the prominence of his Adam's apple. The outline of his body—even and proportioned, balanced like a finely crafted sword. And most of all: his eyes, the most expressive part of all of him. The color of an unperturbed sky, always clear and never lost. A steady glister in the darkness.

Right now, though, he's different altogether. Almost otherworldly in the way he's unraveling under your clever fingers. A shift of pressure and he's biting down the meat of his hand in a poor attempt to muffle his groans. A fleeting trail across the slit of his cock and his eyes flutter shut, his hips jumping off the mattress. He thrashes in chase of the pressure and pleasure you're providing him in crumbs, your need to see him lose that frustrating control of his. You keep stroking him and watching him blossom before you, petal by petal, limb by limb, nerve by nerve.

“My lady—” He's panting, running out of breath, his voice gaining that frenzied quality. It's music to your ears. “Master—Master, haa—”

He's coming, you can feel it. You can see it through his quickening breaths, the flush of his skin all over his body, the white-knuckled fist of his hands, the throb of his cock.

“My lady, I'm co—”

You release him, and the slow transformation of his face is such a fascinating phenomenon. From the crunch of pleasure, then crumpling into confusion. He raises his head to see you leaning back, hands away from him, his hazy eyes taking in what's happening—or its lack of. Then they widen, his mouth dropping open to release a sound of distress, round and full and cracking.

“Why did you ...”

You tug at the ends of the ribbon-necktie. He clicks his mouth shut.

“You said I can enjoy you as long as I like. There's no need to hurry.”

His gaze finally clears, and he gulps, nodding. Near your hips, Xavier's cock leaks.

“Then ...” You lay on top of him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, your belly pressing against his pulsing cock (he freezes at this, and then continues to freeze), and place your arms on the sides of his head so your hands can reach the bunny ears. They still react delightfully under your roaming touch. “I'm going to enjoy these a little more. Don't move too much, okay?”

The room becomes pinched with quiet, and while you're intent on the furry ears atop Xavier's head, you can sense in your periphery his eyes on you. He's careful not to jostle you, the air he breathes catching on your skin, and you feel his arms snaking around your waist, settling on the small of your back.

“You really like the costume that much, huh.”

You hum in acknowledgment, rubbing the area where accessory meets scalp. You scratch it with your light fingernails, and Xavier sighs at the feeling.

When you leave the ears, you turn your attention to Xavier's expression next. He's still observing you, his flush now pale but enduringly distinct across his cheeks, and that entices you to meet his lips in a slow, patient kiss.

“It's nice, seeing you go through such effort to make me happy,” you answer him after you separate, punctuating the statement with a pleased, narrow-eyed smile.

A thought takes over Xavier, with the way his brows knit. Moments pass, you regard him, until he finally opens his mouth to articulate whatever has occupied him.

“My lady,” he begins, hesitant at first, but each word gains confidence, “there's something I want to do for you.”

“Speak.”

“I want you to”—and here his stare morphs into that puppy dog eyes again—“sit on my face. Please.”

You're stunned. The room continues to be quiet, and you're stunned. Xavier doesn't add anything after that; just waiting for your response. He's probably not sensing how you've finally shut down. You, felled by nine words, the last one an imperative period that brooked no refusal.

When he calls you, his face and his voice are tinted with uncertainty.

“Stars, Xavier.” You scramble up to reposition yourselves in accordance to his request. During this transitory moment, Xavier removes his gloves with his teeth. Now bare, both his hands come up to hold your thighs from behind, adjusting their spread and angle. You want to whine self-consciously, but glimpsing Xavier's eager expression as you move towards his head, you stamp that part in your mind. “Okay down there?”

He doesn't reply—instead he just goes for it.

Your hands shoot for the headboard, a surprised cry shocked out of you. Is this Xavier's way of revenge for denying his orgasm earlier? The way he confronts you is not unlike a battle, with his single-minded focus on his goal and his preciseness. He parts your folds with his tongue, pays attention to your clit first: sucks it lightly before dialing it up. You convulse, your hips digging down, and he moans, the vibration thrumming your flesh.

“Xavier,” you sob, “Xavier. Xavier.”

He laps around your clit like a thirsty man, hands kneading your thighs. He must've been thinking about this for a while now, with how methodical he's going by it, strategized to push you into becoming a complete and utter wreck. He kisses your clit then mouths it, moves his tongue in lateral glides that have you thrashing on your position. You grind against him, and he welcomes it wholeheartedly, and behind you his hips thrust helplessly in air, his stubbornly hard cock drooling with pre-come.

One hand nudges you forward and you follow, until his tongue enters inside you—you gasp and shiver at the slick intrusion—drinks you with such loudness that you wouldn't be surprised if his neighbors overhear what the two of you have been doing.

He knows how to prolong the barrage of pleasure, that heat and swell around your core, your undulating hips, sustained until you buckle and collapse from the force of it, your orgasm torrential like a storm.

When Xavier emerges between your legs, his face shines from your slick and his saliva. A fond smile slips out of you, and a finger traces the length of his lips; then your entire hand, cupping the side of his face, a tender caress. A smile of his own appears and he nuzzles your hand, kisses the center of your palm, eyes closed and sated.

“Good boy,” you praise, and he sighs happily. “So good for me. Have to reward you, don't I?”

The third reward: release. You move back to pull his pants and boxers off him completely, and Xavier just watches you with anticipation, breaths in quick bursts.

“You know the drill: don't move.” You underline this order with a tease of his cock, a line-trail from the tip to the base and then a quick squeeze of his balls.

When you align yourself above him and begin to sink down, Xavier goes rigid-stiff, daring not to breathe, careful not to move. You pause from your progress, and send him a worried look.

“Xavier?”

“I—I'm—” He bites his lip, exhales through his nose. “I'm okay, I just. I'm just trying not to react too much.”

“Why?”

He casts you a helpless gaze. “Because, my lady, I'm afraid that my control would slip, and I would have my selfish way with you.”

You falter at that. To be honest that's not such a bad idea at all, but Xavier knows that this is for you and your needs, and what you need right now—and what you want, if one were to ask—is him under you, at your mercy. Just as he is right now.

So you move lower, feeling the head of his cock open you up, slowly. And you can hear the hitching breaths unwittingly made by him, his eyes shut and his whole expression folded inward, as if he couldn't handle the pleasure descending over him.

A groan tumbles out of his lips, low at first, quick and fleeting, but as you inch lower and lower, the feel of his cock molding you inside, the wanton sounds he makes lengthens, gets louder, until he parts those glistening lips and vocalizes his satisfaction.

“My lady—you feel so—”

“Good, I hope.”

He doesn't wait until you bottom out; he bucks his hips to sheathe himself inside you completely in one smooth motion. You cry out from his action, his cock pulsing against your walls, and the feeling of him pulls you in further bliss that your eyes flutter closed and your back arches as the pleasure spreads throughout your body.

“The best, my lady.”

He gasps when you clench around him, your wetness dripping between your joined bodies.

You really think the best position Xavier has ever been is here right now: underneath you, helpless to your demands, seized by pleasure that you're giving him and taking from him. The way his face doesn't know what to do in the undulating waves of pressure as you begin to move above him, your hips lifting and then slamming back down; the film of sweat coating his skin all over, moistening the sheets beneath the two of you. The severe grip of his hands, bunching up the blankets in their deathly clutch. His rapid heartbeat under your palm as you support your weight by bracing yourself on his chest. His moans, his filthy, filthy moans—his moans that you will remember until your dying day because they are so far out of his cultivated normalcy—open-mouthed, slack-jawed moans that come from the core of his abdomen, surging upwards, frantic, crazed, melodiously and sublimely wanton.

“Look at you, Xavier,” you pant, and one of Xavier's legs kicks out. “Look at my bunny butler.”

“Master—Master—”

“What do you want, darling?” you ask, shakily tracing the side of his face. When your fingers near his mouth he turns his head to place a kiss at your fingertips, then drags his tongue out to lick at their length. Your index and middle fingers press flat at his tongue, and he groans around them. His puffs of breath beat in time with the movement of your hips.

One hand crawls towards your thigh, haltingly slides upwards, up to the junction of your hips, where it disappears under the spill of your skirt. Then it reaches behind to squeeze at the meat of your ass, and you gasp, stuttering your pace.

You take out your fingers so he can answer you, but Xavier grabs your wrist with his other hand and brings it back to his lips, trails kisses on each finger, murmurs nonsensical things against your saliva-coated skin until, louder, he tells you—

“Everything you can give me, my lovely Master.”

And, oh, isn't that a wonderful thing to hear? That readiness of his—be it in battle or in bed, he rolls with everything you throw at him, as though there's nothing that can taint you in his eyes, no betrayal to feel forsaken by. As though all that he's done, all that he's doing, is in service to you.

And it's because of this that you use the same hand to cup at his jaw and jerk it in your direction, bowing down to kiss him, bite his lower lip, thrust your tongue inside, lick the roof of his mouth, suck his own tongue—devour him fully and utterly.

He meets your intent with his own, just as intense, just as parched and hungry as you are for him. Every exhale is accompanied by a soft sigh, and you swallow his every sound—that lovely and soothing voice that lingers in your mind and haunts the edges of your dreams. His reaction just drives you to speed up your pace.

He's trembling all over, and tries to shift the angle from which you're riding him. Doing so affords his cock to hit something inside you, lighting up your body, starburst behind your eyelids, and you jolt, a whimper tearing out of your throat that Xavier drinks greedily. His hand on your ass traverses to your clit and plays with it, intensifying the blast of sensations on your lower body.

Obstructed by your mouth, Xavier tries: “My lady, I think—I'm close.”

“Me too, I'm—don't hold back—”

He doesn't. And he doubles his efforts in relentlessly stroking your clit and pounding up inside you, and the pleasure crests and crests and crests until you pulse and clench and come, sobbing at the white-hot crash flooding your nerves, collapsing on top of Xavier, mouths still connected.

And he doesn't stop. This time both his hands bracket your hips; grinds you down as he pushes deeper and deeper inside you. You're oversensitive but you don't stop him, just clinging to him and whimpering, and he begins to assail your ear, his panting tangible and hot against your skin.

“My lady, my lady,” he chants, voice shattering like glass. “My lady—Master—”

His orgasm feels like an echo of your own release, his spend filling inside you. Xavier gives a few more thrusts before slowing down and stopping. A self-satisfied sigh ripples over his relaxed body, and his hands climb to your back, guide you to pillow your head on his chest, embracing you as you melt on top of him.

Minutes pass, and his breathing evens; you expected him to fall asleep after, but when you look up his eyes are emphatically open.

“Aren't you sleeping?”

He glances down at you. Quirks a smile. “No, not yet.”

“Oh ...”

“We're not finished, my lady.”

“Huh?”

“You've had your fill, Master.” He smirks. Then flips you over, reversing your positions so he's now on top of you. He starts unbuttoning your shirt. “Now let me have mine.”

[aspoonofsugar]

do you think the song out for love says something about Camilla and veggie and to veggies character arc

Hi!

Yes, it does. I want to talk about Vaggie in other metas too, so in this analysis I will focus on her relationship with Carmilla, since this is what you are mainly asking about.

Before I start, though, I am gonna link to you this meta by @hamliet, where she talks about the main message of the song:

You're gonna fight without gloves And when that push comes to shove Yeah, you just might rise above Long as you're out for love

If you love, you might rise above. So Vaggie, a fallen angel, regrows her wings by choosing love and protection over hate and revenge. The meaning is crystal clear. Love makes you worthy of Heaven. Just like in the finale Pentious ascends thanks to his selfless sacrifice.

This is the meaning of the song when it comes to theme and to the series as a whole.

At the same time it is not by chance this theme comes out so strongly in relation to Carmilla and Vaggie, as they are both tied to "love".

FAMILIAL LOVE AND ROMANTIC LOVE

Carmilla Carmine: So I, I'll be your keeper Do whatever it takes, I'll make the mistakes I'll keep you safe and keep this secret

Vaggie: So I, I'll be your armor Do whatever it takes, I'll make the mistakes I'll spend my life being your partner

Carmilla and Vaggie are set up as foils in episode 3, when they share the song Whatever It Takes. This ballad is a love song, but Carmilla and Vaggie express two different kinds of love:

Carmilla is singing to her daughters (familial)

Vaggie is singing to Charlie (romantic)

This is a pattern throughout the show:

There are two versions of More Than Anything - the first one is about a familial bond, whereas the second explores a romantic relationship

Sir Pentious gets redeemed after expressing his feelings for Cherri (romantic) and sacrificing himself for the Hotel Crew (familial)

So, Hazbin Hotel goes out of its way to celebrate all kinds of positive bonds: platonic, romantic, familial. All of these relationships are enriching and help people grow. Vaggie and Carmilla are two characters linked to this very concept, as they are ready to fight and suffer for their loved ones:

Both: Whatever we go through I know I~ (Carmilla: I'll be your keeper) (Vaggie: I'll be your armor) Whatever it takes (Carmilla: I'll make the mistakes) (Vaggie: I'll make the mistakes) Whatever it takes

They are both warriors, but fight for love. They are out for love. However, Whatever It Takes also highlights a major difference between them.

TRUST AND SELF-EXPRESSION

Scrambled Eggs is an episode about trust. This is true especially for Carmilla and Vaggie, who have opposite secrets:

Carmilla killed an angel

Vaggie is an angel

Throughout the song the conflict between Heaven and Hell is mentioned by Carmilla and is present in subtext in Vaggie's stanza, as she looks at her old home.

Both are struggling under the pressure of these truths and are confronted by a loved one:

Zestial: Carmilla, what troubles thou? Losing thy composure is unlike thee. Carmilla Carmine: It's nothing, Zestial, really.

Charlie: Vaggie, don't say that! You do so much! It's- Vaggie: I'm sorry. I'd… I'd like to be alone for a minute.

Carmilla chooses to open up to Zestial and tells her daughters how much she loves them. Vaggie instead closes herself off and refuses Charlie's attempt to talk. She is singing to Charlie, but Charlie herself isn't present to hear her out. Even when it comes to their respective secrets...

Carmilla says hers in the song:

Carmilla Carmine: I always thought that I would keep blood off my face But when that thing attacked, I had to act To cross that line and keep them safe But if anyone knew, then all of Hell would rise to war And who's to say who'd survive the fray? I might lose the ones that I was killing for

Vaggie only alludes to hers in the lyrics:

Vaggie: When I saw your face You made me feel like a stranger in a brand new place And it felt so good to be understood But there's so much I wished that I could say

Vaggie meets Charlie and feels like a stranger in a brand new place because at the time she is in fact a stranger in a brand new place:

So, Carmilla is able to express herself, while Vaggie can't. This isn't surprising, as Vaggie is basically a child-soldier:

Adam: Do you really think I wouldn't recognize one of my top girls just cuz you're out of uniform? You were on the front lines, I wouldn't forget a bad bitch like you. It's why I named you after the best thing ever. Vaggie.

She is brought up in Adam's army and is taught that love is conditional. She is one of Adam's best fighters, but the moment she makes a "mistake", she is discarded:

Lute: Sinful filth like you has no place in heaven.

This is why she feels Charlie will love her only if she is useful and never messes up:

Vaggie: I'm supposed to make your dreams a reality. I'm supposed to protect you. I'm supposed to never fail you. (...) If I can't help you, what's the point of me?

This fear of abandonement and rejection is also at the root of Vaggie's inability to tell Charlie about her past:

Adam: I guess I'll just tell little miss butterflies and rainbows that she's been fucking someone who's killed-- thousands of her people. I'm sure your relationship will be fine.

Still, despite her communication issues, Vaggie's heart is in the right place:

Rosie: If there's anything I've learned, it's that words are cheap, but actions, they speak the truth. So, what have her actions said?

Vaggie is a person of few words. This may be why she has less songs than other characters. Still, she lets her actions speak, so she is given a ballet lesson by a very talented ballerina:

DANCING THROUGH LIFE

Carmilla has a ballet motif, as her outfit resembles that of a ballerina and her two daughters are called after protagonists of famous ballets. So, it is only natural that she teaches Vaggie a new way to fight through dancing.

Vaggie was taught to fight with hate and anger. So, her fighting style is aggressive and focused on attack:

Carmilla: You leave yourself open with every swing. You fight like someone unafraid of harm, and this is what you'll take advantage of. Angels wield no shields, little armor and fight with reckless abandon.

Carmilla tells her she should instead dedicate herself to love, protection and defense:

Fuel yourself with the fear of losin' That somebody who's your reason to live Harnеss your heart and you can't help choosin' To fight with all you can give

Vaggie shouldn't just fight. She should dance:

She shouldn't hate:

I see you're driven by your detestation Your every step is stoked with animus You need a different type of motivation Or there's no way that you can handle this

She should love:

Out for love~ Love~ Think of who you care about Protect them and be out For love~ Love~

Vaggie listens to these teachings and applies them in the finale, in two ways.

She sings her love for Charlie in More Than Anything Reprise:

Vaggie: You've already done so much So many lives you've changed So many souls you've touched And in the end, if it's only me you've saved Charlie and Vaggie: There's something that I've been dying to say More than anything, more than anything Need you to know I love you more than anything More than anything

As stated above, Vaggie doesn't sing much in season 1, but in the final episode she gets a short moment to express how she feels to Charlie. This is in contrast to Whatever It Takes, where she sends her girlfriend away before she starts singing. More Than Anything Reprise shows Vaggie's progress when it comes to self-expression.

She follows Carmilla's advices while fighting

On a practical level she covers herself up in a battle suit inspired by Carmilla's outfit, she wears a harness on her heart and ties her hair:

Vaggie: I'm not used to fighting with long hair.

On a thematic level she reveals her wings and defeats Lute, when the exorcist threathens Charlie:

Lute: So, I'll spare you the pain of seeing your demon bitch die.

And Vaggie eventually chooses not to kill the other angel:

Lute: Do it, then. Correct your mistake. Vaggie: Seriously, you're pathetic, you know that? Ready to die rather than accepting mercy? No, live. Live knowing that you only do because I let you, the failure.

Vaggie is asked to choose between her hate for Lute and her love for Charlie and she chooses the latter. This is why the scene ends with Vaggie leaving Lute and flying to help Charlie. She is given the chance to get revenge, but doesn't take it. She is given the chance to hate, but she loves:

I know you're thirstin' for vengeance, Vaggie You're out for blood But you'll only stand a chance if you're out for love

This is important in two ways:

1- The macrochosm - Vaggie refuses Lute's ideals and defies her expectations. For Lute it is normal that Vaggie is going to kill her. After all, Vaggie is discarded because she shows pity to a sinner, which makes her weak. Still, Vaggie bests Lute in a fight, so she is now strong. It is only obvious then that Vaggie has snapped out of her foolery and is ready to kill. She can correct her mistake. She did not kill the cannibal child, but she can kill Lute. This is how Lute understands the world. And yet, Vaggie doesn't finish her off. By doing so, she moves away from the mentality Lute embodies. She is strong precisely because she can show mercy. Adam is wrong. Lute is wrong. Vaggie isn't out for blood. She is out for love.

2- The microchosm - Vaggie sparing Lute isn't just the morally correct choice, but it is Vaggie's first step into healing:

Husk: (To Vaggie) This one. Judges everyone and everything because she hates herself.

Vaggie hates everyone because she deep down hates herself. She despises Heaven and Angels because she can't forgive her involvement in the exterminations. So, Vaggie hurting Lute would be Vaggie hurting her past self. As a matter of fact Lute is Vaggie's dark mirror. She is who Vaggie might become if she gives in to hate.

A person who hurts others:

And herself:

Vaggie instead has to value her life, so that she can protect others. She must save others and heal herself. Only in this way she can be by Charlie's side. She needs to let go of self-hate to embrace a healthy love. Vaggie's arc is her learning self-love through her bond with the Princess of Hell.

Obviously this journey is just at the beginning and our Angel of Love has a long way to go. How will her story contiue? We can make some hypothesis, which once again stem from Vaggie and Carmilla's foiling. This is just a theory, so take it with a grain of salt, but Vaggie may have a secondary personal antagonist in Hell:

Why is that so? It's because Scrambled Eggs sets Vaggie and Velvette up as foils.

RESPECT(LESS)

Velvette and Vaggie are opposites in their interactions with Carmilla. Both girls are younger than the Dancer Overlord and could learn a lot from her. However, Velvette refuses any kind of mentorship and shows no respect:

Velvette: Mad that I acted respectless? Well, it's cause no one could respect this! You're long past trending! Sorry, bae, but I ain't swiping right! You've lost your relevance-

Vaggie instead comes to respect Carmilla and learns from her:

At the same time, both Velvette and Vaggie confront Carmilla about her secret:

Velvette: 'Oops!' Did I strike a nerve? 'Cause when I brought out the angel's head, couldn't help but observe, that your wrinkled face was turning red! And why are you avoiding war? That's what the guns you sell are for! Thanks to my being respectless, one thing I'm starting to suspect is You know why this angel's headless! Do you have a disclosure?

Vaggie: I know what you did on extermination day. We can talk about it inside, or I can yell about it out here.

They call Carmilla out on killing an angel and keeping this knowledge to herself. Not only that, but both argue that it is necessary to fight back to stop the exterminations:

Velvette: We found it during Extermination day. If these Holy Rollers can be killed, the game has changed. We can take the fight to them. The boys and I have come up with a full assault plan!

Vaggie: Miss Carmine, I'm here on appointment from the princess to enlist your aid in the defense of hell from the angelic extermination. We know an angel fell at your hands and we need to know how.

Still, Velvette fails to get through to Carmilla because she uses war rhetoric:

Velvette: Oh, I get it. So Grandpa is too pussy to fight, so I guess there's no point, right? Oh, what's the matter, Fossil? Too senile to make a real power grab...

She speaks of violence, strength and power.

Vaggie instead convinces Carmilla to help because she mentions the necessity to fight for loved ones:

Vaggie: We didn't pick this fight, but it's here now. And they aren't going to stop with us. You didn't see the look on their leader's face. With us out of the way, it's only a matter of time before they come for the rest of you. They won't stop until all of hell is wiped out, so you can help us make a stand here together, or you can stand alone tomorrow.

She speaks of protection, love and comraderie.

In short, Vaggie succeeds where Velvette fails. Of course, this is true for Charlie's group in general when it comes to the Vees:

Vox: My dear people! We at VoxTek Enterprises have always been at the forefront of innovation. And now, with this new oncoming threat, we are shifting our focus, to your protection. We are pleased to announce VoxTek Angelic Security is coming soon! Trust us, with YOUR safety.

Katie Killjoy: Breaking news - Extermination day is cancelled! Charlie Morningstar managed to fend off the angelic attack with more than just nice words.

The Vees make big declarations of how they are gonna protect the people of Hell, but in the end it is Charlie and her friends who fight for the sinners.

When it comes to Vaggie and Velvette specifically, it is going to be interesting if their foiling is expanded. If so, then I guess Velvette is gonna help Vaggie mature a little bit more, so that when our ex exorcist faces Lute (her nemesis) again, she is gonna be ready for it.

[idleray-av]

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EMERGENCY COMMISIONS || PLEASE CONSIDER HELPING ME

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This is me - Carl or Ray! And I REALLY need to move out of my place of residence as soon as possible. The reason of the emergency is that I need to get out of a toxic environment ASAP The big problem is my mother, who is NOT mentally stable. She treats me very ambivalently: at first good, then suddenly horrible. She threatens me with violence, and plays on my emotions and mental health. She is often transphobic towards me, doesn't value my opinion at all, and if I don't agree with her, she starts a scandal and threatens me.

She doesn't care that I'm haunted by suicidal thoughts, saying that it's my own fault and that I would finally LEAVE THE WORLD, and then she abruptly changes her position, deceiving me with words, saying that:

"I just ACCIDENTALLY said it, it wasn't what I meant"

And then again it loops in a circle: scandals, threats and, that I just misunderstood it all and that it was my own fault. She is trying her best to keep me in her house, telling me I can't go anywhere because I'm not capable of doing anything.

My mom said herself that despite the psychologist's recommendation to go to sessions too, she says she doesn't have time and she's old, she just has such nerves and it's NOT a bad thing.

She's not a very b*stard. I live in a warm place and have everything, but her mentally is not stable. Accusations, threats of violence that she will start the same way she did when she was a child and verbal abuse towards me. All her negativity towards me, I am not going to take it anymore, I have enough frayed nerves and tears as it is. I don't feel safe in this house. I don't want it to continue..

…. It hurts to be around her anymore, so I need your help to move out of this place.

So, I open commissions to get enough money so I can pay for tickets, luggage and move out! And also, to have enough money to get by.

DONATE - PayPal, Patreon, Boosty

- HOW BOOSTY WORKS?

— THE ANSWER ! [CLICK!!!]

IF YOU TAKE A COMMISIONS, I WILL GIVE YOU A LINK TO THE DISCORD SERVER, WHERE THERE WILL BE A LIST OF INFORMATION ABOUT YOUR AND OTHER ORDERS - WHO IS AT WHAT STAGE OF DRAWING!

IT'LL MAKE IT EASIER FOR ME.

AND YOU CAN ALSO WRITE AND ASK QUESTIONS THERE! MORE DETAILS ON THE DIS CHANNEL «INFO FOR MY COMMISSIONERS»

DETAILS:

I TAKE FULL PAYMENT IN ADVANCE

• Do not forget about the commission on the transfer in the price list is not specified!

Payment is via PayPal//Patreon//Boosty - INTEREST IS NOT INCLUDED IN THE FEE AMOUT. PayPal ~2,9 - ~3,9 percent. Patreon charges ~5 percent. Boosty charges ~10 percent.

(A website that will help you calculate how much extra you will have to pay! - https://percentagecalculator.net // https://kipsl.by/interest-calculator safe//srs)

MY ENGLISH IS NOT PRETTY GOOD, I MAY NOT UNDERSTAND SOMETIMES. PLEASE BE PATIENT, THANKS!

— By ordering a artwork from me, you acknowledge that you have read all of the following.

— Additional character = +100% of the original price

•Prices might change depending on the complexity. Also, from the design of the character.

— The cost of a full background is negotiable in the same DM, not less than 30 USD // 28 € and more.

•Simple background 10-20 USD // 9-18 €

•You can have a light background if you wish, it's free. It's my pleasure to do it.

—After payment, I show you the stages of the work as you wish, if you want!

•We'll figure out the deadline during the conversation, at least a month + may depend on my workload.

•Take into account that I can get sick unexpectedly. It's my curse that I hate, I get sick a lot.. I will warn you about that!

•If the work is needed by a specific date, we will discuss and most likely the price will change from how quickly you need to finish.

If you're not sure how your character would look in my style (or stylistics?) you can ask for a sketch sample but there will be a watermark from me.

I can refuse an order without telling you the reason.

-

I draw:

• SFW.

•OC//Characters

• Fandoms (I can refuse) // Fanart // Fancharacters

• Objects//Symbols//AmongUS (I can objecthead//symbolhead)

• Robots//mechanism (I can refuse)

• Humans, aliens, monsters, demons, spirits and the like!

• Ship art (But not with real persons unless they're already partners)

• Portrait of real people

• Insects (except flies, etc.)

• Horror, blood, gore, etc. (+ can realistic)

• My characters//sona to your order (I can refuse)

-

I don't draw:

• Furry, anthro//feral and other animals, lizards, dragons, ponies, etc.

• Very huge complex designs//constructions

• Real people (Exactly like a cartoon)

• Anime

• Anything to do with politics, racism, humiliation of the lesser, p*d*, inc*st and that kind of stuff. All weirdsussy stuff- Ugh.

Maybe that's all…

-

At your own risk (I DUNNO how to draw this stuff...):

• NSFW//erotic. (+50 USD // 45 €)

• Pokémon (not all of them, I don't draw fur/very beast-like ones).

• Musculature.

• Fetishes (Additional fee at the agreed price // I can refuse)

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More details:

— I CANNOT RETURN YOUR MONEY.

• Keep in mind - if you have already paid and work has started, but suddenly you changed your mind, the money will NOT be refunded. YOU CAN'T CANCEL YOUR ORDER.

— I WILL NOT ACCEPT AN ORDER IF:

• No normal reference//no art with the character in fullbody size for a complete picture.

— You can request not to publish the order // add a watermark to it.

Know that I may use your order when I bring examples of my work!

— Edits are free at any stage, BUT except for huge edits (change the pose during the line with painting // change in general completely the background when it is almost ready, etc.) here already at a negotiated price fixing.

[dearharriet]

could I request the tangled prompt for george, please? 😚

and congratulations on 150!!! 🎉

here u are lovely, thank you sm!! (wc: 870)

George is not used to this whole heart in his chest thing, and it’s really dragging down his name as an enemy of the crown.

I mean, sure, that’s not something he can just put away—and the palace guards certainly won’t—but he almost wishes he could. Which is stupid, obviously George loves being a criminal—who doesn’t?

But the thing is, you’re kind of more than he’d been expecting. George thought you were naive, and jumpier than a field mouse, and you are, but you’re also kind when you want to be, and similarly cutthroat when necessary. You’re not half bad.

Like now, in the square, you’re helping an older group of women with their knitting patterns. George had ordered you to lay low, but he realizes now how foolish that is. It doesn’t matter how low you lay, everyone would be looking at you anyways. You’re just magnetic that way.

Leaving the chittering group, you pass over the wide open square, eyes on a shady alcove at the other end. George ducks further into the overhang, skirting around columns to meet you there.

Even if you’re not seeking him out, he’s glad you’re getting some shade. The mid-year sun is penetrating every thick stone building in the kingdom, and turning the ground into a coal walk for your bare feet.

And anyways, when the sun and you meet head-on, it’s a spectacle that’s hard to look at.

Rounding the corner, George stops short, realizing you’re not as alone as he thought.

You’re crouched, hair fanning over your shoulders, speaking with a small boy who looks very unfortunate. There’s dirt covering his face, and his feet are similar to yours in that they’re unprotected. He can’t be more than ten, but instead of playing in the sun like most children, he’s slumped against the wall, looking tired.

George’s newfound heart thumps a little, shocking his system. He steps forward, but then you’re standing, pulling the boy up with you.

Weaving through carts and wagons, you lead the boy into the center of the square, and then skitter away to a quartet of musicians.

The little boy looks like he’s treading open water, spinning in the wake of your attention. When you come back, you take his shaking hands into yours as a song begins to play.

Then you’re dancing.

With the height difference it’s nothing more than a flailing spin, but with every rotation both your face and the boy’s light with joy.

Two couples join in, and George ventures out of his hiding spot to get a better view. As he passes vendors and shoppers, he notices them uprooting themselves, pushing toward you the way he is.

Many of them join, and when George is on the bank of the whirling circle of townspeople he can’t see you anymore. The dance has quickly evolved into a more complex braid of partners, one that everyone but him seems to understand.

A part of him worries that you were taken, but a flash of gold cuts through the mesh of feet, and his shoulders settle.

The partners change fast, so one second your elbows are linked with an older man, and the next you’re swinging into a young girl. It goes this way down the chain, changing all at once like a flower that blooms new every minute, and you keep your eyes on George the whole time.

When you reach him, you stick one hand out and yank him into the fray.

George stumbles and then catches himself on a stranger who kindly guides him into the proper spin. Luckily, he’d been watching long enough to know when to switch, pinging from one partner to the next as bystanders clap to the beat.

When he’s rounded the full circle, the music changes, and everyone finds a new direction.

Though he probably wouldn’t admit it out loud, George understands why you and the boy had looked so happy. As he swings through smithys and students and artists, touching each hand briefly in this hurdling dance, he’s undeniably alive.

He thought that stealing the crown was the fastest his heart would ever beat, but he might have been wrong. Running away was easy, but coming back? Near impossible.

Without him even realizing, George is finally dancing with you. It felt like every time he’d completed the circle and come to you, the music had changed and you’d miss each other.

But now, you’re under his hands, and when the music changes, you tighten yours around his. The chain breaks, and no one seems to mind. George suspects it was all your making anyways, so this time is no different.

Around and around you spin under the summer sun, and George tugs you closer, his feet doing the work for both of you. He doesn’t have to think, he just turns and turns and lifts you, revels in your delighted laugh. He shocks himself with his returning laugh—not snide nor attractive, but truly overjoyed.

When you land on your feet, the music comes to an end, and George and you are still laughing. Both of your chests meet with each huff, swelling with air and pride.

George knows it’s not about the crown anymore.

+

thank you for reading xx

masterlist

join the celebration!

[quiteliterallyilliterate]

If you want another request, how about something with Four? I feel like he is an undertapped Link in the LU x reader fic verse. I also think he fits in well with a bunch of different story types. He has the skills to live a peaceful life at home with a partner, he has the Colors, he also can be small (or a Minish depending on whether you believe his is small or transforms into a Minish), & shadow…. I am not picky whatsoever , but if you are willing, could you do some Four x reader?

Order up!

*ahem* I AM MOST DEFINITELY WILLING. GIVEGIVEGIVEGIVE- I agree with you. This man needs more love. Formatting a little differently this time, let me know what y’all think!

(thanks again to @litrllyvoid for proofreadin’)

Hope you enjoy~

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Long he had lived a simple life. Even with the dramatic disruptions of the world, he could tell it wasn’t a life cut out for him. That grandeur had called to him, and when he responded, there was only judgement in turn. Since he was little, Link had found peace with the small world within his village. Running through uneven grassy hills and causing havoc, hand in hand with you. His arms and legs bruised, but with a full heart and genuine grin. Though, the older he gets, and the more the edges of his memory begin to fray, he wonders if that were truly the case. Perhaps it wasn’t that he was content with the world he was born into. It is on cold mornings such as this where the question burdened him most. Was it life that made him happy, or was it just you?

He burned the thought away, tugging at the fragile nerves that caressed his heart. He shrugged on some clothes with little regard for what he adorned himself with. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to impress— especially when he’d be working for the most of the day.

Each stair step creaked and groaned. His grandfather sat at the table, already eating breakfast. He plucked an apple on his way to sit, its waxy skin once a luxury that would’ve been shared. He no longer needed a knife to split the core in half. The juice tasted less sweet when there wasn’t sweet laughter accompanying it.

“Yikes, bad apple?” His grandfather laughed huskily in reaction to his dismay, crows feet and smile lines etched into his face. How was it that he could find happiness here where Link could not?

“Rough morning.”

“Ah. I see. Please… take a break if you need to” The old man clasped his hands, bony elbows rested on the table. It wasn’t hard to spot the concern in the deepset wrinkles of his grandfather’s face. Link found the strength to nod and move on for the moment.

The dull ache of his arms never faded as he worked. It was to be expected, forging something from an abstract nothing was not a task even the gods found simplistic. Monotonous, sure. There was a rhythm in each strike against the metal, a pattern to be found within the firings.

There was a finality like death in the quench of the blade.

The weight of his work and a life brought to an abrupt end.

And like a body, he decorated the corpse with wood, wrapping it in delicate cloth— a casket of its own.

Creation was not a task meant for mortals, he thinks. Though people often try to make it so, the hollow pain in his joints and sear of his muscles make it apparent. It strains him, though it is what fuels him. There is a sense of grief whenever he hands over a blade he slaved over— a mourning so powerful that no amount of rupees wish away.

It was in such a similar manner that he loved you. With such a sense of fullness and unconditionality, he did not stop to think of a world for which you were not in it. It is foolish of him to long for his childhood just because it was spent hand in hand with you. But he’d give anything to have colors be so bright again and for his smile to be so wide and genuine. It didn’t matter how bruised he’d be, so long as he gained those bruises running down riverbeds with you.

Now, he dressed up the body of those memories. Decorating you in his mind's eye with blue thistles, sprigs of rosemary, wild poppies and violets. Each aspect of him paying homage to their love of you. Of who he can only hope you continued to be.

The blade he held cracked when it was dipped into the water, split in twain. He looked at the jagged edge where the hilt was severed.

He could not find it within himself to remeld the pieces.

It would not be the same again.

He needed to move on.

He was close enough when adventuring with his brethren. There was enough fighting and adrenaline to keep his mind off his wounds. He let himself attach —maybe not in such a similar fashion as he did you— but in a way equally fulfilling.

What a fool he was.

How could he not notice the darkness creeping its way in? The abyss called for his return, sentencing him back to a cage he built. And so, he returned. Back to a life wherein he could reap no joy but couldn’t muster the strength to leave.

He wished he had his brothers. Time to help him forge a plan of escape from the mundane. Twilight to offer assistance in the smaller tasks— so he could manage life just a little bit easier. Sky to boss him into taking a break, even if it were just stretching. Legend to banter with as he worked, taking the weight off of the task. Wild to make use of the end product, to give the life of the blade meaning. Even just the careful eyes of Wind studying what he did. He missed how individual he felt, yet still holding his place among the set. He’d always have a home there, even if he was fundamentally different from his brethren.

He wished he still had a home with you.

You still had a home with him.

If only you’d return to him…

But life is not such a simple endeavour, and he doubts your parents would be content with you marrying some blacksmith, even if he held the title of hero. That was if you weren’t already forced to marry. That was if you still loved him.

He hopes whatever life you’ve been condemned to is happy.

Because if he is not there to protect you from the worst that fate has to offer, he can at least hope that there’s someone there who can.

Even though it isn’t him.

[withacapitalp]

How to Rehabilitate a Jock pt 14

Part One Part Thirteen Link to Ao3 Part Fifteen

Thank you to @stevethehairington for betaing and @thefreakandthehair for always being the world's best cheerleader/support!!! Also everyone @angstflayer-council for motivating me to finish this chapter. I hope you guys like it!! ALSO I FORGOT TAG LISTS FOR PART THIRTEEN SORRY YALL I FIXED IT THIS TIME

Step Fourteen: Ask for a Second Opinion

Eddie and Wayne had a routine for gig nights. 

First Wayne would get home from his shift and go about his normal business. Shucking off work clothes, grabbing a quick cold shower, fixing himself a sandwich with whatever leftovers they had in the fridge- the same thing he did every night when he came back from the plant. Then, when all that was taken care of, he would turn on the radio to listen to the news, grab a beer from the fridge, and pull out the most important thing in their trailer. 

The waffle iron. 

It was an ancient thing, a giant heavy slab of metal that had been passed down from Great Granny Munson herself. Eddie was ninety nine percent sure it would outlive him too, but that was just a fact of Munson life. The cord for the waffle iron was frayed in about half a dozen places, and it smoked if it was powered on for longer than an hour at a time, but there was no denying that the beat up old thing made the best damn waffles Eddie had ever had. 

If Eddie had it his way, they would eat waffles every single day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They were his all time favorite food and when he had first moved in with Wayne they were all he would eat. Eventually the two of them had come to a compromise- Eddie could have waffles on Sundays, birthdays, holidays, and any day he brought home a test with a grade that had a B or higher. 

And gig nights. 

Of course, that addition had come later. Wayne hadn’t allowed him to play at the Hideout until he was legally an adult. It came from a good place (It was just one of the many many ways Wayne had tried to keep Eddie from becoming his father.) but it was still annoying being forced to wait that long. 

The waffles kind of made it worth the wait though. 

The next part of the routine was Eddie. Eddie would come home egregiously late, and they would eat together. As they ate through ridiculously high stacks of delicious syrupy goodness, Eddie would tell Wayne everything that had happened.

Nothing was off the table. Eddie would tell Wayne about whatever drugs he took, if he drank, if he dealt, whatever his uncle asked about. By now he had learned that Wayne was just looking out for him. And as long as he was honest, Wayne would let him keep doing what he was doing. He just wanted to be in the loop, and that was a small thing to ask. 

This was the first gig night that Eddie was home before Wayne. 

“I didn’t know how to make the batter,” Eddie said as soon as Wayne opened the door, causing the man to jump out of his skin from being started. Eddie gave his uncle a nervous little grin from where he was sitting on the couch, tapping his fingers against his thighs in incomprehensible patterns. 

“And I was also worried about turning on the waffle iron. Figured you wouldn’t wanna come home to a burnt down trailer and a pile of bones instead of your beloved beloved nephew,” Eddie joked, trying to cut through the tension that had been surrounding him since he came home two hours ago. 

The anxiety fueled energy running through his veins was making it impossible to sit still, impossible to make eye contact as Wayne stared at him with a raised brow. 

“What’d you do?” Wayne asked as he hung up his hat with a put upon sigh. 

“Nothing! Geez Wayne, have a little faith,” Eddie complained, tossing his head back and giving an exaggerated groan. This was easy. Playing a game and making a show of things was something Eddie could do in his sleep, and it was so much more simple than the alternative. He even looked Wayne directly in the eye, just to really sell it. 

“You just think I’m a good for nothin’ troublemaker, don’t you? Spill it, old man, I already know the answer! I am distraught that even my own flesh and blood thinks I’m only capable of tomfoolery.”

Wayne grunted, crossing his arms and giving Eddie one long slow look, peeling back all the layers, lowering all the walls. 

“What’d you do?” Wayne repeated, his tone short and to the point. 

Eddie wilted like a flower. His shoulders hunched inward, and his gaze shot straight to the floor. He dragged one of his socked toes across the carpet in the living room, avoiding his uncle’s piercing gaze. 

“Nothin’” Eddie mumbled, “we just got cut short, that’s all.”

That wasn’t even scratching the surface, but they both knew that. There was no way Wayne was going to leave it at that. 

Sure enough, his uncle just hummed, walking into their small kitchenette and pulling open the fridge.

“Y’all ended early ‘cause of the power outage?” Wayne asked, rhetorically, already knowing the answer. 

Eddie stood up from the couch, coming over to the bar and sitting on one of the stools, nodding glumly as he let his head fall in his palm, still avoiding eye contact. 

“Then what’s wrong?” Wayne asked, passing Eddie a beer as he took a sip from his own and grabbed the eggs. 

“I’m annoyed that our show ended early?” Eddie said, hating that it came out as a question. 

It wasn’t a question, he was annoyed about that. The power outage just wasn’t the thing that was bothering him. 

“And?” Wayne pressed, carefully unwrapping the cord of the waffle iron and gingerly plugging it into the socket. The red light on the front lit up, promising delicious fresh waffles in just minutes.

“And I messed up this super easy riff which pissed me off,” Eddie added, his stomach clenching up as he continued to avoid the actual problem. 

The issue was, he was probably one of the worst liars in the world, and Wayne could smell bullshit a mile off. 

“Eddie, you know our rule,” Wayne said, sounding like the epitome of patience as he whisked batter, his back still turned to his nephew. 

“…Always be honest,” Eddie mumbled, his cheeks flushing as he was forced to recite the single rule Wayne actually had for him. 

Eddie could run as wild as he had to, do whatever it took to get through being a boy like him living in a town like Hawkins, but there couldn’t be secrets between them. Wayne couldn’t protect him if he didn’t know what Eddie was dealing with, and Eddie couldn’t trust that Wayne would always support him if he didn’t give him the chance. 

Normally repeating those words was a comfort, a cathartic tradition that settled Eddie’s soul. No matter what he told Wayne, he would still love him, still support him. Nothing Eddie could do would make his uncle abandon him. 

Today it just felt…invasive. 

“If you can’t talk ‘bout it yet, you can say that,” Wayne reminded him, looking over his shoulder for a second so Eddie could meet his eyes for the first time that night, “just don’t pretend like nothin’s there.” 

It wasn’t that Eddie didn’t want to talk about it. He was actually pretty desperate to, but he didn’t know where to start. He hadn’t intentionally forgotten to tell Wayne about Steve, but he hadn’t come up at all in the last six weeks, and with everything that happened earlier, there was no easy avenue to explain. 

“And I’m worried about my friend,” Eddie admitted quietly, starting with the only thing he was absolutely sure of. 

He was worried about Steve. Really, really, worried.  

“Which friend?” Wayne grunted, pouring out the batter for the first waffle with a satisfying hiss of the iron, “Gareth? Or Jeff?” 

“Steve,” Eddie replied, taking a sip of his drink before he clarified, “Steve Harrington.” 

“Richard’s boy?” Wayne wondered, doing nothing to hide his shock at a Harrington mixing with a Munson. 

“Yeah, but he’s nothing like how you’d expect!” Eddie said quickly, rambling away his anxiety as he drummed his fingers on the countertop. “I mean I thought he was for a while, but he’s actually really cool and sweet and thoughtful and funny and stuff. Like he brought us cookies today before the gig, and he babysits all these weird little nerdy kids too! There’s this whole-“

“Eddie, breathe,” Wayne chuckled, giving his nephew a fond eye roll as he put down a plate in front of him. An absolutely ginormous waffle stared back up at Eddie, already glistening with butter and maple syrup. 

It was perfect. Glorious. Eddie’s stomach was growling. 

“Why are you worried about ‘im? Did somethin’ happen tonight?” Wayne asked, turning back to the iron and starting on his own waffle. 

Eddie launched into his story as he dug into his treat. He started straight from the beginning, right from the first time Steve had accidentally sat at their lunch table all the way to tonight and the panic attack in the middle of the parking lot. He even admitted to the tiny crush that he had once had that was burning a hole in the back of his mind every time Steve smiled at him. 

But there was one big glaring hole in the middle. 

Eddie didn’t say a word about the bet. 

He tried to. He really honestly did. But every time Eddie got close to it, he started to think about the disappointed look Wayne was going to give him, and the deep sigh that was coming with it. Wayne never yelled, never insulted him, but there were times Eddie would have honestly preferred if he did. 

Anger would be so much better than the deep shame that always came with knowing that he had done something Wayne would disapprove of. And this was definitely something Wayne would disapprove of.  

“Then he just left with them, Wayne!” Eddie exploded, finally at the end of the surprisingly long story. Both waffles had already been consumed, the dishes were in the sink to soak, and the two of them were sitting on their beat up old couch, with Eddie’s head resting against Wayne’s shoulder. “Steve got in the car and drove off. With his ex-girlfriend. And the guy she cheated on him with!” 

“Sounds like you’re more upset about that part then he is,” Wayne said, the smile in his tone evident. “Is that what’s actually botherin’ you about all of this?”

“Wayne,” Eddie snapped, cutting off his uncle’s teasing before he could even start. He pulled away, sitting up and waiting until his uncle met his eye before continuing, “this is serious. There’s something wrong. Really wrong. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to help him if he can’t even tell me about it.”  

Because that’s what Steve had said. Not that he didn’t want to tell Eddie. That he couldn’t tell Eddie.

That Eddie wouldn’t have even believed him if he could.  

Which was insane, because Eddie was pretty sure Steve could say that he had seen the second coming of Christ, and Eddie would believe him. Steve could tell him that aliens existed, and Eddie would believe him. Steve could even spout off about characters from Dungeons and Dragons coming to life and dragging him on a quest and- 

Well, Eddie wasn’t sure he would totally believe that, but he would definitely listen at the very least! 

Steve wasn’t even giving him a chance to prove him wrong. He was just locking this all inside, holding it and bottling it and expecting it to go away when it wouldn’t. Eddie had been there, and he knew that trying to force something down only made it come up even worse later on. 

“Eddie,” Wayne said with a sigh, instantly putting his nephew on edge. It was a sigh Eddie knew well- the one Wayne gave when he wanted to tell him something that he knew that Eddie wasn’t going to want to hear. 

“You can’t help him if he ain’t ready to be helped.” 

Wayne’s hesitation there was right. Eddie definitely didn’t want to hear that. 

“That is such bullshit-“ 

“Kiddo,” Wayne said, cutting Eddie’s rant off before it could even really start with just one word. 

Eddie’s jaw shut with a snap, and he dragged a sharp breath in, looking at Wayne with wide eyes, trying to silently convey exactly why he was wrong. 

His uncle’s tough exterior melted away, and a gentle sympathy took over. If it was anyone else, Eddie would have bristled, gotten angry, pushed them away. On anyone else, that look would be 

pity. 

With Wayne, it was just kindness.

“Is it just the fact that you have feelings for this boy that’s makin’ you so damn persistent?” Wayne asked in a soft tone. 

Eddie instantly reared back, a surprised laugh bursting out of him. 

“No, Wayne I used to have a crush on him,” Eddie stressed, trying to make Wayne understand. “Back when we were younger. Years ago! It’s gone now.” 

“Eds,” Wayne said in a no-nonsense tone, “be serious.” 

“I am,” Eddie retorted, a heavy blush staining his cheeks as his heart hammered in his chest. “I don’t have a crush on him anymore. I don’t. I can care about my friends without it being a gay thing, so just drop it!” 

“Eddie, I’ll drop it if you can look me in the eye right now and tell me you don’t have any feelings for that boy,” Wayne challenged, keeping his cool as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the cushions, waiting. 

“Well that’s stupid, Wayne. Of course I have feelings for him,” Eddie sneered. He got up and began to pace, unable to hold it all in anymore as he continued to rant. 

“I care about him like I care about all my friends. It’s not like he’s nothing to me, but he’s just a friend, that’s all. I just think that it’s really cool that he was brave enough to join our group, and it’s sweet that he’s trying so hard. He isn’t half-assing it, and he doesn’t half-ass anything! Steve puts his whole self into everything he does and everyone he cares about, and caring that much is such an easy way to get hurt, but it’s like he’s not even worried! I mean, you should see the way he is with the kids! We’re just friends, that’s all, and that’s fine. I don’t need it to be anything more. I don’t want it to be anything more. Look we have a few stupid inside jokes, and some moments, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like I love him, I just-“

Eddie cut himself off, taking a sharp shaking breath in as the reality of it all came crashing down on his head. He took a stumbling step backward, trying to breathe as he staggered back to the couch and fell down into his seat. 

“Fuck,” Eddie whispered, burying his face in his hands, the lump in his throat constricting his breath as his eyes burned. “Fuck.”

A warm hand fell between his shoulder blades, and Eddie blindly tipped on his side, letting Wayne’s arm curl around him as he burrowed into his uncle’s side. 

“It’s alright,” Wayne murmured, rubbing his thumb against the side of Eddie’s head as his nephew tried to catch his breath. “It’s not wrong for you to feel the way you do. It’s not somethin’ you can control. It’s not a bad thing.”  

“I know,” Eddie croaked out, hating the way he kind of didn’t believe the words. 

This wasn’t his first crush, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Eddie had always known who he was, and he had never pretended to be anything else. He wasn’t ashamed, but he couldn’t help the fear that still lived inside. 

That fear… it was terrifying, and painful. He hated being scared of himself, but he still was. Eddie was scared of the way people would look at him, scared of the way the world would treat him if they knew for a fact instead of just assuming. Scared of the way things would change. 

Scared of the way Steve would probably hate him if he ever figured it out. 

Steve. That’s what this was all about. It wasn’t about how Eddie felt. Tonight was about Steve, and how worried Eddie was for him. 

“Okay but even if I am attracted to him, that’s not why I want to help him,” Eddie said, carefully pulling away from Wayne’s grip and rubbing at his dry cheeks. No tears had ever come, but Eddie did it anyway, just to be sure. 

“Then why?” Wayne asked, genuinely curious. 

Why? 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” 

Eddie looked up at the other boy, furrowing his brow. 

“Why not?” Eddie said with a shrug, going back to his notebook. He was scratching out another tik-tac-toe board to add to the dozens that were already on the page. 

“People aren’t just nice,” The boy insisted, giving Eddie a guarded look. “They always want something.” 

“I want to make this afternoon a little less unbearable, and I want to make you feel better.” Eddie offered, quirking his head to the side and offering the pen to the other boy. “Is that enough?” 

They stared at each other for a long second, until the other boy’s face broke into an incredulous smile and he ducked his head down. 

“You’re really weird,” He said with a soft laugh, taking the pen. It was a lovely sound, like birds singing in the morning, or the first soft strum of a guitar as practice began. 

Eddie needed to hear it again.

“He needed me,” Eddie said softly, lost somewhere in between now and the memory. “Still does. I think.” 

Did Steve need him? Eddie wasn’t sure. All he knew was Steve needed someone and Eddie was the one who knew it. 

“Then be there for him,” Wayne suggested, patting Eddie twice on the back as he stood and walked over to his bed, beginning to pull it out, “You don’t need to know why he needs help to support. Sometimes all someone needs is someone to be there.”

“You’re right,” Eddie replied, sensing the end of the conversation coming. Exhaustion was tugging on his eyelids, and Wayne was beginning to yawn,. “I just wish I could do more.”

“I think you’re doin’ more than you realize,” Wayne offered, settling on the side of his bed and stretching. 

“Thanks Wayne,” Eddie sighed, turning and heading towards his room. 

“Is there anything else on your mind?” Wayne said from behind, stopping Eddie in his tracks. “Feels like you might’ve left something out.” 

Eddie paused, feeling like a mouse caught in a trap. He knew that if Wayne could see his face, he would’ve been done for, but just with his back, there wasn’t enough to prove he was right. 

Briefly, Eddie wondered if Wayne was a psychic, or had some sort of power to know when Eddie was keeping a secret. It felt like there was a big yellow sign above his head, shouting that he needed his uncle to help him before it was too late. 

I think I’m doing the wrong thing, Eddie thought, desperately working his throat, trying to force the words out, I think I’m doing something mean, and it’s going to end up hurting Steve. Badly. I’m doing the wrong thing, and I don’t know how to stop it before he gets hurt.

“No,” Eddie whispered, hating himself for the lie, “there’s nothing else.” 

Taglist: @paopaupaus @zerokrox-blog @surferboyzaza @whatever-is-a-good-name @minjintea @addelyin @5ammi90 @hagbaby420 @shinekocreator @bornonthesavage @starxlark @electrick-marionnett @resident-gay-bitch @ash-a-confused-enby @classicdinosaurdeathpose @valon-whomsttf @rotten-lil-goblin @thereindeerlady @love-ya-kash @kerlypride @sparkle-fiend @thefreakandthehair @flowercrowngods @milf-harrington @sadcanadianwinter @gothbat99 @hotcocoaharrington @henderdads @lightwoodbanethings @colorful565 @h0n3y-dw @craterbbox @sourw0lfs @lesliiieeeee @bidisastersworld @tinynebula @ravnlinn @bonescaro @mexmatch @cottagecoredreams @joruni @hellykelly @maegan1116 @farewell-wanderlvst @desertfern @due-to-the-fact-that-im-a-slut @anythingforourmoonyedits @eerielake @fandemonium-takes-its-toll @sidekick-hero

[coolcoolcoolbutwtf]

Receptionist Danny working in the main Wayne lobby

First few days at the job site and Danny was already regretting getting this job.

Why?

Because this exact scenario had been repeated five times already just today. Not as persistent as THIS one though. God he is so tired of this bull. It got tiring after the third time now he's just tired and annoyed.

A bad combo considering Danny the "Town Menace Phantom" Fenton was beginning to lose the little patients he had left.

' just count down from ten like Jazz had taught me years ago'. Danny gave a sigh and kept repeating the mantra in his mind.

He has to stay strong he fought ghost for years! What is a few minutes worth of questions from a few eager journalist? He could handle Wes how could they be any worse?

Oh who was he kidding certainly not himself! Not after having suffered a day full of questions about shit he didn't know squat about.

This situation with this gender bent Wes was WORSE considering Danny couldn't just tell her to piss off. The others had just asked a few questions or had gotten turned down regarding questions. Not TO bad. He could handle it. He still kinda liked this job. Well, he likes the work benefits. It was the main reason he applied after all.

So give him some credit this was the sixth harpy "journalist" to come sniffing around after having gotten wind of a new employee in the main office. Though their sources must be bad. He was just a receptionist! Not the new head of the financing department or Bruce Wayne's new secretary, leave him alone!

He doesn't know what the company boss does??? Why ask him? How would lil' old receptionist Danny Fenton know!

Has he not suffered enough?? His suffering with this specific harpy had been going on for the past twenty five minutes.

"So, where does Bruce Wayne leave for during his meetings? A new woman? Man? Trouble in the family?"

Vicky Vale as she had introduced herself before had officially made Danny hear his last strained thread of patients fraying. He could only take so much before the menace in him gott done with this nonsense. Time for Ms Vale to go away, fuck off and not come back. Danny menace mode ON now.

Smiling the most customer service™ smile he could manage Danny responded in the flattest tone he was capable of.

"Well to fuck your mom of course, Ms Vale."

And of course at just the moment the older receptionist Ms Linda Smith that had been in charge of showing Danny the territory before retirement finally came back. With two coffee cups in her hands. She had taken off on her break the moment she spotted Ms Vale walking towards the front desk. She promised to grab him a coffee on her way back. Truly abandoning him to the wolves. Or wolf. She had bribed him and Danny hadn't even known what kind of suffering awaited him. Ms Linda had started speaking.

"Okay Danny no we don't---

Danny didn't know exactly what was up with the big boss and his family. Something was definitely up but he didn't think it was bad.

"And your dad, because we here at Wayne enterprises support the LBGTQIA community. Thank you and leave.

((((((((((((End )))))))))))) :)

Thank you for reading! I might do some more for this idea again. This is basically just the idea by @some-rotten-nest link below. I've had a similar idea about Danny being an evil assistant before. Not a receptionist though. It was fun writing this I keep thinking about all the interesting scenarios that could play out in this (Au?) Idea. Also I just wanted to test the waters. I've never written anything and actually posted it before. I hope this was okay. Um bye and have a good day oh am I kidding have a good night!

This idea is based on this https://www.tumblr.com/some-rotten-nest/725017913035276288/danny-fenton-a-new-receptionist-at-wayne by the amazing @some-rotten-nest ! I was just so inspired by it, all of my creative instincts were just itching to make something for this<3

>:D

[hrtiu]

I finally got around to writing some Solavellan fanfic! Thank you to @namedbrina for the prompt! It's not exactly what you suggested, but hopefully the spirit remains. Also sorry it took me so long to actually write 😅 You can find a link to the fic on AO3 here, or simply read below. I have a whole long story plotted out, but we'll see how much actually gets written ><

Solas has never liked necromancers and is surprised to like Lavellan. But she has always respected spirits and wisps, so perhaps it shouldn’t be as surprising. She who wears Falon’Din’s marks, who even Dorian is a bit in awe of/scared of, and who never leaves a battlefield without using the last of her mana in a Dalish ritual to soothe whatever might remain. As the only elf and perhaps mage around, she teaches this ritual to Solas so he might be able to do it if she has no mana? Idk.

Of all the titles Solas had carried in his long years, his favorite was healer.

Perhaps that was why he was enjoying his time with the Inquisition so much. To many of the folk around Haven, he was known only as the reclusive, slightly odd elf healer. There was something freeing about the many centuries of baggage his name and face carried being stripped away. Solas the healer. Mender of bones, salver of wounds, fixer of broken things. He quite liked that.

Atishal, the so-called Herald of Andraste, enjoyed no such reputation. Oh, the people of Haven respected her, and were all too willing to place their hopes on her thin shoulders. But her Dalish traditions and strange magic warded off any reputation for wholesomeness that might otherwise develop. Necromancy had a way of doing that.

There was something mesmerizing about her magic. Necromancy had always left a bitter taste in Solas’s mouth, but the Herald made it seem natural, almost elegant. Together with Varric and Cassandra, they fought through the chaos of apostate mages and rogue templars, but always his gaze was drawn to her. He was so preoccupied by the sight of spirits from the Fade willingly lending Atishal their strength that he never saw the templar’s arrow coming. 

“Ah!” He let out a pained grunt as the arrowhead buried deep into the flesh of his shoulder. He sank to one knee and grimaced, the hand not holding his staff moving to grip the shaft of the arrow.

“Solas needs help!” Atishal shouted above the fray.

Varric tossed a red bottle his way, and Solas managed to catch it with one functioning arm. Solas pulled the cork out with his teeth and drank just enough to muster the energy for a fade step. He stepped through the veil and ended up on a small hill just out of range of the still-battling templars. He caught his breath, intending to reenter the fray when he got the chance, but Varric, Cassandra, and the Herald didn’t seem to need his help any more.

“How are you doing, Chuckles?” Varric asked, hefting Bianca over his shoulder as he trudged up the hill towards Solas.

“Let’s get back to camp,” Cassandra said. “He can rest up there.”

“No need to wait until then,” Atishal said.

Her soft footfalls barely seemed to depress the grass as she made her way to Solas’s side, kneeling down to get a better look at his wounded shoulder. Ginger fingers tested the flesh around the injury, and she hissed in sympathy.

“I don’t have the strength right now to numb it, but I can heal it after the shaft is out,” she said. “Do you want me to do that now? Or should we wait until we get back to camp and we can get you some willow bark for the pain? Or a lyrium potion so you can heal it yourself?”

“Just do it now,” Solas said, not wanting to make the hike back to camp with an arrow in his shoulder. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Got it,” Atishal said. She gripped the arrow shaft with one hand and braced her other hand against Solas’s shoulder.

“One, two, three.”

Searing pain shot through Solas’s body, his grunt of pain pushing through gritted teeth. Then, in an instant, the pain disappeared.

Atishal’s hand against his shoulder felt warm. She was still murmuring words of healing under her breath, her eyes closed and her brow unforrowed in an expression of peace.

He blinked in confusion and surprise. Her spell had worked marvelously—he couldn’t have cast it better himself. That was… unexpected.

“Are we ready to go, Herald?” Cassandra’s no-nonsense voice broke through Solas’s daze. “It isn’t safe to stay in one place for too long.”

Solas pushed himself to his feet as elegantly as he could manage, nodding to Atishal in thanks. “Yes, Seeker. I am ready to go.”

They moved in near silence down the rough Hinterlands trail. The battle had taken a lot out of them, and with nothing but more long days of closing rifts, facing down rogue templars, bandits, or mages, and struggling to make a name for the Inquisition, nobody was in the mood for chatter.

They reached camp—a cluster of tents by a tranquil pond—and Solas gratefully took the stew Scout Harding offered him. He didn’t usually eat much, but he was famished. He pressed carefully at the place in his shoulder that had held a templar arrow only hours earlier, but the flesh was whole. A little tender, but whole.

Atishal sat next to him on a large rock by the water’s edge, a short distance from the gathering of Inquisition scouts around the campfire. Far enough away to create some sense of privacy. Solas wondered if she thought they were in some kind of Elven guild, and the thought brought a grimace to his lips. 

“How is your shoulder?” she asked, her deft fingers unbraiding her long, brown hair.

“Feeling good,” Solas said, rolling his shoulder in demonstration.

“I’m glad.” She let her hair fall in thick waves over her shoulder, still lovely despite the sweat and dirt of the day weighing it down.

The conversation lapsed, and Solas let the ambient sounds of the dusky forest fill the silence.

“You are quite a skilled healer,” Solas said eventually.

“You sound surprised.”

“I don’t think many necromancers make the effort to learn the art of healing.”

“Really?” she said, turning to him with a raised brow. “I don’t see necromancy and healing as being so different.”

“Healing the living versus drawing wisps into the vessels of the dead? What could be more different?”

She didn’t respond for a long moment. Solas looked over at her, noting the tense line of her mouth. He recognized her expression, of course. He’d grown used to offending people since waking from his long sleep.

He waited for her to leave. He knew her well enough by now to know that the Herald of Andraste tended to shut down rather than confront. But though he gave her plenty of space to make her exit, she stayed.

A mourning dove let out a plaintive cry, and the sun slipped behind the trees. Twilight transformed the woods around them, marking a boundary in time and space. 

Atishal picked a stone up from the ground and tossed it into the pond. It made a satisfying thunk as it landed in the water, and she watched the ripples slowly expand for a long moment.

“I used to be a healer,” she said quietly.

Solas raised his eyebrows. “Ah?”

“Do you think a Dalish tribe has much use for necromancy?” she asked, eyes still trained on the last remaining ripples in the pond. “For the first twenty five years of my life, it never entered my mind to practice necromancy. I soothed scrapes and bruises, mended broken bones, guided women through difficult childbirths. Easing peoples’ pain and healing their bodies was my calling.”

Was. There was pain in that word, pain that felt familiar to Solas. He, too, used to be a healer. He could no longer claim such a simple title—at least not by itself. No matter what the people in Haven thought, he knew the truth.

“What happened?” Solas asked.

“A plague. It wiped out more than half of my clan in a single year.” She said the words plainly, without sentiment. “After that, I realized among those who needed healing were the dead along with the living.”

“Healing for the dead?”

“Yes. I know… I think their souls are gone. Inviting spirits to inhabit their bodies doesn’t change that. But so many spirits clustered around our tribe, feeding off of sorrow and tragedy. I found that allowing these spirits space to act, to work through the pain… It was beneficial both to the spirits and to those loved ones who remained.”

The way she talked about spirits… Solas began to regret the condescending tone he’d struck in their earlier conversation. She clearly had a conception of spirits that was much closer to his own than he’d realized—much closer to his than most of the people in this strange half-world. And the way she interpreted necromancy was novel to him.

“I’ve never considered that,” he said. Words rarely spoken.

“I hadn’t either, before the plague. Necessity is the greatest teacher, after all.”

“True.”

Silence fell between them again, and Solas pondered her words. It made sense, in a way, that necromancy would develop new depth and meaning in this hellish world he had created. The people here were so numerous, their lives so cheap.

“You have given me much to think about, Herald,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder at him, a rare smile gracing her lips. “Somehow, from you that feels like a compliment.”

From him, it certainly was.

[some-mari-thoughts]

i don’t know if you’ll see this but your art is so gorgeous like i literally aspire to be you

Hii! You are unlikely to get notified of anon asks being responded!

Nonetheless I spent many years learning how to draw and paint traditionally, in classic art schools for kids. I also had a year where i stopped and specifically learned how to draw people and stylize them, and fought off fear of drawing people/faces at all. What I have is the result of basically, lerning to sketch, years of drawing life art - objects, scenery of city and forest, plants, going to the zoo and sketching the animals there.

I learned learning to draw humans is fully on you, so theres that. Look up tutorials, stare at how anathomy works and link back to your body to understand better, sketch from life and photos to get the hang of not only how humans look but also how to put down something comprehensible fast.

Watching nature livestreams can also help you get that live footage of creatures for practice

What art school did is it made me learn all of that stuff necessary for background art, perspective and lighting, and sketching, and then taught me composition (something i don't use too often but can and SHOULD) and how to use a bunch of mediums, and how to sketch someone in a way that's readable. How to draw textures with pencil and brush.

And by myself i learned how to make someone look pretty or ugly or silly, or old, and how to make them express themselves. How to line also. You know, key things for character art. And both things kind of completed each other. My character art is what i built from ground myself bc i wanted to. And everything else was given to me at school.

Anyway yeah. My art is a product of wanting to make character art for many many years and learning to do so by myself while learning how to draw elsewhere ahshsh

Oh wait! Forgot to thank @/georgetheblob for inspiring me to try a ballpoint pen for sketching, best decision of my life.

Impeccable contrast in art, doesn't smudge like pencil and lives longer! Also makes you work with mistakes and speeds you up bc you don't get stuck in a fix-it feedback loop. Paper won't let you do it too much anyway with a pencil even (it gets frayed and weak)