#ARC TWO / SHARPENING IT INTO LIGHT

[saturngas]

sloppy head while watching tv

[🪐] you give your boyfriend a sloppy blowjob just because

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

genre: smut

warnings: established relationship; size kink; a little bit of oral fixation; dirty talk; ball play; me dedicating two paragraphs to describing this man's pretty cock;

word count: 2.3k

..

beaming light came from the tv, giving a cozy setting to the living room. your boyfriend was wearing his pitch black glasses since his very sensitive eyes would be burning from the radiance.

your legs were sprawled out and tangled with satoru´s on the cushiony lovesac couch, you on top of his strong body. heavy, strong arms were wrapped around your waist while one of his large hands was stroking the exposed skin of your low back. your head rested on his hard chest while his chin laid on top of your head, your soft locks tickling his jawline.

the movie was once interesting, until a scene where the main male character was stripping off his clothes to start his training arc made you a bit warm in the inside. the actor wasn't your celebrity crush or anything in particular, but seeing his strong built body kind of reminded you of the godlike boyfriend you had beneath you.

after said scene, you couldn't keep your hands off satoru´s body. and of course he appreciated all your undivided attention on him, humming at every given touch. satoru even felt relived that actor knocked some sense into you so you would touch him. the way he would always be touch starved with you is indescribable.

your eyes were on the tv but your mind was getting high from the mere touch of your hands on satoru´s warm skin underneath his oversized sweater. hard mountains of pecs adorning his chest while strong abs would flex at your touch. he looked so good the moment he stepped out of the bathroom after a shower with his casual clothes already on.

his black uniform complemented his pale skin and snowy hair so well, along with the black blindfold, but when he changed for casual clothing, you could feel heat rushing to your core. being his girlfriend granted these heavenly views whenever you would be at home or going out for a date. satoru liked looking good. he was one for fashion. he had never mentioned something about it to you, but you knew he was picky with his outfits, always wanting everything to match and make out a nice looking aesthetic. he once was so troubled a new pair of navy blue pants didn't suit with a stylish jacket he already owned.

you would always tell him he looked handsome as well. and oh how flustered he would get. even after years of being together, he wasn't really used to your compliments. he loved your words of affirmation. even though satoru loved talking so high about himself—he was very aware of the man he was—, his cheeks would burn at any given praised from anyone, especially you.

one of your hands started exploring his back muscles while the other stayed on the front, roaming through his well-built abs. a single finger tracing his linea alba between his abs until stopping at the hem of his sweatpants. you heard the white haired man's breath sharpen at your sudden stop, the hand stroking at your lower back aiming to your bum; long fingers tracing the outline of your ass over your leggings.

still your hands wouldn't stop teasing his sensitive skin, his confirmations to keep going being his low hums buzzing from his chest. your smile turned into a smirk the moment you heard a whimper coming from his parted lips as your hand finally trespassed his sweatpants and underwear, going for the big prize. his hand grabbed a handful of your ass while his free hand went to your hair, caressing your scalp.

"oh baby..." he whimpered as your delicate fingers wrapped around his hardening cock. "don't start something you can't finish." there he was with his snarky comments even when he was in the lower position. you looked up to see his blushing face. rosy lips parted slightly to let out short hot breaths while his forehead was glittering with fresh sweat.

the hand that was previously on his back flew to his face to take of his rectangular glasses, tossing them somewhere in the room. his baby blue eyes were half lidded, a dark blue molding in the depths of his irises, a signal of his growing lust for you.

"it's okay, my angel boy," one hand stroking up and down his large cock as the other caressed lovingly the side of his face. "im sure I'll finish this." you said smugly, turning your boyfriend on even more. his dick twitched at your words and that was your cue to move your hand quicker, pressing lightly at his head, making satoru let out a loud moan, gripping your ass tighter this time.

your lips collapsed with his in a passionate kiss. your tongues danced desperately at the intense feeling of arousal invading your bodies. satoru hummed in the kiss, sending vibrations down your throat. his wet tongue explored the insides of your mouth while your hand stroked him vigorously, his gooey pre-cum coating your entire hand. satoru couldn't stop kissing you, devouring your mouth with his own. heat driving his primal instincts to the limit.

you broke the kiss to place brief pecks down his neck, stopping slightly only to nibble at the pale skin. a sudden sense of possessiveness traveled up your body all the way to your mouth, leaving wet red marks on his collarbones. you raised his sweatshirt to tickle his nipples with your lips, sucking at them. your tongue danced desperately around his hardened bud while the hand that was on his pretty face moved to keep wandering off his strong body. the tall man moaned quietly while tightening his hold in your nape and ass. your lips left his titties with a loud pop, admiring your work in the form of rosy and bruised nipples. your mouth then proceeded to trace wet kisses down his chest and torso, sucking at the skin of his abs. oh how you loved them.

the hand showering his cock with attention left its place to quickly disregard of his pants and boxers, only lowering them enough to give yourself great access to his beautiful cock and heavy balls.

time was not wasted as you hold his long cock from the base. goodness. how you loved this pretty cock. satoru was truly blessed by the gods with such attractive physique, he had nothing to feel self-conscious about. his dick was the same tone as his skin; his head being noticeably rosier, almost mimicking the color of his pretty lips. you admired his long member, your eyes tracing each vein, accentuating on a particular one that ran from his pretty base to his head. you could've swear you have felt that exact vein caressing your wet walls when your boyfriend would thrust into you slowly enough to feel every inch of him. you pussy clenched around nothing at the thought.

his corpus spongiosum only made his cock appear thicker than it already was. his head glistened as you smeared the dripping precum around it. hungry gaze now at his large balls, which seemed to be twitching with the forming semen that was preparing to be shot at your touch.

your mouth was salivating at the mere sight of the pretty cock in front of you. your hands looked so small when they grabbed his thick base.

"my goodness, toru," you almost moaned. "never getting tired of this big cock." you sent him a playful wink, which he responded with a groan and a gentle tug at your hair. your hand moved painfully slowly up and down his long cock.

"yeah?" he gulped breathlessly, lustful eyes glaring down at you. "since you like it so much, you should wrap that pretty little mouth of yours around it and suck it dry." oh. his dirty talk did wonders to you, even now where you literally had him wrapped around your fingers. your core started to burn at just his lewd words, feeling your panties get sticky from your arousal.

"you want me to do that, baby?" he nodded eagerly. "it's okay, toru, use your big boy words." you said as you stopped deliberately at the top of his thick cock, squeezing shamelessly at head. a sea of precum sprouted from his hole.

oh how he loved you when you were like this. you felt his cock throb and grow impossibly harder at your words. a large palm hugged the side of your face, his thumb caressing your bottom lip as it pressed against your lips. you parted them slightly only to give full entrance to his thick digit. low hums coming from your throat inviting him to push his thumb further into your mouth as you started sucking it, your spit coating his wrist. wide eyes looked up at him.

"yeah just like that. want you to suck my cock the way you're sucking my thumb," satoru groaned. you hollowed your cheeks around his thick digit, making him moan out loud. his burly body was adorned with glistening skin from the hot sweat framing every inch of his body.

you released his finger with a loud pop. satoru coated your lips with your own saliva using his wet thumb. he brought his hand to his face to taste you himself, sucking deliciously at his own thumb.

the sight made you salivate even more, being more than ready to take the long thick cock in front of you once and for all. you pumped him a few times before moving your lips closer to his fat head. precum being used as lipgloss as you rubbed his head against your lips. satoru almost let out a pornographic moan at the view, he loved it when you were freaky like that.

bliss clouded satoru's mind once you wrapped your pretty lips around his shaft. your mouth achingly punctured around his size. even though you have already taken him multiple times before, your holes still had to adjust to his exquisite width. you took him as far as you could, relaxing your throat muscles to get more of his lengths.

still, several inches of him were waiting for your warm mouth, so you curl your fingers around him. you set a steady rhythm where your bobbed your head up and down following the motion of your hand. his hips couldn't help but jerk up at the feeling of warmth enveloping him.

"oh... yeah... j-just like that, ba-byy," satoru cried hopelessly at your erotic movements. your hot mouth driving him crazy.

once your throat finally bottomed out, you sloppily took a couple of more inches down. satoru banged his head against the backrest and howled loudly. he was being very vocal.

"oh my sweet girl..." a long whine left his lips when you hollowed your cheeks around his length. "y-you are be-being so... so good t-to me..." his voice shivered as his hand went back to your face, caressing lovingly your hot cheeks.

you continued sucking him messily, the accumulating saliva dropping down his long length and down your chin, meeting his thighs and balls below. the hand that was not busy with his cock caught his heavy balls in a soothing massage, rubbing them and playing with them as if there were a pair of marbles.

"ahh~ oh~~ y-you are so... oh... pretty with that big... ahh... cock stretching your p-pretty lips." he couldn't stop moaning with an open mouht, being noisy as hell. you knew you were doing a great job when satoru was being uncontrollably talkative.

the tv light framed your silhouette in such a sensual way it made satoru roll his azure eyes to the back of his head. your head never ceasing the bouncing on his cock. you felt him throbbing when you hummed once his tip was deeply pressing down your throat, tickling at your uvula and targeting the gag reflexes you manually turned off.

his balls started twitching and your boyfriend became even more vocal, a set of loud cries and whimpers harmonizing your ears. it served as an indicator he was very close to his release. you continued humming around him until you felt something snapped.

satoru grabbed a handful of your hair to guide your mouth even deeper down his shaft. tears prickled at your eyes when you took all of him, gagging nosily as his white pubes tickled your nose, your spit creating a shiny coat around his length.

"come on, pretty girl..." he groaned, now using both hands to push your head further down. "take that cock, I k-know you can." you looked up at him glossy eyes, making satoru shiver in his place, letting out a growl. his hips thrusted into your face, satoru unable to control his movements, while his abs flexed along his biceps. you had one hand on his muscular thigh supporting yourself from the applied force, and the other continuing to play with his balls.

a teardrop cascaded down your rosy cheeks as your remaining oxygen was consuming quickly. you whorled his balls and squeezed them hardly. that was all it took for satoru to cum all over your mouth.

pure ecstasy filled his entire being, leaving his body trembling and releasing hot creamy liquid from his aching cock.

"ahh! ohh~ baby..." he cried the loudest as his arms lost their force on you to let you breathe and his hips ceased their furious thrusts. your mouth still agape panting harshly as warm spills of cum decorated your wet insides. your hand stroke him vigorously, urging him to finish his white leaking in your mouth. his hips jolt at his finishing release as he finally came from his high.

"show me, please," he begged as he tapped gently at your cheek. you swallowed his cum vulgarly, then stuck out your clean tongue. "that's my sweet girl." his smirk made you blush like crazy. you abandoned his softening cock after giving it a tiny kiss and climbed up to him, encircling your arms around his neck. "thank you so much, baby."

"you are so welcome, toru, but now you gotta take care of me."

[adelheidvonschicksal]

⋆｡°✩ DARLING, DON'T BE AFRAID

Summary: Despite living with Xavier for the past few weeks, you still haven't taken the plunge to see if all this time together make you anything more than roommates especially when he disappears again in the middle of the night. Determined, you decide to question him on where his feelings lie. You just never thought a simple kiss on the cheek was the only push needed.

Pairing: Xavier x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: Roommates AU, Vanilla Smut (A lot of it. Like 7k words of smut), Love Confessions, Friends to Lovers, Emotional Sex

Word Count: 12,000~

Note: Sequel to Do Roommates Sleep Together. This part can be read as a standalone. So not necessary to read part one but it adds more context.

AO3 Link

You make a final decisive pull of the trigger. A loud pang resonates in the air and smoke spirals off the barrel. The Wanderer disappears in a wisp of debris and dust that is quickly caught in the wind.

Xavier stands a few feet in front of you. His sword twirls with one final arc of light illuminating behind the sharpened tip before it dematerializes in his hand.  You’re oblivious to the way his eyes search and find you on instinct as you run eager fingertips on the warm barrel of your pistol. 

“Mission completed. We should report back.”

You raise your head to meet his gaze while your gloved fingers remain faithfully on your weapon. The adrenaline from a successful mission is still surging through you.

“I want to test out my guns some more.”

His eyes soften at your response, but the weight of his gaze is still heavy as he walks towards you and places his hand on your head. 

“There will be more Wanderers tomorrow,” he murmurs. His thumb gently brushes your forehead before his hand swoops back over your hair. Though your hands were still itching for another battle, your mind was weak to the calmness of his tone, like the slow tumble of waves on the shore, as he coaxes your head back to look at him more directly. “Let’s go home.”

This time you do not protest. Even if you did, what could you possibly say? 

Your aggression relaxes along with your shoulders, allowing you to give in to his request with a quick holstering of your twin guns. 

You return to headquarters and give your mission report to Jenna – pausing only to poke fun when she mentions how much Xavier’s reporting time has improved since the two of you became partners – then you start on the way home with the sun kissing at your back.

Laughter fills the air on the streets. Immediately, you feel warm inside. It was only thanks to the work you do every day that citizens could enjoy this peaceful dusk without fear of monsters scrambling to destroy the city like so many years ago. 

It’s rewarding to know you hold some small part in the safety of the city after almost dying in the catastrophe as a child. You breathed it in fully, letting joy fill your lungs as you savor the calm moment. The emotion is only highlighted by the fact that when you look to your side, you can see Xavier there, putting weight to the empty space left in the wake of your family’s death. 

Walking home together in the past was a random occurrence, happening whenever your busy schedules after missions aligned. As freshly cemented roommates, it was almost a given you’d walk home together now. Not just to the apartment complex, but to an actual shared home. 

This path you go along every day has become special in that time. It’s full of promises, the kind you could only wish for on snowy New Year's evenings as you tied red ribbons to the shrine gate and prayed for good things to happen in your life. Not a lot of those wishes came true but Xavier did. 

In that way, you were a fortunate person. 

It was only your guess if he felt the same. You want to ask him. Unlike when you’re fighting Wanderers, you’re not brave when it comes to Xavier - a part of you prefers to leave things between you unsaid. It’s safer that way as you can keep living in a beautiful world of your own illusions. 

Therefore, you’re unable to help yourself. Pinching the sleeve of his uniform, you tug on it gently to gain his attention; Xavier looks at you with glossy glazed eyes. He’s always so sluggish after missions. His steps slow and methodical, like a robot, as he barely manages to straighten his spine and raise his head.

“Chin up, Xavier. We’re almost there.”

“I’m exhausted,” he says. 

You don’t need to hear him say it to understand. You think you’ve become good at reading his body language by now. Donning a sympathetic smile, you shift your hand, aiming for a lower target, and entwine your fingers with his under the guise of leading him faster.

“My next solution is carrying you by the way.”

A smile cracks on his face, impossibly light as his gaze drifts to the hold you have on his hand. “I don’t think you could carry me.”

“You dare doubt me?” Truth be told, he was right. He was tall and muscular and much thicker under that uniform than he looked. He would probably crush you under his weight if you tried to lift him. Despite how improper it was to think, you wouldn’t mind if he wanted to place his weight on top of you in another way. You tick up the corner of your lips into a surprisingly innocent smile opposite of the images in your imagination as you flash your bicep to him. “I’m very strong.”

“I think it would make more sense if I carried you.”

“I can walk.”

“I don’t see why that matters,” he says with a yawn, and you smile.

“Are you sure you won’t drop me?”

“If it’s a choice between falling asleep and dropping you then I’ll definitely stay awake. Otherwise, you might end up carrying me after all,” he says. Xavier always manages to be unfailingly charming. Given the mystery of his past and the way he carries himself, you often question exactly what kind of upbringing he had. You almost ask but your interrogation doesn’t have the chance to plant seeds when he stops in front of you and kneels. 

You thought he was joking when he said he’d carry you home but that doesn’t stop you from wrapping your arms over his broad shoulders and letting him scoop your legs up around his solid waistline. 

His clasp on the back of your thighs makes you shiver. You feel like a touch-starved virgin that the simple strength of his hands over the thickness of your pants incited such a reaction out of you, so you bury your burning face against the back of his neck. 

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Xavier must feel your hair against his neck, and you use the fact he can’t see your face to your advantage as you nod against his nape.

“Just hungry.”

For his part, Xavier doesn’t question your sudden hunger. Instead, he asks what you’re in the mood for and starts to list the restaurants that you pass on the way to the apartment complex.

You lay your cheek against him, watching the many buildings pass you by until you point out one you don’t recognize, flashing with many signs about a grand opening.

“How about that one?” you ask.

Xavier chuckles, continuing on in his steps past the building in question. “It’s not that great.”

“How do you know?”

“I tried them out.”

You squeeze into his shoulders, pushing off of them in a childlike manner and an even more dramatic gasp. “Without me?”

“I was going to bring you something back, but they weren’t very tasty. I like your cooking a lot more.”

You know he can’t see you, but you puff out your cheeks anyway. You wrap your arms tightly around him again, willing your heart not to skip when his back tenses as your chest compresses against him.  

“Are you asking me to cook dinner for you? I’m quite exhausted after all that running around,” you tell him sarcastically. 

He accidentally makes you regret your teasing when he agrees with a compassionate offer, “I’ll cook for you today.”

Hearing the word cook from his mouth makes your stomach sour. If there’s one thing after all these months you learned, it’s that Xavier is a…creative cook to put it gently. Or rather, he has zero cooking ability if it involves electricity. You didn’t mind. The two of you make it work with you doing most of the cooking and him cleaning up after, at your own behest, because if he had his way, he’d be in the kitchen much more often. 

“On second thought, I’ll cook.”

“You still don’t trust me,” he says with a sigh. Guilt tingles through you. However, your continued survival outweighs the guilt that the memory of his puppy eyes can draw out of you. “I’ll handle the cold stuff, and I’ll leave the meat to you.”

“Deal,” you say, nuzzling your head against his neck. 

When you get home, the night pans out like it always does. The two of you take turns in the shower with dinner being cooked shortly after, and the human garbage disposal known as your roommate leaves very little work for you to do once all is said and done. 

You decide to start on the last of chores for today while Xavier washes the dishes. It’s routine to check the plants before going to bed as the many potted flowers were like your own children after you spent so many hours tending to them, finding the perfect ratio of nutrients and water to keep them thriving. 

It is also routine to hunt down the birds so lovingly named Fatso and Alarm Clock by the sleepy man of the house to give them some of the seeds and nuts you regularly brought home from the store. You told Xavier that happy birds would stop eating his strawberries when in reality you liked to spoil them. 

So, you spread out the seeds on the ground for them, leaving them there for later. 

“If you feed them, they’ll never leave.”

You can’t help the laugh that leaves you. As much as he complains about the birds, you think, if his constant curiosity about the birds’ day-to-day lives was anything to go by, that he’d miss the two fluffy creatures if they were to ever find new nesting grounds. You turn back to the balcony door with a cheeky grin. “I have experience with things that don’t leave after you feed them. You enjoyed dinner a little too much.”

It’s hard to see in the fading light but Xavier blushes and brings a shy grip to the back of his neck. “Last I checked you moved in with me.”

That silences you. There’s no denying his observation, and you fail to notice him getting closer until he reaches his hand out to help you up. You willingly reach out, hand sinking into his touch as he lifts you to your feet. 

The coolness of your palms touching slowly births a lingering warmth. The soft squeeze around your hand makes it hard to let him go but eventually you must. Otherwise, you might say things that are better kept to yourself as you walk back into the house and close the sliding door behind you. 

With a pounding heart, you retire to your room early.

This room is a little different from the master room at your old apartment. The wall color is a little different brighter and it’s smaller. Luckily, you made the space work pretty easily by migrating half your plushie collection into Xavier’s room, checking like a dutiful mother to make sure he was treating them right and placing them with love should they roll off his dresser.  Sighing, you change into slightly more comfortable clothes, choosing a random pair of soft shorts and a tank top to wear before climbing into bed. It’s ten when you finally let your eyes slip shut, and it's around eleven you feel someone touching you.

Your eyelids are surprisingly heavy; you can barely pry them open enough to see the wisp of grey-brown hair shadowing medium-blue eyes. You don’t protest as you feel his fingertips brush along your waist or when his knee digs into the mattress, sinking you towards his weight.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he wants. You raise your arm enough to let your fingertips greet the curve of his chin in silent acceptance. Slowly, you drop your hand and squeeze his bicep. Like a good little soldier, he follows the order to fall into the bed with you. 

The most comfortable position is to slot your arm on top of his as he hugs your waist, props his leg on top of yours, and spoons your back. There’s absolutely zero space between your lower halves; and if he notices how you, with a small amount of shame, subtly shift and push yourself back on him a little more, he doesn’t say as he lolls his head against the curve of your neck while his incredibly light exhaling on your skin comforts you after a long day. 

With a flutter of your eyelids, you slowly slip back into sleep with the happiness that comes with being roommates with your crush. 

It’s times like these that make you think maybe he loves you. It’s also times like these that make you forget that despite all of the endearing things about him and despite how much you care about him, you don’t truly know a lot about him.

Xavier has always been a man with a lot of secrets. You’ve known this since you first met him asleep in the forest. It’s true that you once accepted the fact you’d never learn all his secrets but that was before whatever this abnormal relationship that the two of you found yourself in. 

Even after living together for more than two months now, you still had no idea where he would go when he would sneak off in the middle of the night. You didn’t question where he goes anymore, you found that he wouldn’t give you a straight answer to save his life. You merely stayed up until you heard the sound of the door opening or the warped echo of air being sucked into a vacuum, indicating he teleported inside. 

So, when you wake up at two in the morning, finding yourself alone and the side of the bed where he laid mere hours ago already cold, you’re not surprised.

Getting out of bed, you slip on your slippers and drag your feet to the balcony. It’s a familiar situation when you collapse into the swing chair, with nothing but the cold and the chirping of the birds to keep you company until he undoubtedly returns with his body hosting a family of fresh wounds.

It’s incredibly frustrating because you love him and seeing him hurt, without you having been there to prevent it, drives you crazy. You wonder why he won’t tell you, and your heart sinks, as quickly as a stone cast in a lake, with the idea that maybe you were the only one thinking that your relationship meant more than it did. Because even after all this time, you still aren’t close to him in the way you want. 

Clenching your fists, you shove your eyes against them. It was all so infuriating when he ran off to fight Wanderers or whoever and left you all alone to overthink and worry about him like some helpless house plant. It was enough to make you want to cry as the strange foreboding sense of losing him begins to echo inside of you, making you nauseous.                                                                                 There’s only one way to get rid of this feeling. Taking in a deep breath, you settle to give him a piece of your mind about sneaking off so much and also to bite the bullet to confess your feelings. 

It was only a matter of waiting for him to actually return home and to get your heightened nerves to stop firing in every direction in the meantime. 

By the time you heard the door to the apartment creaking open, you’d nearly fallen asleep in the wicker swing chair. You swallow down the bitter taste of fear, ignoring the tumultuous waves it makes when it hits your stomach. You’d never get anywhere if you didn’t face him. 

Carefully, you hop up from your seat and make slow strides into the apartment. It’s still dark in the house; you hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights earlier. Yet Xavier carries a lightness around him, mostly imagined by yourself, that makes him easy to spot in the darkness. 

For a moment, things seem normal as he takes a few stiff steps forward. Suddenly, he falls forward, the white of his uniform nearly a blur with how fast he collapses onto the sofa, but it is nothing compared to the speed at which you rush to his side. 

You call his name, press two fingers to his throat, and let your eyes slip closed with a desperate concentration as you search for his pulse behind the blaring red of his collar. 

It’s a gradual pace, averaging twenty beats a minute and slowly rising. For anyone else, you’d immediately rush them to the hospital. For Xavier, that number is a relief. 

You hold your hand to your pounding heart, practicing deep measured inhales to calm it. It appears he fell asleep as soon as he entered the room, with only enough awareness to kick off his shoes at the door. 

It looks like your lecture will have to be postponed for another day. 

You’re thankful for all the training you had to take to become a hunter because it takes an enormous amount of effort to throw one of his arms over your shoulders and drag him to his bedroom. You make a mental note to never let him question your ability to carry him again as you sit him on the bed and shuffle off his uniform jacket, leaving him only in his pants. 

In a tender motion, you gently cup his face and examine him. Dirt cakes his face; and when you brush it away, there’s a small cut on his cheek. It hits you again just how reckless and secretive he can be, echoing with a bitter thought that he didn’t bring you again. The only bright spot is the little cut is his only injury this time. 

Laying him on his back, you leave for only a moment to get a warm washcloth and an adhesive from the bathroom. It’s a blue band-aid with a cartoonish pink bunny on it, something a kid would love and has probably been collecting dust in the drawer longer than you’ve been alive. 

It takes all the seriousness out of your body when you return, clean his face off, and place the colorful bandage on his cheek. It’s hard to believe this narcoleptic pretty boy was the strongest member of the Hunters Association. 

“I didn’t think when we moved in together I was going to become a babysitter,” you commented with a little huff and poke of his cheek. “You’re terrible at taking care of yourself. Can’t cook. Can’t stay awake. Can’t tell someone when you’re going out. I bet you didn’t even lock the door when you came in. …What if a Wanderer floated in after you and trampled all the flowers, or did you just not want to leave any for me tomorrow?”

You know your complaints are falling on deaf ears as he cuddles up to his pillow without a care in the world. But if you didn’t complain, you’d get depressed instead. Dropping to your knees, you sit on the floor and prop your elbow on the bed to get a better look at him. 

He looks so peaceful.

There’s no tension, no crease to his expression. It’d be easy to mistake him for a normal young man if it weren’t for the strong humming of his Evol tickling at the wall of your resonance.

“I’ll let you sleep, but you’re getting it in the morning! I expect answers. Otherwise, I won’t cook breakfast for you,” you attempt to sound threatening in your words with every poke to his cheek a not-so-silent promise to follow through. “I’ll take my missions with the new recruit all the ladies at work gossip about. And the next time I get a snack shipment, I’m letting Jeremiah have first pick!”

With one last prod to his face and no reaction otherwise, you stop your demands and sit back on your legs. 

Bit by bit, you feel your energy dissolving. It’s no use. It’s all empty threats. You’ll probably not cook for a few days, eat in front of him too, at least until he gives you those puppy eyes, and you���ll fold just like origami paper. You’ll still save him the snack you know he likes even if you allow Jeremiah first pick of the rest. And you’d never be interested in the new recruit or anyone else. 

Xavier can be distant and formal. For others, his hyper-independence was evident. Taking on missions alone and avoiding group settings is just the way Xavier’s personality works. He’s reliable and gets along with everyone at a surface level and he’s known to go out of his way to help others without seeking validation for it so it never ruffled any feathers when he goes off on his own or rejects an invitation to drink with the others after work. 

They didn’t see. They didn’t see how easy it was to care about him. They appreciate him but they weren’t aware of how intensely and passionately he could feel when he unfurls that independent nature. How he always quietly adjusts his dominant foot to point your direction whenever a Wanderer appears. How his voice drops and his touch becomes the smallest bit more graceful and careful when he sees you upset. How sweetly he looks when he sleeps.

It makes your resolve crumble and your heart squeeze, something only he can do without even being awake to know it. 

“You’re lucky I like you,” you mumble to him. 

As you lean closer, you easily ignore the stirring in your gut that tells you to stop. 

The bandage is a little rough against your lips as you seize the chance to kiss him. It’s a short and small thing, much more delicate than your prodding from earlier because you want to indulge the romantic in you. You want him to somehow sense the feelings cultivated in your heart over the past few months though impossible when he’s asleep.

You don’t let it last long. Instead, the desperate urge to feel his heat against you spurs you to rest your forehead against his cheek. It’s warm and soft, and the faint scent of pine trees of the no-hunt zone fills your nose. You savor being this close to him, allowing yourself to indulge in it until the heat on your skin starts to match his, and you finally let him have peace for the night.

With no need to remain in his room, you stand and pivot towards the door, wondering how you’ll manage to grasp any form of sleep tonight. However, you don’t make it two steps before there’s a tug at your arm.

You yelp as you’re pulled towards the bed while the shock has you stumbling forward into it. The hand leaving your arm in favor of grasping around your wrist stops you from falling completely but your knees have already buckled. You’re left nearly a head under him when he finally swings his legs over the side of the bed and shifts into a full sitting position. This position is oddly familiar. When you uncertainly force your eyes up to meet his face, this vulnerable angle becomes unmistakable.  

His voice is husked and rasped from sleep, sending a chill up your spine when paired with the swirling shadows darkening his blue eyes under his hooded lids and dark lashes. That’s the look of a predator, of the association’s strongest hunter, and you face the inkling realization that you’re the prey. 

Nervously, you begin to divert your eyes. He takes a page out of your own playbook and reaches under your chin to guide your sight back to him as you fight not to whimper at the pressure of his thumb pushing down as if he wants to part your lips. It isn’t until now that you notice how close you are to his lap and how another few inches would drop you to your knees.

“Why worry about Wanderers following me home when you’re so much scarier.”

“What do you mean?” 

Memory has never been your friend. This though is the first time you’ve forgotten how to breathe when his fingers completely close around your wrist. His hold is firm, preventing you from wringing your way out of his grasp, but it doesn’t hurt.

He might as well take that grasp and use it to squeeze your heart instead when he brings your hand to his face. You’re unsure what he’s planning; the awkwardness of the situation makes your fingers straighten and twitch away as he holds your hand closer to his face. Sensing your trepidation, he closes the last of the distance instead by tilting his head into your hand with the same affection as always as he lets your fingertip brush against the silly little bunny bandage. 

The familiarity of the motion puts your heart a little more at ease but not enough to bring your breathing back to you as he mumbles, “I don’t remember giving you permission to kiss me.”

Your lips part with a silent puff while your brows push forward, highlighting the confusion in your mind onto your face. He takes advantage of the moment to nuzzle your hand. It’s a notion you can’t appreciate as his words finally sink into your mind and reform into a horrifying conclusion.

“…You were awake the whole time.”

He chuckles so easily at the dry peep that echoes from you, the rivet of that warm sound collects in your palm and makes your face scalding hot. You didn’t face a burning heat like this even when fighting one of those flame dragons. All the while, Xavier was laughing at you…

“Not the whole time.”

With your head catching up, you find enough of yourself again to actually glare at him and smack his shoulder. “That’s not the point!”

With another display of strength, he locks your other wrist, pulls you up, and then snatches you into him. Luckily, you’re able to flatten your palms against his chest to brace yourself. His heart as well as his face is unnervingly calm compared to your own organ that’s currently orchestrating its escape from your chest, battering your ribcage even harder as you unconsciously stretch your fingers over his naked skin. 

You don’t like this. This bullying, which you only describe as such because you can’t think of a word more fitting for the way he’s treating you, is too one-sided. 

“It was on the cheek,” you argue with a steeled voice. You fake the confidence to stare him back down, choosing to trade your determination to confess to him tonight in exchange for preserving your pride. “It was friendly.”

To your satisfaction, your declaration of war makes him the one to pause this time. His eyes widen and there’s a quiver in those waves of blue that he hides by glancing down and away. 

“…Is that what it was?”

You nod. “I wasn’t…going to do anything else.”

Xavier smiles, shaking his head, and there’s a new determination in his eyes that causes your teeth to clench down on the inside of your cheek as he leans closer. 

“In that case, is it okay to return the favor?”

He doesn’t give you the time to answer. He’s already closing the distance, his dark lashes already fluttering, and his lips already puckering to kiss you as you’re squeezed flushed against him, only your palms stopping your chest from colliding with his. 

“Wait!”

Hearing your disapproval, he pauses, but that cheeky grin still doesn’t dissipate. 

“What's wrong?” he asks with a sigh. You’re sure it’s not a true question. “Am I not allowed to give you a friendly kiss as well.”

The implications make your stomach twist while your thighs squeeze together pathetically with the sudden throbbing of arousal that spikes through you as you tumble further and further into this rabbit’s trap.

“I—that’s!”

“So, you were misbehaving,” he concludes from your sheepishness. “I guess that means I need to punish you instead.” He breaks his hold around one of your wrists to ghost his fingertips along your cheek and down your neck until all you can do in response is breathe out a moan, much to his surprise given by the rise of his eyebrows and the slight dust of pink on his bewildered face. “…I didn’t think you were that sensitive there.”

Your mind swims with the traitorous thought of wanting to show him where you’re more sensitive dancing in your mind before you can sweep it away. When his fingers dance along your neck again, you whimper and hold in another moan.

“Don’t hold back on my account. You know my most sensitive spot after all, as hunting partners, it only makes sense for me to know yours, right?”

You can hardly think of a response to that. It’s true. You know his biggest weaknesses and as you come to terms with the situation you run your thumb over the plump inside of your thigh hesitantly. It takes you almost an entire minute to decide on what you want to say, and you don’t notice his hold on your wrist weakening.  

“My weakness—” 

Suddenly, your arm drops back to your side.

“I’m kidding,” Xavier states; the small smile he normally wears comes back to his face as you look up at him with wide eyes. “I was only curious as to what your reaction would be.”

The tension in the air wanes and buries itself in your heart. The embarrassment clings to every cell living in you, unshakeable as you try to keep a brave face. “You’re cruel.”

“Am I? You were the one touching me, all the while promising to run off with some rookie,” he reminds you. 

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t—you’re so frustrating,” you scream at him, and this is the first time he appears to take you seriously all night.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, with less teasing and more concern. He wraps an arm around your waist. His legs slot between yours, leaving your knees to collide with the plush of the bed as he hugs you tighter and tighter until you’re nearly seated in his lap. “Don’t be mad. I only thought—” 

“Xavier?”

“Did you really mean it then?” he redirects. He snakes his other arm around your waist, this time when he holds you it feels…weak, and his pursed lips and narrowed eyes hold back a troubled emotion. “That it was in a friendly way?”

Your breath hitches at the swirl of his thumbs nervously circling the small of your waist. Nervously, he waits for an answer you long lost in the rapids of the constantly changing tides of the last few minutes. 

“If you meant it…if you truly wanted to kiss me,” he pauses, trying to find his voice. The one to tell you that you’re all he thinks about. “Then you should have woken me up.” His face holds a serene glow that completely enraptures you as he looks up at you. “I wouldn’t have rejected you,” he swore.

He loved you so much it ached. Moving in together should have been enough to prove it. He guesses not; because when he thinks you want him back, you’re so hesitant to accept. Even now, you’re unable to respond. 

This cycle has become painful, even for someone as patient as himself, the wait when you’re this close to him is agonizing. So, he decides now to be the one to end this circle the two of you found yourself in with one decisive motion. 

He tests the waters, not knowing if he’ll swim or drown, but he has confidence in his ability to read your personality and actions as he cups the back of your head and pulls you in for a kiss. 

Your mind empties immediately, your body on autopilot when it registers the warm, silky skin of his lips on yours. Closing your eyes, you willingly tumble and fall into the taste of him, chasing after it when he breaks away. 

“There. We’re even,” he says, but to you, that’s far from the truth. You’re far from even after all the heartache and sleepless nights he’s been putting you through, after all the push and pull that left you aching and wanting both in your heart and between your thighs. 

The self-satisfied smile on his face quickly fades as you grope his shoulders, digging your nails in like you’re afraid he’ll escape. Your knees press to the top of the bed as you plant yourself more onto his lap. He braces his hands on your hips to catch you as you run your hand into his hair and crane his head back, so he has to look you in the eye.

His ears pinken at your sudden brazenness, but it doesn’t reflect in his voice as he smiles at you. “Are you trying to get more?” 

“Am I being too greedy?” you ask. He chuckles at the jut of your lips and the pleading eyes before you press another demanding kiss to the corner of his lips. 

Xavier moans from his throat as he latches onto your jaw to redirect your kisses to his lips. Kissing him is nearly maddening, the twitch of his muscular thighs under your ass making your mind hazy. With one hard squeeze at your hips, he catches up to the zealousness of your kisses. 

His tongue pokes and prods at your mouth. However, he doesn’t need much permission to keep going as you open your mouth wider. His mind skips and lags at just how quickly your mouth overtakes the slick appendage. It leaves him more than a little out of breath and flustered with the rate your mouths keep parting and meeting, tongues desperately searching and licking the inside your mouths as if this is the first meal you’ve had in weeks.

You’re hungry to memorize each other despite having all the time in the world now to do just that. When the two of you finally indulged enough and earned enough satisfaction, you’re able to calm down and readjust the pace. 

“I think we’re both greedy,” he jokes about the both of you before sliding his tongue back into your mouth. This time he’s slower as he presses down on your tongue, causing your teeth to lightly graze over the top of his.

There are too many sensations going on for you to keep up. The way your breasts hug his hard chest has you feeling sensitive while the heat seeping from his tongue stroking in your mouth has your stomach bundled in tight knots that won’t know release until he’s inside of you. 

Dreams were nothing compared to this. Nights filled with nothing but inappropriate thoughts of him turn into nightmares at the slim chance of having to face them again should this go wrong. 

Impatiently, his fingers curve into the hump of your ass to anchor you and encourage you to grind on his lap, or rather grind against the hard tent brazenly making its presence known with each hurried roll of your hips.

You whine from the separation of your sexes when he begins to lift you up, but your complaints quickly die in your throat. They’re replaced by a squeal as he flips you and your back bounces on the mattress.  

Xavier climbs over you, his face flushed, breath ragged, and overall, he’s just absolutely beautiful to you. Reaching up, you cup his cheek and play with the ends of his hair, unable to recall the last time you’ve felt this high. 

“Xavier,” you whisper breathlessly as you swoop his bangs back to see more of his handsome face and save it to memory. “What are we?”

Xavier tilts his head, furrowing his brow at your question, and there’s a second where a ray of doubt breaks through the clouds of lust in his irises. “We’re…whatever you want to be.”

“I want to be with you,” you say. Those words tumble out more effortlessly than you ever thought. 

Xavier overlaps your hand with his, holding on tight as if to prove a point. “You are with me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” he corrects. Then, he dazzles you as he always does, “I want you to tell me so there’s no mistake, and you can’t take it back later.”

You inwardly become embarrassed when it crosses your mind that this is the first time you’ve ever confessed to him without multiple drinks in your system. It’s too late to turn back now that you’ve crossed the Milky Way and landed on the other side. 

But why would you when you’re so close?

“I want to be with you always. Whenever and wherever you are. Whether that’s having fun together or fighting. I-I love you, and—”

“And I love you,” he answers. You’re not sure if you’re jealous or relieved that he can say those three words without hesitation.

“I don’t want anything to be between us. I don’t want any more secrets or hidden things. I’m tired of this. I just want to be real, more than partners or roommates or whatever other title that isn’t boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Okay,” Xavier agrees as easily as he agreed to be roommates with you in the first place. 

“Okay?”

“I want that too,” he agrees as he repositions himself on top of you and his lips curve into a small smirk, “girlfriend.”

You’re accustomed to the finicky organ known as your heart tightening with pain when you’re overwhelmed; this time when it skips a beat, it’s welcomed. Smiling, you gaze up at him as he releases a slow, strained breath. It’s validating to know he’s been just as nervous as you.

Everything suddenly becomes full force again when his knees move to either side of your legs while he pins your hands above your head in one tight fist. His teeth nip at your earlobe, and his free hand gropes at your breast, fingers outstretching to fully take it in his grasp. Wet kisses burn on your throat, each one firing off a rapid signal to arch your back. 

“Slow down,” you whine before cutting it off with a moan as he hits a particular delicate spot. The discovery spurs him on, like a pet with a new toy, and he bites your nape once again causing your hips to jerk. With a burning desire building in your stomach at every touch, you pitifully hug your thighs together to try to ease it. “I didn’t get a chance to absorb all that,” you tell him, mostly to get some time to catch up. It backfires wonderfully as he grips onto the bottom of your tank top.

“I have a better way to help you understand.”

The sheets shift with his movement, your lower half dipping towards him as if he holds his own gravitational field. He settles between your legs and strokes against you with one slow, languid rock. It instantly makes you throb. It’s painful how hard you clench over absolutely nothing, panties gathering the lust that’s dripping from you.  

You simultaneously hate and love him for causing this need that’s bubbling inside you. 

Large hands press your shirt further up your torso. “Arms up,” he demands softly, which you have no problem obeying, and he quickly lifts your shirt over your head.

He lowers his hands to hold at your waist, and they fall still on you as he takes in your naked skin. You’re not privy to his thoughts. The silence of the room feels defean-ing now that your needy gasps of air aren’t filling it.

He pauses, eyes taking you in as you raise your eyebrows at his hesitancy. Xavier smiles, mumbling out, “Just thinking where to start.”

Xavier smiles at you so tenderly. Everything about him is incredibly soft on first appearance. He has big blue puppy eyes, he prefers white, cozy clothes, and his voice is just as gentle as his appearance. Everything about him is soft except for his hands. 

Those are hardy and battle-honed, worn with calluses built up with every swing of the sword he’s taken since he was a child, enough of them to slay thousands of Wanderers over the years. 

They drag.

Oh, they drag so dangerously slow over your skin, dipping into the pudge of your stomach and highlighting a small circle in the warm, buzzing glow of his Evol. The rays shine gold over your flesh, shimmering brightly in the dark of the room. 

“Here,” he states before hunting down another spot on your torso. A beauty mark, like a beacon, earns the sharp eyes of a hunter. He zones in on the vulnerable location, creating a golden target. “Maybe here.”

You squirm with every mapped spot he creates. “Xavier.”

The residue of his power leaves your skin humming; you’re overly aware of each spot he highlights with his power. You like to think your senses would still be heightened regardless of this little game. After all, you’ve been wanting him to touch you forever.

Every night next to him felt like torture, being unable to touch him more than a hug when all you could feel on your back was his hard chest, his arm tight around your waist, and the outline of his cock against your ass as he sighed in your ear.

It runs through your head that he must have put more thought into touching you than you assumed as he continues to stripe lines over the top of your thighs right under your night shorts, making your breath heavy in your throat. You’re no longer sure if he’s marking you to tease you, to track what parts of your body he’s claimed for himself, or to simply make you laugh from the humming of his Evol tickling you like fuzzy static on an old tv screen. Even as he smiles at your shallow giggles, there’s no denying the aura of possession radiating from him that makes you antsy when he finally presses his finger to your sternum.

“Let’s start here,” he says followed by a soft hum as he tattoos a line straight between your breasts, leaving you highlighted in slowly fading graffiti.

“About time you decided,” you say with an playfully exaggerated roll of your eyes. He cocks his head at you with a sly smile.

“I can’t help if I want to touch all of you,” he murmurs. Any response you had ready dies when he licks the encircled zone of your shoulder then swiftly to the notch of your throat, drawing a moan out of you that you didn’t think you were capable of until you met him.

Tilting your head, you allow him more room to work as he kisses your chest. His warm tongue slips through the line he marked, his nose dragging against you as he litters your engorged skin with kisses. 

“More,” you beg. Who was he to keep you waiting any longer?

He slips a fingerpad over the tip of your nipple, gently pressing down and then rolling it. It does nothing to satiate you. Satisfaction keeps escaping your grasp, the goalpost of what’s enough moving further out of reach with every pinch and pull of your pebbling nipples. Chasing it makes you brash, and you give a hard push to the back of his head. 

Just as you want, he spoils you. He bites and nips the supple skin, drawing out soft pleas from your angelic lips. When he finally graces you with the slick, velvety lap of his tongue on your pert nipple, you mewl and arch. His lips are a little rough after being out all night, his hunger for you more palpable than ever as he gropes harder and sucks at your wet skin. 

Your aching pussy throbs with every brush of his clothed cock. Your patience drains more and more as you crave something to fill you. It isn’t until he switches sides and gently nips and suckles around your other teat that you realize he’s been fingerprinting you with his Evol, the polka dots slowly fade away each time he adjusts his hand to knead your breast.  

“You’re still being cruel,” you manage between moans. 

“I think I’m being very fair,” he reasons, recapturing your lips to silence your complaints, and it works as your mind keeps repeating when his tongue makes a temporary reservation back in the confines of your mouth. 

When he parts with you again, he cements it with a soft kiss then another. He keeps peppering them on you so fast that you almost miss the way his tongue darts over your bottom lip before his teeth bite down. 

Xavier sighs between his kisses, each one adding more pressure, turning from loving, adoration-filled into needy, heavy smooches.

“Wanted.”

Another kiss that leaves you whimpering.

“To.”

He fondles your chest again, alternating between rolling and pinching your sensitive, puffed nipple then grasping your bare tits in his hands, molding and kneading them.

“With you.”

With your thighs closing at his waist, you curve your back and meet the sloppy buck of his hips. There’s a rush of excitement leaking from you when his kisses trail back over your breasts, hitting the tiny ring of bite marks he seared on you before tracing across the targets of light decorating your belly. 

“So bad.”

Skin on fire, legs spread wide to accommodate his chest as he sinks lower to press wet kisses to your stomach, you call out to him. “Xavier, baby,” you whisper and brush his hair to get his attention. And does he give it to you when his eyes flick up to look at you from under the grey tuffs of his hair.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight. 

You bring your finger to your lips, not only to pry them open so you can speak but also because you need to bite on it. Otherwise, the surge of lust in you at the sight of his head so close to your cunt and the back of your thighs resting on his broad shoulders would cause you to cum right there. 

“My most sensitive spot…is my legs…”

It doesn’t take long for him to catch on, and he quirks his eyebrows up at you with false concern. He lowers his head to kiss your stomach again, this time noticeably closer to your mound. “Are you sure you want to tell me that in this situation? It isn’t wise for the prey to put themselves at a disadvantage.”

“I said no secrets,” you remind him, curling a finger to beckon him back up. Inwardly, you curse that he decides to bring your legs with him by keeping them propped up on his shoulders. Somehow, you manage to ignore his obvious teasing and poke at the cutesy adhesive still stuck on his face. “If you were listening, you should know you’re still in trouble for sneaking off so much without telling me.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he tells you, a layer of remorse riding his explanation. “I wasn’t expecting to go anywhere.”

Amused, you shake your head at how boyish he sounds as he defends himself while he pulls off that wide and pleading look to bolster his cause. Even with your amusement, you’re not willing to let him off just yet. Sternly, you tap his cheek again. 

“That’s not going to work this time.”

Pouting, Xavier holds onto your hand, stopping your playful jabs. “Please give me a chance to lighten my sentence, Miss Hunter, it was unintentional,” he negotiates with a kiss on your palm. The sincerity in his request eases your heart enough to allow him a little wiggle room, or perhaps it’s the slick trailing more between your folds. 

“You only got until morning to make a case for yourself.”

“I’ll make you forget by then.” He snatches up your ankle towards his face, a much more pleasant position than your last, as your muscles were starting to ache from having your knees pushed to your face. 

He caresses your ankle, pressing an airy kiss. The little bump of his nose against the ball of your ankle tickles, making a giggle cascade from your lips as you slide lower with the pull of your leg.  

“Silly,” he mumbles before shuffling off your shorts. Your underwear comes off with more of a fight, the stickiness soaked into it causing the dainty fabric to cling lewdly to your skin and outline to the shape of your cunt. 

You don’t often hear Xavier curse but that’s what happens along with his tongue rolling over his upper lip when he catches the image. He reaches out and his fingers twitch, threatening to curve against the spreading stain in your panties but he resists and hooks his fingers into the waistband. He takes his sweet time watching the doused material peeling from you with thin strands of cum sticking to it.

It takes him more effort than he’d like to admit to resist diving straight in. Instead, he keeps it slow, sensual, as much for his sake as yours as he skims his lips up your calf.

He does the same with your center, carefully pressing two fingers against you as he holds your leg up on his shoulder. His mouth stays on your inner thigh, but his eyes are entirely locked on his fingers and the way they effortlessly collect your cum and slip between your lips with barely a push. You can feel his breath shudder out against you before he forces it down with a bite of your thigh but that does nothing to hide the way his entire body tenses when his fingers slip from your clit all the way to your clenching hole. 

It does nothing good for your ego or your sanity to think how normally calm and collected Xavier is losing his composure just by touching you. How he’s so obviously turned on when you haven’t nearly returned as much as he’s been giving you. 

He presses his hands at the crook of your thighs, pushing your legs further apart, and quenches himself between your legs. His name leaves you in one low drawn-out sigh. Sure, you were baiting him when you told him your weakness, but you weren’t expecting him to abuse the knowledge so readily. 

He held your legs blood cuttingly tight to keep you from squirming away from his wriggling tongue, and by the moan that reverberates from his chest and the strong jerk against the mattress when your juices hit his tongue, you think he would only be satisfied if you crushed his head between your straining thighs. When he suckles your clit; when his voice, muffled, hits your pussy; when his biceps tighten around your legs as if encouraging you to do so, and when his eyes meet yours with a silent demand, you know that’s exactly what he wants.

At the plunging of his fingers in you, you break down, catch his head in a vice-like grip, and push him into you. Your heart flutters and the remaining butterflies in your stomach migrate away at the growl he lets out. Your walls happily clench around those thick fingers, your dripping hole making it easy and smooth work to pump in and out of you. You’re not sure when he decides he would rather feel your muscle tightening around his tongue instead, but you can only respond with the tilt of your head back into the sheets and the stroke of your heel on his bare back when it happens. 

The only thing better is his palm grinding down on your clit, alternating between slow rotations and rough sporadic grinding that has your toes curling and your eyes glossing with the buildup of tears.

“You’re too loud,” he comments yet he doesn’t stop, in fact, he presses down harder, making you whine. “You’re going to wake the neighbors.”

“Since when have you cared what the neighbors think?” you barely manage to whimper out. 

“I’m not worried about them. I just don’t want anyone else to hear what only I should,” he remarks, lapping up the juices spilling down your legs.

His confession is a surprise to you. You never took him to be so possessive. But if that possessiveness is what kept his tongue swirling on your swollen clit and an intense moan escaping your lips then you didn’t mind. 

However…

His fingers weren’t enough anymore. 

Choosing to surprise him, you decide to turn the tables on him. You jerk your legs, catching him off guard but not enough to tip him over. He looks at you with concern. It doesn’t stop you from trying again with extra force this time until you can weaken his grasp and force him down on his back. 

Having the world’s strongest hunter under you was only something you could dream of—first as a rival and now as a lover. The adrenaline has you tunnel-visioned as you straddle his stomach, your soaked cunt making a waterboard out of his abs, which Xavier has also picked up on if the dusky pink on his cheeks is anything to go by.

You grab his hands, gripping tight to regain his attention. Xavier looks taken back especially when your fingers interlock his and pin them back. Whether he’s shocked or curious you don’t know, and you also don’t ask to borrow his power. 

“You’ve been having too much fun,” you tell him as you check to make sure your finger is sufficiently coated with light. “For my turn, I’ll attack here and here,” you whisper, marking off his chest and drawing a line across his neck.

There’s a hint of worry finally when he sees you’re aiming for his weak spot. “If you’re trying to teach me the best spot to kill Wanderers, I already know.”

“More like the best spots to defeat a Xavier,” you remark, flattening your palm over his heart, finding your own thumping when you verify that you finally managed to raise his heart rate to the levels of a normal human.

“You’re pretty forward today.” Xavier reaches out to hold your hips and cocks his head at you with an inquisitive glance. “Are you always this easy to excite or is it because of me?” 

You feel your face heat at his question. As if he didn’t already know the answer. No one else could make you like this. Needy. Shy. Aroused. Flustered. Confused. Infatuated and in love more than you’ve ever been. 

Your eyes soften. “And if I said it was you?”

“Then, you can use me all you want,” he confesses and gently coaxes you back to sit on his hard cock. You smoothly slide your hands to his shoulders, rotating loving strokes into his fair skin before you stop to free his cock from his pants.

It springs readily into your palm, so responsive. You reward him by letting him have a little taste of you. He tries to hide the hitch of his breath as if he could hide any reaction from you right now. It’s so hard to get him to react to anything, and your brain won’t let you miss a single moment as you sit back onto his lap and grind.

His cock slides between your lips, so big that you can feel it stroking you fully, his swollen, dribbling head making you whimper whenever it bumps your clit. 

“You, you’re so—” he begins, his eyes flitting from the gentle shake of your tits to his cock glistening between your folds, but he loses his voice to a low whimper when you increase your pace. It’s not on purpose but you can’t help yourself; you’re aching for him just as much as he is for you. “Hah, please...” 

His cock is leaking onto him with each sleek thrust, a little pool of precum glistening on his belly as your hips buck. It makes your stomach twist and your insides twitch to see him so excited for you.

“Not yet,” you tell him, brushing fingers across the length of his throat. His mouth parts with a croak that plasters a crooked smile on your face.

His eyebrows knit, and he frowns as you decide to tease him a little by slowing your strokes while your nails continue to follow the thick vein protruding from his neck as he desperately holds down his whines. 

“And you call me the cruel one.”

He was gorgeous under you. Beautifully flushed and sheened with sweat. His lips were so close to quivering each time his swollen head was swallowed back under your heat. It’s strange how his pitiful expression actually excites you, leaving you wetter and funneling this cycle of him repeatedly scrunching his face before relaxing it with a moan. 

“Please,” he asks again, this time more politely, pleadingly, and downright cutely. He knows what he’s doing because you decide to take pity on him when he gazes at you. “Please let me have you?”

It takes only a second for you to reposition yourself and hover over him. There’s a split hesitation when it registers that you’re actually going to have sex with him and how large he actually is with his cock standing tall and the tip kissing at your entrance.  You press downward anyway.

The stretch is both painful and pleasurable, straining your nerves as you lower. The wince on your face is accompanied by a hiss on your lips. However, Xavier is there again to catch you.

“Let’s take our time,” he instructs.

You nod, slowly thrusting halfway onto him. Each rise and fall of your hips coating him with your cream little by little makes it a bit easier to sheath him each bounce. 

“Good girl,” he whispers soothingly. Face constricting, he bites down on his lip to hold in a weak groan. It’s not your fault that the praise made your walls flutter and tighten.

When you finally suck him in completely, your eyes roll. 

“There you go,” he continues. He slides his hand into one of yours, encouraging you to hold onto it as you slowly and pointedly follow the curve of his cock, “Just like that,” he rasps out.    As you take him in fully, your pussy reaching his lap and pushing against his balls, you find it hard to concentrate on the exact words leaving him.

You take a minute to sit with him fully sheathed inside of you, allowing your stretched core to get more accustomed to his cock and also for the high of joining with him to cool off. Otherwise, you’d lose control.

You feel so full. It’s a wonderful sensation, and the pleasure increases tenfold when you lift your hips then have him stretch you again.

Rubbing your fingertips into the back of his palm, you lift and slam back onto him again, causing a ragged groan from you both that ricochets off the walls of the room. It isn’t until now that you recognize how bad you’ve been needing this.

Needed him. 

You’re still nowhere near understanding why this need is inside of you. Anyone can give you pleasure, and he’s not the first, but nothing quite matched the warmth overtaking you when his cock pistons and rubs against your nerves as you ride him. 

The thought that Xavier was right about fate being written in the stars barely breaks through the thick fog of arousal clouding your brain. The heat spurs you to bounce harder to meet his jerking thrusts. 

He sighs under you; the pressure on his lower half increases while your eyesight blurs and your head angles back. You’ll both be each other’s undoing at this rate, he thinks, as he watches the beads of sweat accumulating in little shiny droplets on your forehead and on your bouncing chest in a light sheen.

Chasing that desire to see you undone, he pulls you to a halt, burying himself deep inside of you, before pressing his hand to your mound, brushing past the patch of damp hair to zone in on your sticky, swollen clit. 

The instant whine of his name makes him dizzy. Centuries have gone by, and he’s never heard you say his name with such wanton desperation nor seen you grind onto him, stirring his cock in you as if your sanity depended on it.  

His certainly depended on you. Always has especially in the many decades he thought he’d never see you again. That need is even clearer from how sensitive yet eager his cock is to you squeezing around it as you shudder on top of him while keeping an unbearably tight hold on his hand. Your movements come to a near stop except for the occasional rut to prolong the rush of your orgasm. 

The sight of you breaking down on top of him threatens to make his eyes roll back as he squeezes onto your legs for grounding. Your strangled gasp followed by your muscles relaxing tells him that you’re coming down.  

“I take it you’ve finished,” Xavier says with a smirk, and you only have half the mind to swat at his chest like a lazy cat. Your legs burn, your chest unable to fill with enough oxygen to catch your breath. You think you’ll skip the gym tomorrow but Xavier has other plans.

“I’m not finished,” he reminds you. 

You look down at Xavier; you’d been so busy finding your own pleasure, you didn’t realize he hadn’t cum yet. You feel a lingering guilt but he swiftly takes the situation into his own hands.

You’re still too sensitive to fight back as he slides his cock out of you with a wet pop. It takes two swift movements for him to lift you off of him and roll you onto your stomach.

Your chest feels restricted, tight to the mattress as he presses on top of you, his grey-brown hair rubbing your shoulder as he cuddles your back. It’s an affectionate notion, distracting from the pressure in your lower half as he slides off the last of his clothes and thrusts his cock back inside of you. 

You thought you were filled to the brim the first time, yet this angle was different. It felt much tighter, and the slightest shift of his hips had you muffling moans into your arms. 

“I want to hear you,” he sweetly requests, yanking on your hips to raise your ass higher and pull you further away from the muffling effects of the bed. Your fracturing mewls mix into his grunts, both sounds washing out the sloppy, wet paps of his cock pounding into you. 

His hand swoops down your bending back in one long soothing stroke before his head collapses onto you. His grunts are loud, tumbling right into your ear along with the slapping sound of his hips meeting your ass. Your legs feel like jelly, and the rest of your body becomes weightless as your mind only focuses on his cock recklessly burning its way through you.

Xavier’s breath rolls against your back along with his forehead as he buries you under his weight; his grip on your thighs tightens to an unbearable degree, leaving you to wonder if you’ll have marks in the morning. 

You don’t really care if he does when he moans your name and heat fills you, spreading with each sporadic thrust until he finally bottoms out inside you one last time and holds until he completely empties. 

Taking his time to enjoy the sensation, he waits before pulling out of you, making you whimper with the sudden void. Shakily, you collapse back into the sheets and flip onto your back with a sigh. His eyes are still half-lidded as he watches you; he chews briefly on his bottom lip, reminding you of the look in his eyes earlier. 

“Xavier,” you question but he silences you with a kiss, which you tiredly return. His fingertips slide down from your knee to your thigh, and he teases your opening, the mixture of cum making it easy for him to stroke your still spasming pussy. 

Xavier sighs against your lips before moving his kisses to the swoop of your neck. “You’re so beautiful and all mine.”

Your mouth parts with a dry moan as he slides thick fingers over your clit. It starts to ache from his touch but it’s hard to deny him, even as he tortures you with his methodic and precise rotations over the bead.

His name is on your mouth, each syllable heavy on your tongue. You leave garbled gasps in his mouth as he makes out with you while your hand draws down his chest, attempting to make a mental map of every twitching muscle and healed wound on the way down.

Your heart jumps with the twitch of his cock when you wrap your hand around it. There’s going to be no trouble getting him to rebound, you think. He’s already thickening again with the warm strokes of your hand and tracing of your fingers over the slowly beating vein lining the underside of his shaft. 

Xavier doesn’t even let you finish exciting him before he rolls back on top of you and settles his head between your breasts. Between all the cum in between your legs and his half-hard cock, it isn’t as mind-numbing to have him inside you. What is different is to feel him twitching and growing inside you with his renewed thrusts. 

You’re hiccupping by the time he pushes your legs back and starts to hit deep inside of you, leaving the corner of your eyes tearing. You’re overwhelmed with everything. The uncharacteristic amount of energy he possesses as his hips snap into you. How each powerful rock leaves tingles aftershock-ing inside you, ruining your chances to recover before he does it again. The heavy scent of sex mixed with pine overwhelms your nose. His sweaty chest blocks out any light in the room, sealing any notion that you can be distracted by anything other than him as he pushes up your knee towards your chest.

You’re quickly working up to your second orgasm; the painful cramping in your foot tells you it’ll be bigger than the last. You’re right. When you come undone again, it’s with a shrill sob. You’re too out of it to even register when he finishes until he starts kissing your neck again.

He’s still inside you, you realize once your mind finally lands back on earth. His cock is resting in the heat inside you, waiting for him to work the two of you back up again. You know that’s the goal when his thumb gently brushes over one of your nipples again. Your sore insides constrict and strain. You don’t think you could survive a third round. 

“Xavier, please, no more.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice dry and husky in your ear as he kisses under it. 

“Too much,” you tell him, pushing on his chest to make some space between the two of you.  

“I didn’t catch that,” he coos defiantly. When he notices that you’re being serious, he obediently pulls out of you. His kisses become smoother as he pecks your lips. “What’s wrong? Is it aching?”

You nod then puff your cheeks in frustration when you see the amusement on his face.

“It’s not funny!” you say, holding onto that angry, childish pout until his smile turns sympathetic. 

“You’re right,” he agrees and shifts off you. Quickly, he locates his briefs on the corner of the bed. He steps out of bed and pulls them on. To your surprise, he leaves you, alone and cold.  

“Where are you going?”

Xavier disappears without answering you and only the sound of running water gives you any sort of hint of where he might’ve gone. When he returns, it’s with a rag dangled in his hand. 

“A boyfriend should help clean his girlfriend up after times like this,” he explains and leans over you; he presses the wet cloth between your legs; the rag is incredibly soothing on your bloated skin. It’s a blessing to your sore muscles as he starts to massage and clean you. “It feels better already, doesn’t it?”

“I guess,” you answer pitifully, grumbling a bit because the look on his face still seems like he’s teasing about your neediness. 

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s my fault you’re a little sore.” He’s definitely taunting you, but you don’t have the energy to fight about it. “All done,” he remarks, tossing the rag to a forgotten section of the dresser. He carefully climbs back on top of you, waiting for the moment your hand finds his bicep to guide him down next to you. 

It isn’t the first time he’s been this affectionate, and it won’t be the last time. However, this time feels more special than any time you’ve slept together, and not just because you can feel the stickiness of his sex-clad skin against your naked body. Well, that’s part of the reason.

“Something on your mind?”

“Nothing. I’m really happy,” you explain. 

“If it really makes you that happy, maybe we should do it more often,” he offers, and you pinch his unwounded cheek to punish him. Jumping back, he knocks your hand away and caresses his wounded face. “I’ll need another bandage if you keep doing that,” he complains weakly. 

“You only have yourself to blame!”

Xavier sighs. “You’re always right,” he concedes, more so that he can cuddle you without fighting rather than actually agreeing with you, you fear. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you really doubting your boyfriend?” he asks. Heartbeat skipped, you clamp your mouth shut as he unfolds the blankets over the two of you. 

It’s finally settling back into your mind that the two of you are a couple now. “I’m still…not used to it yet with you being that.”

“You will get used to it the longer we’re together. The same as I will.” Xavier sighs, happily so. “Although, we might run into the same problem again.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

Thoughtful, Xavier hums then explains, “First comes love then comes marriage as they say.”

He catches you off-guard once more. As always, Xavier is forever forging on ahead with little regard for convention. “Aren’t you thinking too far ahead?”

“Maybe,” he agrees but there’s no drop in his confidence as he smiles at you and draws his hand over your hairline. “But I loved you since we met.”

“Xavier, please,” you beg, finding your favorite place to hide your flustered face in the crook of his elbow. 

He can’t help but laugh at you as he curls his arm around you. “Especially that,” he confesses and places one more kiss on the top of your head before inviting you to go to sleep. 

You do, falling asleep against his chest less than thirty minutes later. For him, sleep is elusive for once as he mulls over the day’s events.

The word girlfriend on his tongue is sweet. The idea itself burns wonderfully in his chest, but it isn’t enough. He knows he still needs to wait a bit longer, take his time, your bashful response to his prodding was enough to tell him that it isn’t time yet. It’s hard not to rush when this is the closest he’s ever been to the one thing he truly wants. 

Xavier guesses he’ll still have to rely on his dreams for a little while longer. It’s okay, he tells himself, it’ll work out this time. He’ll find a place to settle with you and have a quiet life, a place where he can see stars. 

And this lifetime, when he asks you to marry him, he hopes you’ll say yes.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

The Beast Inside

Werewolf!reader finally! I've been wanting to write a werewolf rampage for quite a while but never quite got around to it until now!!!

Summary: Reader loses control of the wolf and tries to come to terms with the beast inside all whilst taking care of Astarion.

The paladin’s blade comes down, swinging in an arc of light and you stand there, eyes wide with shock as the steel tears through your flesh, carving open your shoulder. Blood sprays from the wound, staining your clothes red with your own blood.

“Y/N!” You can hear the distant shouts of your companions, calling your name. Your wound burns, probably from the infusion of the paladin’s abilities in the strike that connected and blood roars in your ears. All you can think about is how that same paladin had captured Astarion, had their way with him, nearly killed your vampire lover, and the beast inside takes over, roaring in delight.

You will not lose him.

You feel your bones cracking and skin stretching as claws take the place of fingers, fur sprouting from your body. Your jaw lengthens, teeth sharpening into fangs and your nose becomes narrower. The wound in your shoulder begins to seal itself shut, flesh growing back and knitted by furred skin. The sharp metallic scent of blood fills your nose and you inhale it all. You can smell the fear in the air as the paladin shrinks back, greatsword pointed at you but the weapon is rattling.

That sword will never pierce you again.

The paladin’s hands shake as your wild gaze locks onto them, yellow eyes burning with an inhumane thirst for blood, saliva dripping from long thick fangs nestled in powerful jaws. A howl bursts forth from deep within you, claws flexing and you pounce on your prey, sending the paladin crashing to the floor. Armour is ripped apart like paper underneath the werewolf’s claws and jaws snap, crushing the helmet to reveal the paladin’s terrified face.

“Please –” Their cries are cut short as sharp claws tear open their exposed flesh, ripping their face in two. More blood gushes out and the paladin is already dead but the beast keeps going, jaws tearing the paladin’s body into a bloody mess. The werewolf stands back up in the sticky mess of blood and guts, crimson dripping from its muzzle and takes a step towards the paladin’s frightened companions.

The cleric drops to his knees and tries to scuttle away but the werewolf is faster, tearing open his throat with its jaws and devours the chunk of meat torn away. The werewolf snarls, reaching back into the convulsing body and rips away another chunk, sending blood flying everywhere. The body finally stills, having lost too much blood but the werewolf continues to rip at the flesh piece by piece, painting the entire floor a deep red.

Its nostrils flare, blazing yellow eyes turning towards the last member of the paladin’s party. The vampire hunter stares at the beast, shaky hands aiming a crossbow at its head. Its lips curl upwards, almost like a grin as it stalks towards the hunter, leaving a trail of bloody paw prints behind.

“You monster!” An arrow is fired, piercing through the beast’s face and causing it to stumble back, but it regains its footing just as quickly, its head snapping forward. The maniacal grin still remains, with the beast’s blood streaming from the wound. Crimson fangs bare at the hunter, yellow eyes gleaming as the beast reaches up with a clawed hand and rips the arrow free, laughing. The throaty laugh sends shivers up everyone’s spines as it devolves into a howl and claws swipe at the hunter, who barely manages to dodge the blow. The beast snarls, jaws snapping at thin air as the hunter moves out of the way, reloading his crossbow.

Another arrow is fired but the beast dodges in time. Its clawed feet dig into the ceramic floor tiles and it launches itself with terrifying speed at the unprepared hunter. Claws slam into the hunter’s chest, sending him crashing into the wall behind and knocking all breath out of his body. The werewolf bares its bloody fangs, jaws clamping around the hunter’s throat to crush through flesh and bone alike, coating its chest in the blood that sprayed from the fatal wound. It tears into the corpse, ripping it apart with ferocious savagery and gorges itself on the flesh until it is satisfied.

Then it turns to Y/N’s companions.

A soft growl rumbles from its chest and it stalks towards where Astarion lies, curled up and shivering. Lae’zel takes a step towards the beast, ready to strike it down before it can harm the vampire but Halsin holds her back, giving a shake of his head.

It feels its bones cracking and skin stretching once more as its body shrinks back into its human form. Claws shorten back into fingers and toes, its furred chest shrinks back into a female’s chest, its jaw shortening back into a human mouth. Fangs recede, making way for human teeth and pointed ears round themselves again to nestle behind hair.

But the blood remains.

“Astarion,” you whisper, reaching out to him with your bloody hand. He flinches when your fingertips bump into his skin, a quiet whimper escaping his lips and you immediately pull back. You sit on your haunches, at a loss of what to do. You want to help, you want to pull your lover into your arms and hold him tight, whisper away all his pain but you can’t even touch him.

“It’s me, Y/N,” you try again. You ignore the sticky feeling of blood that covers hands, feet and chest and hold out a hand with your palm upturned. “You’re safe now. No one can harm you anymore, I won’t allow it.”

“Don’t look at me,” Astarion croaks. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“It doesn’t make me love you any less,” you say firmly. “I’ve seen you at your lowest and I’ve seen you at your highest, neither has changed the fact that I love you. Nothing ever will.”

You sit there, patiently. “I didn’t want you to see this either. The beast that lives inside me, the real me. I hate it, that part of me. We all have at least one part of ourselves that we hate, maybe we even hate all parts of ourselves, but what we do with that part makes us who we are.”

The rest of your companions quietly make their exit, giving the two of them some time alone. You give them a grateful nod as they leave and turn back to Astarion who hasn’t moved an inch.

“You’re strong, Astarion. Far stronger than you think, far stronger than me. You accept the part you hate about yourself and live with it while I pretend it doesn’t exist, suppressing the beast. I wish I could be like you.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “I admire you, and love you no matter how much you despise yourself.”

Astarion curls tighter into a ball, burying his face into his knees. You gently place your blood-stained cloak over him and simply continue to sit there, facing away from him to give him some privacy whilst keeping an eye on him via your sharpened hearing. You hear him drawing shaky breaths out of habit, miniscule sobs slipping past his lips on occasion and your heart breaks. If only you were stronger, faster, more powerful, then maybe he wouldn’t have had to suffer like this, maybe you would have been able to prevent all this from happening.

Your thoughts begin to devour you, thrusting you into a swirling haze of self-hatred and self-doubt. They crowd out everything else, ensnaring you in their web and trapping you in darkness but two quietly spoken words pierce through the cloud and the dark haze begins to part.

“Thank you.”

You sit up with a start, turning to find your vampire lover has shifted into a sitting position, cloak still firmly bundled around him. He looks at you with tear-stained ruby eyes and shuffles closer, leaning against you and burying his face into your shoulder, ignoring the blood that coats it.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “For yelling at you.”

“All’s been forgiven long ago,” you hum. Your arm hovers around him, unsure of whether he would welcome a hug but he pulls your arm around his waist, washing away all doubt immediately.

Astarion relaxes in your embrace, the warmth a stark contrast to his cold skin and rests his head against your chest. The steady thumping of your heart sends a nice strange feeling surging through him and a soft sigh escapes his lips. He lets you rest your chin on his head and the corners of his lips twitch upwards when he hears a familiar rumbling sound coming from your chest.

You wipe your hand on your pants to try and get rid of the blood before running your fingers through his hair, gently unknotting it as you go along. Your breath hitches, disgust bubbling to the surface when you realise you’re still getting blood on his silver hair despite your best efforts. The wolf had spilled that much blood in one fight. You swallow the bile rising to your throat, Astarion comes first, he is the one who needs to be taken care of, your problems can wait another day.

He shifts slightly, giving you a better angle to comb through his hair but you can still see a hint of trepidation in his eyes.

“If you want me to stop, just say it and I will stop. I promise.” You remove your hand from his hair, concerned. You know Astarion likes to keep things to himself, but so far he has been open about his likes and dislikes to you, understanding that you can take no as an answer.

“I…don’t stop. Please,” he whispers. “I don’t want to associate this with anyone but you.”

You feel your cheeks heat up at his words and press a kiss to the top of his head to hide your embarrassment. Despite knowing what you truly are, he still chose you and found safety in your arms. Maybe, if he could accept you as you truly are, one day you could do the same. A vampire spawn and a werewolf, what a couple the two of you made.

“As you wish,” you murmur and the both of you remain like that for some time before Astarion stirs once more, untangling himself from the safety of your bloodstained arms.

“We should get going before the others fall apart trying to settle dinner,” he smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“We don’t have to move if you don’t want to, the others can wait for all I care,” you huff.

“As much as I love you darling, I would much prefer cuddling in a bedroll than on this hard ground.” A small piece of light returns to his eyes when he hears you bark a laugh at his words, his favourite grin of yours splayed on your face.

“Your wish is my command,” you chuckle, giving his hand a small squeeze. He grasps your hand tightly, whispering something inaudible even to your sharp ears before looking at you with a fondness you can’t quite describe.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “For everything.”

“Right back at you, Star.”

[teddywesworl]

ok y'all said you want director's commentary so I'm gonna start by saying a couple things about 🪑 since it recently celebrated 2k kudos

🪑DIRECTOR'S COMMENTARY LET'S GO

1.

A fun fact about the poems at the beginning of each chapter is that I took two of the poet's classes in college, and she might be solely responsible for convincing me I was a good writer and should pursue the skill. I don't know how she'd feel about me using her poetry to thematically frame an explicit fanfic, but that's neither here nor there.

As a poet, she (I'm not naming her here in case she might possibly name search on tumblr, lol) is obsessed with transformation and with the discord between the material and spiritual self. Blackberries, Brambles in its entirety goes as follows:

Akhmatova wrote, "O look!—that fresh dark elderberry branch is like a letter from Marina…" And she was right, branches criss- cross, words sharpen. We lop them down, fit them into envelopes. But I forget: you don't do letters: Too much tangled in thickets and desperation. Did I say envelopes? I meant elevators. See, I've snagged favourite sweaters in high rises, snarled hair in hedges, given up skin scrapings for blackberries, tongueburst, the sweet stain, explosion under light canine pressure. Don't you just wish you were a dog sometimes? No panic. Romping through brambles. Even in delirium, near death, Akhmatova remembered. Her bitter friend had been dead a long time. Love. Don't think I'm thinking about you. Anything but you.

Akhmatova here being Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, and the Marina in question is Marina Tsvetaeva. You can go on as much or as little of a research spiral about them as you like; many of the layers of this poem are in the reference to Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva, but I was mostly interested in the commentary on the cost of pleasure. I've snagged favourite sweaters in high rises, snarled hair in hedges, given up skin scrapings for blackberries. What are you willing to pay for happiness? Wouldn't it be nice not to think about it? Wouldn't it be nice not to be afraid to pay?

2.

Obviously the other major literary framing device is A Room With A View. The movie, specifically, but obviously the Forster novel as well. A Room With A View is about the clash between tradition and modernity, familial duty vs. adventure and romance, etc. etc. etc. And like, listen, the Duffers have not put this much thought into Steve Harrington, but his arc, despite them, is that of the ultimate privileged 80s all-American masculine symbol taking a slow, deliberate turn toward Otherness. He was supposed to die a static character. He did not, and now we're all writing fic about it.

I probably didn't need to have Eddie literally whack the point home with a hammer with the you're Lucy line in chapter 2, but here we are.

3.

The other bits of ~Art~ in the Steve chapter are Elton John's The Fox and Bruce Springsteen's The River. As follows:

But if you’re wily, you will leave them lying, snared up in the traps that they set for you, Elton sings. And it’s an evergreen affair— Steve lifts the record out and replaces it with The River. Springsteen sings, you're walkin' tough, baby, but you're walkin' blind and that’s not really better.

The Elton John record, you may recall, was a compromise between Eddie and Nancy. The inclusion of these lines in particular was very vibes-based, but hopefully the vibes are semi-coherent. Snares. Traps. The hunter, the fox. Btw the next lines after these are:

As temptation taunts the fox Into the hunter's waiting lair

Which, okay. Teasing out the vibes just a little. Argyle interprets Nancy as Lucy (and implies, without meaning to, that Steve is Cecil--a character that represents old money and tradition and duty and, like. Being trapped). Nancy would probably also view herself as the titular Fox. And Steve has bought into this line of thinking! He sees himself as the snare! He has internalized the idea of life with him being a trap! He is Bullshit, etc.

Eddie complicates this self-concept. Through him, Steve becomes the Fox and Lucy. Temptation taunts the fox into the hunter's waiting lair, after all. And, you know: 🪑🪢

(The Springsteen lines are just. All Steve.)

Ok I have to go feed some horses. More.... later. eventually.

[infinitewarden]

Every day I fight battles for Osiris's honor. Every single time he's a relevant character being his Messy and Brash self people take it personally. Every time I think it'll be different.

Anyways

I really liked Osiris's characterization in Lightfall, it felt more true to how he is as a character than he was in Seraph. However I'm already seeing people being Weird about him. On one hand, I understand he isn't for everyone, not everyone has to like him as he's a very difficult man (which is exactly why I like him.) However there's a difference between just... Disliking a character and egregiously misreading and misinterpreting one.

Two major points I've seen talked about already, ad infinitum, that I feel I have to give you a better perspective of: the urgency of which he acts, and his unhealthy training techniques. (And to a lesser point the claim that he's been over exaggerated which spoilers: he's always been like this.)

His urgency

(or as so many of you claim, that he's yelling at us the entire time.)

I feel like someone having to walk a baby through how to use building blocks it's THIS dire.

THE THEME OF LIGHTFALL IS GRIEF. It's grief and finding a way to accept that grief, not push it down or block it, not fight it every step of the way, but rather let it flow through you and allow it.

Osiris's arc throughout Lightfall is grappling with this: he's not had the TIME to process his grief, both over Sagira and over the loss of his Light. He feels inadequate because there's never been a time where he hasn't been able to act himself.

Osiris outright states in the campaign that he always used his grief as something to push him forward, as a means to fix it, like he did with Saint. But he can't do that now and it frustrates him. He pushes us because it's a reflection of himself, he's beyond frustrated with the fact that he can't do this himself, that he has to rely upon others when he's been self reliant for hundreds of years.

Not only that but he's ALWAYS been a very no-nonsense kind of guy, it used to be that he had Sagira to balance out his social awkwardness, but since she isn't here to often speak For him he's been struggling to interact with others. Sagira acted as a median, now that she's gone he's had to go it alone, you can't blame him for his bluntness.

Now... the yelling scene... I don't know why but everyone seems to be taking this one really really personally despite that fact it's painstakingly clear he's yelling because he's angry with HIMSELF. You're all so focused on the fact he yelled — which, I feel I need to remind you he's in grief and he's going through a very hard change, he's always been calm so seeing him like this really puts into perspective how much he's hurting. No one is talking about his apology afterwards.

He recognizes that he lashed out incorrectly, (and imo he's ALLOWED to after all he's gone through. god forbid grief be expressed in any capacity other than quiet depression.) And then he apologizes. Because that's what he does. He recognizes a misstep and apologizes. This is how he's always been.

Training

And when he's training us, telling us to push beyond our limits, this is a reflection of himself again. This is how he trained. We know this because this is how the Crucible became what it is now.

But I will also take good ideas where I can get them. And Osiris's belief that Guardian minds and bodies can be sharpened as one sharpens a sword is a damn good idea. You've seen the results in the Crucible. Do I really have to say any more?

The Conqueror 2

Osiris has always pushed himself (and in part I think Felwinter added to this) so it only makes sense he'd try to push us in the same manner. The entire point of this is to show it's wrong and Osiris eventually recognizes it as wrong! His perspective was incorrect! And it changes! Because that's how stories work!

Grief

Grief is not always shown with crying messes, it's not always quiet depression, it can manifest by being incredibly volatile and angry and that's how Osiris handles his grief when he can't just power himself through it anymore.

His arc is coming to terms with the fact he can't just wrestle his grief into submission. His arc is that he doesn't have to deal with his grief alone. His arc is that his mortality and inability to act himself isn't a personal failure. His arc is that he lets it flow rather than try to push it down. Like strand, Osiris's grief is a river and he's been trying to build a dam for the past several months.

Osiris is a nuanced character. He has flaws and he's never hid them. If you played the entire campaign with the audio off and subtitles off and you can't grasp the simple fact Osiris is experiencing incredible amounts of grief and trauma that's on you, my friend.

[wrightingdungeon]

Get Slimed

I was in the mines and the Slimed debuff gave me…. Ideas

A story with my Farmer: Dante and Abigail

Warnings: Fighting, might continue later, very light stripping

Having Abigail join Dante in the mines always made the task more enjoyable, she was excited to learn everything about being an adventurer. Dante kept their spelunking to the upper levels, helping her take the mines slow, remembering how she had reacted to the bats flying up at her. It gave the advantage of keeping the enemies more manageable, wanting to avoid overwhelming Abigail. 

“Remember it's usually easier to clear a level before mining things. You don't want to be snuck up on while picking up ore.” Dante said watching Abigail’s back as she looked around the cave level. “You sound like you know that from experience.” Dante chuckled at Abigail’s quick jab, he had been caught off guard when he had first started exploring the mines. He remembered when he had woken up at Harvey's bandaged up.

“Just a few times, but that's why I now clear the floor before anything can get the drop on me,” Dante said stretching lazily hiding a smirk when he saw Abigail taking a peek at the sliver of skin that appeared. He had caught onto the crush she had on him days ago. Sebastian and Sam had come to his house and told him all about it and how they would be watching him like hawks. Dante found it sweet that the boys cared for her and wanted her happy, ensuring he wouldn't break her heart. Not that he would. Dante also liked Abigail, her fiery spirit, the first time she took an amethyst from him and ate it like it was an apple, her tenacity. Abigail was a spitfire and he liked that about her.

“Dante! I found the ladder!” Hearing Abigail call to him brought him back to reality. “Let's get going then, gotta be out before ten,” Dante said as he made his way down the ladder after Abigail. Looking around Dante sucked his teeth in annoyance “Tch shit it's infested… Stay close ok.” He instructed Abigail stepping forward and drawing his sword 

The damp, cool air of the Mines thickened around them, a sickly green hue permeating the cavern and casting eerie shadows. The stone walls seemed to pulse with the unnatural light, heightening the tension. The entire room seemed alive with the presence of Green Slimes. Their thick jelly bodies pulsed with malice, blending almost seamlessly with the emerald ambiance. Dante's senses sharpened, every slight movement catching his attention, while Abigail stood ready to support him.

Without warning, a slime launched itself from a dark corner, its body stretching as it soared through the air. Dante sidestepped with practiced ease, his sword flashing in a swift downward arc. The slime split with a wet, splattering sound, dissolving into a harmless puddle of goo, Abigail watched with wide eyes. Two more slimes bounded toward Dante, their movements were erratic and unpredictable. He swung his sword in a wide sweep, but the slimes were agile, dodging his strike and flanking him. One latched onto his leg, its acidic slime burning through his pants. Dante shook it off with a grunt of pain and stomped it into the ground, the satisfying squish echoing through the cavern.

The second slime took advantage of his distraction, launching itself at his chest. Abigail's eyes widened in alarm as Dante fell back, narrowly avoiding the attack, and thrust his sword upward. The blade pierced the slime’s core, and it disintegrated with a hiss, its remnants sizzling on the cold stone floor. Breathing heavily, Dante scanned the dimly lit cavern, listening to the distant, echoing sounds of more slimes emerging from the shadows, Dante stood slowly preparing for the next onslaught.

Dante advanced cautiously, sword at the ready, while Abigail stayed slightly behind, her eyes darting around for any threats he might miss. The slimes kept coming, their numbers seemingly endless. Dante moved with precision and grace, each swing of his sword a calculated strike. He dispatched slime after slime, his movements a deadly dance of survival. Green goo splattered across his clothes and face, but he remained focused, his resolve unwavering. Abigail watched in awe as Dante fought, her own weapon ready to strike if needed. As the last of the Green Slimes dissolved into a puddle at his feet, Dante wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath. The cavern fell silent once more, save for the occasional drip of water from the ceiling and the faint, unsettling glow of the green hue that bathed the room.

Dante sheathed his sword and turned to Abigail, who gave him an encouraging nod. Surveying the area together, noticing that the threat had ended a sigh of relief was shared between the two. “And that's how you handle an infected level…” Dante said gripping the bottom of his shirt pulling it up and off, shaking it like a rug trying to get the thick slime off of it. “A new thing to keep in mind, a change of clothes.” Dante groaned as he looked over at Abigail, noticing she was covering her face peeking threw a slit in her fingers Dante burst out, doubling over in laughter. 

“Don't look at me like that!” Dante laughed holding his side causing Abigaiil to be more flustered hiding her face fully. “It's too cute, Abby, I can't!” Slowly catching his breath his laughter turned into chuckles, seeing Abigail was fully flustered Dante slowly walked over. “I’m not gonna bite you ya know.” Dante teased leaning down slightly to be closer to her, seeing her eyes peek back out he chuckled looking into her blue eyes. “Ya know, I do have to confess… Sebastian and Sam did let it slip that you like me…” He said teasing her. 

Abigail gasped her eyes flashing red for a second. “They did not! I'm gonna kill them! I am gonna actually kill them!” She yelled out balling her fists, showing Dante just how red her face was. Dante laughed and held her shoulders. “Hold on Spitfire.” Dante gently pulled Abigail close to him. “I like you too ok?” Dante said softly looking at Abigail gently. “You are unapologetically you, you are so fun to be with, you honestly light up my life,” Dante said pushing back some of her amethyst-colored hair, smiling at her shocked face. “W-What?” She said shyly her eyes wide.

“Yeah, I like you Abby, I honestly can't get enough of you,” Dante said cupping the side of Abigail's face slightly, giving her a hint as to what he was asking permission to do, seeing Abigail's breath catch Dante waited ready to let her go. “Is this ok Abigail?” Dante asked his voice hushed and gentle. “Y-Yeah…” Abigail said against Dante’s lips as she pushed herself up with her toes. The kiss was soft and gentle but it held so much for the pair, a new bond forming between the pair. Pulling back Dante chuckled softly his cheeks matching Abigail's now. “I think we are done with the mines for the day.” He said joking taking one last look at the damp green walls. “Wanna go home with me and help get this slime off?” He smirked down at Abigail laughing at the squeak that came out of her.

[hollowfaith]

「✧」 "There's a place you might like," Klaus had mentioned yesterday, "where you can get your powers back."

And that was already enough for Aurelius to say yes.

He felt it the moment they soared into the air above the Sky-Strewn Isles, Klaus' hand around his waist and his own arm slung casually around the man's shoulders. A warmth flooding into his body and all his nerves as his breaths grew light. Senses sharpened, power swelled, and by the time they reached the area proper, Aurelius was airborne on his own without much help.

He squeezed Klaus' arm before pushing away, and ended up hovering in the air a few feet away from the other man. The sight of his companion's two-winged form was expected, but a little underwhelming—for some unfathomable reason, Aurelius had been expecting...more. He cleared away the frivolous thought and smiled at Klaus while his eyes began to glow in soft, beautiful hues.

"What a lovely surprise you've gifted me, Klaus."

"I've been longing to stretch my wings."

Pausing in mid-air, Aurelius stilled...before falling backwards to plummet head-first towards the ground. Seconds later, there was a low boom as four wings appeared on his back, gloriously golden and glittering. Effortlessly, the divinus arced back up until he was hovering above Klaus and reached out a hand.

A golden feather rested between his fingers.

"I don't know if it'll last," Aurelius began. "But please, take this as a token of my gratitude."

@anghexescu ໒꒱

[aleyothorncrow]

Raise Up This Gift, I'll Sharpen the Knife: Chpt. 3 Wedding

Rating: M || WC: (2,709/8,062) || Haven Arc || Chpt: 3/25

(-> Read from the beginning)

Chapter Excerpt:

The one where Mirenan holds her hand. And then doesn't.

“What’s this?” Mirenan rubbed her nose, which had taken the brunt of the damage, and looked up at the owner of the tunic she’d run into. His hair was a light chestnut, with a matching, trim beard. The silk of his clothes was woven with a delicate brocade, no more than a shimmer over the richly dyed colors. He had two other men in his company in similar tunics, but not so fine as his. A nobleman in the alienage, two lackeys in tow. Whatever reason brought them here could not be good. She lowered her gaze and mumbled an apology, hoping they would lose interest and walk on by. Instead, the nobleman offered her his hand. She stared at it with suspicion, knowing that to get involved would be a mistake, and yet she could think of no way to turn him down that would avoid insult. “Come now, I don’t bite,” he said, blazing a charming grin.

Chapter-specific tags/warnings below the cut.

Chapter-specific tags: Lavellan, Shianni, Soris, Blackwall, Vaughan

Chapter-specific warnings: Threat of sexual assault, violence. This is the City Elf origin, after all. D;

[mirkwdmstrss]

returned to darkness

summary: adar meets his end on the battlefield, but not before a millennia of trauma, betrayal, and lost love are unleashed between the two in a torrent of bloodshed, manipulation, and final farewells.

genre: angst, hurt no comfort

pairing: adar x sauron (as annatar)

word count: 2.9k

tags: blood and injury, adar death

His line of sight narrowed to that of the tunnels he’d borne under the Southlands, the din of battle falling away in a rapid decrescendo until all he could hear was all that remained of his heart hammering in his ears.

Though he wore a new face, there was only one who could simultaneously carry that much condemnation and determination in his eyes; eyes that once bore him favor.

There was only one who could decimate swathes of soldiers without so much as a scratch to deface the marble of his flesh.

There was only Him.

And Adar had betrayed him beyond reproach; and he would again to save his children, knowing it would likely be his own undoing.

He watched on despite the chaos raging all around, transfixed by the gleam of His sword arcing through the air to fell one of Eregion’s soldiers while His golden hair, once red, fanned around Him in a halo, hallowed though it wasn’t; and hating himself for how easy the revelry he once held for him clawed its way up from a place so deep inside himself, he’d been certain it’d never see the light of day ever again.

But then again, He’d always held the key to his black heart in the palm of His hand.

The whir of an arrow slicing through the air drew Adar from his trance. His arm shot out, slashing his sword through the wooden shaft. The remains of the Elven weapon clattered to the ground and he spat on them before lifting his eyes once more; horror filling them as he watched Him slash the throat of one of his beloved Uruk; cutting through them with the same ease at which he’d hewn the elves.

Adar saw red; anger and pain the likes of which he’d felt so potently only once before in his lifetimes exploded from a place deep within himself. The raw agony burned through his core, racing through blood at such an accelerated speed that all he could do to keep from burning from the inside out was to let loose a scream so dark and terrible that all those fighting in his vicinity cowered in fear.

But his pain was not geared towards them. It was not for them. This was a pain born of ages, vengeance born of cruelty and malice, of torture and ruin.

His heels dug into the earth, tearing up the ground as he took off towards Sauron, slaughtering any elf that dared cross his path or blades with any of his Uruk while shouting out commands in Black Speech to his beloved children to fall back out of harm’s way as he raced towards the very thing that would be the ruin of them all.

Do not make war in anger.

He’d said those very words to the young Commander, yet he could not himself heed them.

The world could rise and fall and it would not be time enough for this pain to pass.

As Sauron’s blade passed through yet another one of his children and Adar watched helplessly as the darkness chased away the light in their eyes, his hand swiped at his belt where Mairon’s crown of sharpened iron hung, waiting centuries to taste its master’s flesh once more.

Tightening his grip beneath the guard of his sword, Adar swung it in a wide arc, point angled right at his heart; at least where the shell of one once beat.

The shriek of metal pierced the air as Sauron’s blade whipped behind his back to block what should’ve been a fatal blow. Adar pushed back against the strength of his block, but Sauron was stronger. He twirled in place, disarming the strike completely, his deft footwork placing him out range of Adar’s initial attack.

Adar’s black eyes flashed dangerously as he stalked his prey in a slow circle. Strands of sweat drenched hair stuck plastered to his face as his wide chest rose and fell, his heart a wild animal clawing at the cage of his ribs to get out and sink its teeth into Sauron.

“Did you really believe you could stab me in the back twice, Adar?” A hollow smile painted his delicate lips and Adar growled low in his throat.

Adar shifted his hand to fall atop Mairon’s crown hanging at his side and watched as Sauron’s eyes fell on it like a moth to a flame, both fear and desire flickering in the depths of his gray irises.

“All these years and you’ve never been satisfied in your quest for power,” Adar cried over the wind which had begun to howl.

“No,” Sauron attested, taking a step towards him. In turn, Adar took one back. Sauron’s brow twitched as a devious and calculated look entered his gaze. “But with these Rings of Power, I will Lord over all the races of Middle Earth all shall bow before us.”

Us.

Adar felt the weight of that word like that of a mountain collapsing in on itself. And still for a moment, he felt his resolve weaken. Until he remembered the ways in which Sauron used and abused his children, enslaving them to His cause for world domination, never minding how many died in His quest for might above all others.

“There is no us!” Adar snarled, lips curling back. “There never was. I was a pawn in your grand chess game, a means to end, just like my children.”

Sauron scoffed, features fixed in a state of cool indifference. “Children!” he called, a derisive laugh tumbling from his wicked mouth. “You never learn, do you Adar? These orcs are not yours to raise, they are yours to weaponize. With them under your first, we could lay waste to thousands and create a final and lasting peace.”

“Not for them!” Adar seethed, pointing towards his fleeing uruk. “To you they are collateral! You care not for their names nor their desires, only that which you seek to claim for yourself.”

“Is that not what you’ve done here?” Sauron challenged, his brow arching as he gestured to the battle waging on around them, his sword hanging limply in hand.

“Enough!” Adar boomed as thunder rumbled in the distance. “I am not like you! I have spent centuries undoing the damage you’ve done.”

“Yes,” Sauron answered, taking a measured step towards Adar. “But as soon as you heard wind of me in Eregion, high in Celebrimbor’s tower cavorting with the elves…you abandoned the safe haven you promised to your orcs in Mordor to seek me out. You mobilized legions upon legions of orcs, emptying the safety of the city of shadows, risking life and limb of your pets to bring me down by any means necessary.” He paused to point a finger at him, a quizzical look in his eye. “Tell me, Adar, how many of these orcs have you lost your pursuit of me? Do you know?” His eyes glistened in the gray light of day. “Do you know all of their names? If they had families?”

Adar paused. Surely he did. He had made it his mission in life to nurture each of his Uruk, but lately he’d been so focused on strategizing and remaining one step ahead of the army of Lindon to divide his attention elsewhere. Surely the Uruk he’d burned he’d known the names of. Surely he’d collected all that were slain…except after a while, he’d been kept by maintaining plans for the Siege, hostage negotiations, devising ways to get to Sauron…when had he stopped going to collect his fallen children?

Adar’s irises flickered back and forth across the trampled earth at his feet as if the answer would somehow be spelled out in the soil. As a drop of rain fell hard and fast against the skin of his scarred cheeks, he snarled before ripping a dagger from the belt at his waist and launching it with all his might towards Sauron.

“Get out of my head!” he roared.

The short blade whirled through the air, spinning end over end as it sought out its mark between his ribs.

A wicked smile hooked at the corners of Sauron’s face, though his eyes remained empty of any emotion. “I’m afraid, I never left, Adar.” With only a slight twitch of his hand, the dagger deviated from its course, soaring into the throat of an Uruk that had yet to flee.

Adar’s heart skipped a beat as his eyes widened in horror. “No,” he breathed, faltering a step as his heart yearned to go and comfort his fallen child.

“Yes,” Sauron responded, voice eerily calm.

Tears brimmed along Adar’s lash line as the sound of the Uruk choking on his own blood filled his ears.

“I am here!” Adar called to him in Black Speech though he dared not venture any closer for the snake that Sauron was. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“All of their pain and suffering is by your hand,” ventured Sauron, voice laden with accusation.

Adar’s eyes cut to him, pupils sharp as arrows. “Lies,” he growled. “If it weren’t for me, you’d have enslaved them all; using them to fulfill your egregious desires for tyranny.”

“Again, have you not used them to fulfill your own selfish desires?” pushed Sauron, advancing another step towards Adar. “Instead of fighting me, join me. Go ahead, remain their father and raise them to know that their sacrifice will only create a better future for new generations of orcs.”

Dipping into the well of strength within himself, Adar lifted his chin and advanced towards his former master. “You would promise me this?”

Sauron’s eyes softened, the wicked gleam in his gray eyes dimming, but remaining all the same. “I give you my word,” his irises flicker across his face. “Adar.”

Adar clenched his jaw so tightly hearing his name on his lips. He was sure if he bit down any harder, his teeth would shatter. He was nearly toe to toe with him now, hundreds of years having passed since he last stood so near to him. He kept his sword angled between his body and Sauron’s.

Sauron inclined his head towards Adar, lips curving into a soft pout and for the briefest moment, Adar swore he saw a flicker of the love he once knew behind the mask of this most recent form of His.

“A pity your tongue is dipped in poison,” Adar whispered, evading the saccharine sweetness of the honey trap he’d laid out for him.

Sauron’s eyes flared wide and blazed with fire as Adar’s features twisted with rage. With one powerful tug, he tore the iron crown from his belt and thrust it forward to pierce Sauron’s side.

The blow never landed, the scrape of metal on metal shrieking as Sauron’s vambrace collided with the circlet, his arm threaded between the lethal points.

Betrayal flashed in Sauron’s eyes as he pushed back against the weight of Adar’s fist. He grasped Adar’s shoulder in an attempt to force him back, but Adar could only see his end by his hand; and this time, there would be no coming back for the Dark Lord.

“I gave you everything!” Sauron bellowed, any trace of sympathy he held for the Uruk vanishing in that moment.

“You would’ve stolen everything!” Adar cried over the storm, rain now falling sideways as lightning flashed overhead. The corded muscles of his neck bulged with the effort of pushing back against Sauron’s might. A scream tore from his scarred lips as he summoned all of his strength into his attack; and when the sharpened tips of Mairon’s crown slowly punctured through the weakest part of his chest plate, Adar could taste the sweetness of victory knowing his children would prevail.

Just as Adar was sure he would see the light fade from Sauron’s impenetrable gaze forevermore, Sauron threw him back with a cry so terrible it shook the earth beneath their feet. Blood gushed from the two puncture wounds at his side, black as tar.

He pressed his hand against the injury, eyebrows downturned with a look of hurt in his eyes that almost seemed genuine. Adar wasn’t sure if he was capable of expressing genuine emotion, perhaps once, but now, in this form there was no way of knowing.

As Adar regained his footing, he adjusted the grip on his broadsword. With Sauron distracted, this was his one chance. He swung his sword in two wide circles at his side before launching his attack; the tip of his sword angled to strike a fatal blow.

Sauron’s head whipped towards him, his square jaw clenched and eyes wild with fury. He cast out his bloodstained hand, summoning the crown that once belonged to him from where it had fallen in the struggle, and drove it up and under Adar’s breast plate, puncturing the space between his ribs to stab into his lungs.

A choked gasp escaped Adar’s lips as pain overwhelmed him and his breathing became labored. His brow twitched as black spots dotted his field of vision, though Sauron’s face remained clear, his unfazed expression wounding him more than the blow that had been struck against him.

Adar’s grip on his sword faltered and it fell from his grasp, clattering to the ground at his feet. As his knees buckled, he fell forward and released an agonized groan as Sauron thrust the iron deeper into his chest cavity. His lips parted in a silent scream as Sauron caught him around his waist, leaving the crown embedded in his body as he cradled his head in his opposite hand.

Sauron dropped to his knees to gently lay Adar upon the ground where he struggled to take in enough air to his collapsed and punctured lung.

Adar blinked hard to clear the rain from his eyes, unable to speak as his breathing became short and labored. Sauron cupped his cheek in his palm, the warmth of the gesture surprising Adar in what he knew were now to be his final moments. He felt the wetness of Sauron’s blackened blood smear across his skin as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

“All of this bloodshed could’ve been avoided,” Sauron murmured, his eyes soft and filled with pity.

The rain had died down to a soft pitter-patter, droplets plinking against their armor and diluting the blood that poured from both of their wounds, black and red braiding together like liquid ribbon.

He stroked his cheek with the back of His hand and Adar coughed, blood staining his lips. “One day,” he wheezed. “You will fall.”

Sauron’s eyes cleared, the corners of them wrinkling as his lips pressed together in a tight smile. “Such a pity,” he lamented, smoothing the hair away from Adar’s face. “To have fallen so far from grace.”

Adar squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the pain it caused him to summon what strength remained in his limbs to raise his arm to hold Sauron’s face in the palm of his gauntlet-covered hand. “I worshiped you,” he whispered, voice breaking as a tear leaked from his eye.

For a moment, time seemed to slow, the Earth no longer spinning on its axis; and in that brief stillness where they held one another, an entire lifetime that could have been passed before Adar’s fading vision.

Sauron withdrew his hand from Adar’s cheek to cradle the gloved one he held against his own, unblemished skin. Curling his fingers around the palm of Adar’s hand, he lowered it, and with his other unbuckled the leather straps holding the gauntlet in place.

Adar whimpered as Sauron pulled the gauntlet free from his hand and felt the cool kiss of rain touch the only flesh he’d kept hidden from the light of day; the only part of himself that He’d never wounded.

“Shh,” coaxed Sauron as returned Adar’s palm to his cheek, turning his face into his hand and nuzzling the smooth skin of his palm.

Adar couldn’t help but stroke his thumb across the cut of his jaw, even now marveling at the power of his beauty over him. He wheezed as his lung failed to inflate with air, the warmth of his blood pooling all around him feeling distant as an unfamiliar cold began to settle in his bones. He shivered and swallowed as he struggled to take a breath. “Did you ever love me?” he asked weakly, the plea of man with nothing left to lose.

Sauron shifted to look upon him, his eyes glimmering with some far off nostalgia. “Once,” he answered softly. He lowered his lips to Adar’s palm and pressed a gentle kiss to the unmarred flesh there before laying it upon his chest to rest against his heart, which beat less and less with each passing second. In an instant, His gaze hardened and His lip curled back, “But you got in my way.”

He yanked hard on the iron wrought crown, eliciting a roar of pain from Adar as he pulled it free of his flesh; blood and viscera spilling off the sharpened ends of it as Sauron rose to his full height to loom over him.

“May you return to darkness, Adar,” Sauron said in dismissal as he turned on his heel, not even sparing him one final glance as he parted from him. “Pray we never find one another there.”

Tears slipped from Adar’s eyes as Sauron disappeared from view and the world blurred in and out of focus. He blinked slowly, trying to scan his surroundings and know his children had fled to safety.

“Flee,” he whispered between shallow breaths to the open air, a final prayer to the gods old and new. “Seek shelter in the shadows where He cannot find you.”

As blackness curtained his vision and the Void curled in around him, Adar exhaled one slow, final breath knowing that in the everlasting darkness, he might finally know peace.

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

— in which Vlad Dracula asserts his rightful claim amidst the bloodbath of the battlefield.

word count: 5,839 words

warnings: scenes of war, violence related to warfare, gore, physical violence, blood and injuries, murder [18+; MDNI]

a/n: After writing several works that try to fill the gaps in Vlad’s story and show the more intimate side of him, I am proud to finally tackle one of the most crucial moments in Vlad’s journey as a voivode, specifically one of the most important and decisive moments that always stands out in his biography — the battle of summer 1456 that marks the beginning of his second rule. This was a huge responsibility, not only because it was such a pivotal moment in his life, but also because this is my first attempt at writing a battle scene. My own blood, sweat, and tears went into this piece. I sincerely hope you will enjoy every gory moment of this (as much as the pain and suffering allow)! ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

August 1456, plains near Târgșor, Wallachia

A figure charges at him, stripped of armour, clad only in a gambeson and chain mail. One of the cneji, perhaps, or one of their men. His sword arcs through the air, aimed to unleash a fatal blow. Vlad remains in place. His stance is firm, feet anchored to the ground and spaced shoulder-width apart, a stable base to meet the attack. His knees are bent, ready to spring into motion as soon as the man draws near enough to strike. Every muscle coils. The clash of steel is inevitable, imminent. The world shrinks to the beat of breath.

He soon detects the soldier’s vulnerability. His neck is bare, a thin line of flesh left exposed above the protective gear. With a swift and decisive thrust, the curved blade of Vlad’s kılıç cuts the air. Steel bites into the soft tendons and tears them apart like frayed silk. Blood gushes forth, thick and fast, painting the man’s chest in a violent rush of red. The body jerks, staggers, then, heavy with death, topples to the ground.

Throughout the years of being educated in the art of warfare, his instincts have sharpened, the lessons carving their mark in his body. The glory of one’s own kill is a poison one must learn to resist. Pride dulls the edge, exposes weaknesses, leaves defences strained and vulnerable. An opponent is never dead until he lies cold and lifeless on the ground. In the chaos of the battle, one must hold steadfast to his objectives to steer oneself clear of death’s grip. Distraction is fatal. Hesitation brings doom. The soldiers before him falter, their eyes locked in terror on the corpse of their comrade at their feet. He finds his two marks with deadly precision. In a heartbeat, his blade finds ribs, slashes through guts — swift, silent. The man crumples, lifeless. Without pause, the weapon arcs again, cleaving through the flesh of the other.

The once verdant fields lay ravaged around the carnage, torn apart by war. Blades of grass are ripped from the earth in rugged clumps. The ground heaves under the weight of hundreds of feet that have carved ridges upon the soil with every step. Banners whip through the skies, their colours catching the last rays of the sun’s harsh glare. The stench of sweat, blood, and smoke suffocate the heat-heavy air. Steel meets steel, the sound as sharp as a scream, mingling with the cries of the wounded. Time snaps tight, breathless, as fate circles overhead, waiting to strike. Life and death wrestle in the fading light, one moment away from collision.

As the sun slants lower in the sky, the battle rages on unabated, denying any hope of resolution. Weariness grips Vlad’s men and settles over them like a shroud. Despite their unwavering loyalty, their previous ferociousness wanes as drowsy defences replace their once swift strikes. The exiles, fierce in loyalty and bearing courage that matches his own, now begin to falter. The resilience of the Hungarian and Saxon mercenaries that hinges on the glint of gold florins within their grasp loses its edge. Limbs heavy with fatigue ache under the weight of steel. The air thick with blood and dust echoes the sounds of men fighting against their own limits.

Vlad himself feels the weight of exhaustion dragging him down like shackles of lead clamped to his neck. His knees almost threaten to surrender to the earth as fatigue creeps into his bones. Every parry, every strike, is a battle against the enemy standing before him and the darkness that claws at the edges of his vision. Dust and blood sting in his eyes and obscure his view, blurring the world into a dark smear around him. The night looms over him, ready to descend like a blade and cut across the grasslands.

Vlad’s eyes seize another crack amidst the enemy’s ranks. The first blows of a melee tear through the battlefield. The troops on the opposing side crumble into chaos, their discipline melting into a raw frenzy. Voivode Vladislav snarls at the sight of his own men as the once orderly ranks of his soldiers have devolved into a rabid mob. They wield their weapons recklessly, wild swings clashing without aim. His voice thunders over the roar, but the men have become deaf to command, hacking away with savage abandon. His grip tightens on his blade as his towering figure forces his way through, desperate to stem the tide. The soldiers begin to scatter in all directions instead.

There lies Vlad’s opportunity to turn the tides in his favour. All it requires is for his men to maintain their resolve while Vladislav’s forces crumble under the weight of disorder. All could be decided in mere minutes.

“Hold!” Vlad roars his command, hoping his voice will not be lost amidst the clamour of swords.

Somehow, against all odds, it works. Though his men cling to a fragile thread, they refuse to yield their positions.

Just a moment...

The horn’s blare slices through the battlefield, silencing the clash of blades and the pounding of the hooves upon the fields. The interruption brings a temporary standstill, allowing Vladislav’s soldiers to catch their breath. Dust hangs in the air, thick and heavy, as the chaos of the battle subsides. Vlad’s meticulous plans snap like taut wires. The opponent’s troops retreat from the forefront of the bloodstained ground like shadows in that fading light, their broken will gathering force, reshaping itself for the next strike.

With clenched teeth, Vlad fights to keep his emotions hidden behind a mask of impassiveness, fury coiled tight beneath a layer of self-control. He cannot betray anything in front of the men who look to him for his command, his steel-cold resolution. There is no time to falter. Yet inside him, blood boils and rises in his veins in blazing torrents. He sheathes his sword and yanks the helmet off his head, freeing the sweat-drenched face from its suffocating grip. Sweat trickles down his temples and stings his skin. It sprays around his face like a grim halo when he shakes his soaked curls. That damned dog, he thinks to himself with gritted teeth, spitting onto the dusty ground. His sharp whistle pierces the air as he calls for his horse. The beast is waiting just beyond the clash, nostrils flared, impatient like him, ready for blood.

The black turkoman thunders to a halt, and before his hooves even settle, Vlad slides off the saddle. He strides towards his most loyal men, already gathered in one place. Dracea welcomes him with a grin, his teeth gleaming on the blood-sprayed face like bones protruding from a mass of festering muscle. The stench of death clings to their armour. Blood drips from their blades. They all look like they have crawled out of Hell itself, back to the earth’s surface. When Vlad glances down at his own gloved hands — filthy, bloodstained — he recognises that he looks no different.

“The mercenaries are growing dissatisfied. A second break and hours of fighting… Yet no progress is being made,” Manea states when he offers Vlad a waterskin to drink from.

“He wants to wear down our morale.”

“If he continues like this, he might as well succeed,” Dumitru’s words linger like a heavy weight pressing upon Vlad’s shoulders.

He does not need to be reminded of the signs. Those risks are already etched in the hardened faces of the mercenaries, their eyes swallowed by shadows. Men driven by the desire for gold will always be ready to fight, but only while the price is right. Their resolve is crumbling, the initial enthusiasm disappears with every minute. No fortune is worth this much blood. As the sun begins its descent, they have been engaged in combat for hours. Too many hours.

Vlad falls into a momentary silence, cracked and aching lips welcoming the water that touches them. He gulps on its freshness, then swishes it in his mouth with slow deliberation. He lowers his head and spits it out, and the rivulet pounds over the dry earth at his feet.

“Change of plans,” he finally says, beckoning a young soldier to his side. “Go to the voivode and tell him I require to speak with him at once.”

“What plan do you have in mind?” Dracea asks, his voice filled with anticipation. The battle-weary soldiers draw nearer, their eyes riveted on Vlad, hanging on the forthcoming words of their leader.

“We will fight on my terms now. Let us see how well Vladislav fares.”

He watches the young soldier hoist himself up onto his horse. He is flanked on either side by two mercenaries, their hardened faces and battle-worn armour a stark contrast to the boy’s youthful exuberance. They do not speak; they do not need to. With a sharp command, they charge forward. The horses’ hooves tear into the earth, and dust spirals in their wake. They do not pause until they reach the voivode, and their arrival is marked by the air crackling with hurried words, hands gesturing towards their commander. Vlad barely acknowledges the insistent inquiries begging him to clarify his intentions. He stands unmoving, too absorbed in the silhouettes merging with the horizon. The questions hang unanswered.

In those moments of uncertainty, a glimmer of hope presents itself as the voivode, after what seems like an eternity of persuasion, breaks ranks and charges forward to meet his opponent in the middle ground. Vlad wastes no time. With a sharp gesture, his open palm commands Dracea to follow. With a newfound resolve coursing through his veins, he drags his body to sit upright in the saddle. His black stallion, spurred by the firm strike of his heel, bolts ahead. His world narrows to the pounding of hooves around him, and they stop only when Vladislav and his men loom before them.

Meeting his long-time rival face-to-face stirs less emotion in Vlad than he initially anticipated.

It has been a while since Vlad faced him, yet the traits Vladislav bears are as familiar to him as the back of his hand. The tall and lean Dănești have always stood in stark contrast to the shorter and bulkier statures of the Drăculești. One would hardly guess that the two family branches share the same ancestors. He is roughly the same age as Vlad’s father would have been, yet the silver shimmer in his dark beard barely shows. When he removes his helmet, a mass of shorter, wavy hair tumbles free, much lighter in colour than the Drăculești’s raven tresses. Yet, above all, what catches Vlad’s eye is how rested he seems. Certainly more rested than he, who slouches forward, saddle creaking, shoulders weighed down by an ache that keeps pulling him down.

He has always detested any sneers of superiority falling upon his head, but now, he wears his dishevelled state like a second skin. He hopes the black shadows haunting his eyes, the foul stench that clings to him, and the dented and mismatched armour will serve their purpose. He hopes that Vladislav takes the bait and sees weakness where there is none. Let him misjudge. Let him think that this ruin in front of him is all that is left.

The disdainful smirk the voivode greets him with conveys a thousand unspoken words.

“Well, if it isn’t Dracul’s boy,” he proclaims, his voice echoing loud enough to stir a chorus of laughter from the surrounding men. “You appear no more than the scrawny cub you were when we last met.”

A rush of adrenaline pulses through Vlad as his eyes lock on his opponent, and he feels his fingers tighten around the sword’s hilt. “I expected many things from you, dear cousin, but I never expected you to be so spineless. The day is nearly gone. Stop wasting time and let us end it once and for all.”

“My sword is still sharp, as are those of my men. You and your fellows can prove yourselves if you dare.”

Vlad points at the corpses piling behind the horsemen. “Is all that not proof enough to you?”

He catches a flicker of hesitation in the voivode’s dark gaze. There is a precise way to wound a man’s pride. Vlad knows it well.

“Your reputation’s at stake if you cowardly hide behind them,” his words come with a mocking snark that stabs like a knife.

“Prince, do not—” Dracea’s voice reaches his ears, but Vlad’s words drown it out as he speaks over his old friend.

“Let’s settle it now, man on man. The survivor takes the crown.”

Vladislav leans forward in his saddle. “What, are you challenging me to a duel?”

“Do you fear your sword arm has grown weak with age?”

Eyes, hundreds of them, lock onto the ruler’s back. A tense silence grips the fields, choking the air. The voivode’s smile holds, but something cracks — barely visible, a fault line snaking through the mask. Beneath the stillness, something stirs, waiting to strike.

“Age hasn’t dulled my senses enough to fall for your petty taunts,” Vladislav says through gritted teeth after a long pause. “But I will indulge you one last time before I gut you like a pig.”

“When and where?”

“Here. One of my men will sound the horn after the wounded and the dead are carried away.”

“Weapons?”

“Daggers only.”

“Very well, then.” With a sharp pull of the reins, Vlad guides his horse around.

The baritone of Vladislav’s voice trails like a phantom echo behind Vlad’s retreating silhouette. “May the winner prove his worth.”

Vlad lifts his hand in a parting salute. The turkoman beneath him trembles, his nostrils flaring at the stench of war. With eyes narrowed against the coming storm, he digs his heels into the horse’s flanks. Hooves spur into a full gallop, muscles grow tense. In a flash, he vanishes in the distance and toward his men, their faces hard with waiting.

His head bursts through the surface. He sucks in the air with a jagged breath, droplets scattering around his face. The kiss of water against his weary flesh graces it like a soothing balm. He forgoes the cloth offered to him and lets the rivulets trace paths down his burning face, falling to the surface below. He cups the liquid from the barrel in his hands and drinks it, presses the wet palms against the nape of his neck, stiff from hours of fighting. Salt crystals etch patterns upon his skin and sting in his eyes as the sweat on his face mingles with the dripping water.

As dusk settled over the fields, a breeze began to sweep through them. It offers no relief. The summer heat grips them all like iron shackles. It is a dense, sticky vapour that clings to Vlad’s skin in a way that feels alive in its persistence. The air hangs heavy with the scent of putrefaction. He can smell it on himself. The blood that was wiped off his breastplate had already begun to decay after being exposed for hours to the sweltering heat, filling his nostrils with the sickly sweet stench. Sweat has soaked through everything. He can feel the drenched fabric of his linen shirt that sticks to his flesh beneath the protective gear, every movement grinding the cloth against his skin. The heat lives inside him, searing, insidious. Each breath tastes like ash. His pulse throbs with its weight, mind sagging under the strain, thoughts slowing down to necessities. It feels as though it might consume him whole, inch by inch, a relentless, blistering hunger, burning him from the inside out, mocking every breath.

He has never felt more alive than when roaming the lands of death. He becomes unanchored, reliant solely on instincts. Every second is survival. His mind sharpens, free from burdens, stripped to its core. The only thing that matters is staying alive. Kill or be killed. This is his essence. This is his truth.

Something feels different this time.

One of them shall not survive the night.

He sinks to his knees and utters a brief prayer in silence. He regrets the motion as soon as he feels the strain in his knees. It becomes difficult to rise again. He stumbles and groans, fingers digging into the earth for leverage. The soil feels rough against the palms of his hands. He waves off the outstretched hand willing to help him.

He throws his arms wide, then stands still and lets his men dress him for battle. The dents in the armour were hammered out in haste, but the plates still bear the scars of previous wars. They were wars he did not fight. The marks were already present when he purchased the armour second-hand. A fine Saxon work, the steel solid even when worn out. He refused to waste a coin on useless displays of power when it was needed elsewhere. He pulls on the gloves while the leather straps bite into his muscles as they tighten, the buckles closing with a snap. Plates of metal encase his legs again. Rough hands reach out once more to tug at the pauldrons and lock them in place. A string of questions cuts through the air. Comfortable? Can you move? Any pressure?

A pair of blue eyes observes it all from the distance, watching as each question is cut down by the same swift shake of the head. They do not blink, do not waver, staying fixed on the Wallachian pretender. Everyone steps back as if afraid of brushing against the man fate already has her claws on. They grant him the final moments of peace. He tries to warm up the stiff muscles, tilts his head to one side and the other. A faint crack breaks the silence. Lifts his arms, drops them. Twists his torso to the side. Bends low, legs stretching as much as the armour will allow. His face betrays him. The strain bleeds through the tightening of his jaw.

Dracea sighs and walks forward. His legs move of their own accord, pulling him towards his friend without a thought. The sight of that body, full of fire despite the exhaustion, pierces him with dread. His mouth feels dry, but it has little to do with the thirst that fills it. Dust seems to rise in his throat, suffocating him. That man is young, not yet twenty-five, still standing in his prime, future stretching before him like an open road, waiting. So much left undone, yet the threat of death looms over him. Dracea’s fists clench. No. Not today. Not ever. This life cannot slip away with the dark.

“Are you prepared?”

Dracea stops inches from him. Although the blonde-haired giant towers over him, Vlad dominates the space. A light smirk flickers beneath the dark moustache, almost imperceptible if only the man opposite him did not know that face better than he knew his own.

“As I can be.”

Dracea’s guts clench at the calmness in the man’s face — or is it a sign of sheer recklessness? His eyes narrow, arms folding tight against his chest now that his body has been freed from armour. He sucks in a sharp breath and blows out his cheeks, gaze flicking towards the sky.

The words shoot out of him before the lack of courage can throttle them. “I do urge you to reconsider. We can wait until the night falls, then retreat to—”

“No.”

He studies him again, noting the faint slouch in his shoulders. His mind darts back to the voivode on the far side of the field, a man twice Drăculea’s age, yet looking fresher, sharper. He has been holding back, conserving his strength. He did not charge headlong into the fight, did not bleed with his men, did not throw himself into the chaos as if he were just another soldier. Vlad did — always first into the fray, relentless.

“Dan’s army is exhausted just the same. His mercenaries likely believe they have done more than enough to earn their wages. We can wait and use the opportunity when—”

The green of Vlad’s eyes morphs into molten fire. His gloved hand snaps forward and seizes Dracea’s arm, yanking him forward. He forces him to face the northern border. Behind the plains, the terrain slopes upward into the mountainous forests. The edge of Wallachia, where Ardeal begins. The land of the exiles.

“Are you so eager to live like an outcast again? Because that is all we will be should we go back,” a hiss creeps into Vlad’s voice, his finger stabbing the air as it points to the peaks that loom in the distance.

Dracea tries to wrench himself free, but his grip is unforgiving around his shoulder, iron on bone. Vlad lets go only when he catches the first signs of panic flooding the blue eyes.

“I will not—” Vlad shakes his head, searching for words. “I am not running again, not for a second more. Not when I have his throat within reach of my hand—”

Vlad’s hand shoots up in front of Dracea’s face. His fingers coil, tightening as if he were already closing them around Vladislav’s windpipe. Dracea lays the palm of his hand across the tense fist, feeling the leather creak beneath his skin.

“We might get another chance later. There will be no second chances if you die today.”

The fields fill with the sharp blow of the horn. Everything changes, Vlad’s countenance most of all. All words are in vain. Dracea stands frozen, awaiting a response he knows he will not receive. Vlad turns away. His back becomes a wall, impenetrable and unyielding, as he strides away from his companion. His voice rings out, summoning the horse with a mane as dark as midnight, mirroring the locks of his master.

“At least let someone else fight in the duel, someone less weary,” Dracea grunts, making one last attempt to reason.

The smile that spreads on Vlad’s face is hardly reassuring. “No, Dracea. It is my throne to take. I ought to be the one to fight for it.”

He swings up into the saddle, patting the side of the turkoman’s neck. A man rushes towards him, holding Vlad’s helmet. He hesitates for a second, then reaches for it. His fingers curl around the familiar weight. He glares at it, at the dents, the scratches, then puts it on. His eyes dart to the safely hidden dagger — simple and practical, double-edged, good for thrusting as well as slashing. The key that will open the doors to the throne. His throne.

“Any final advice?” he says as he clasps Dracea’s hand in a farewell grip.

“Go with God and fight like the Devil. You shall dine in Târgovişte tomorrow.”

The troops have settled into the role of a crowd with ease. Armour lies discarded, bodies sprawl themselves across the grass still soaked in the blood of their dead comrades. The men’s eyes flicker toward the fighters poised on the precipice of glory or ruin. Coins change hands with sharp clinks as bets are sealed in low grumbles. Warm wine sloshes down the parched throats. All of it fades into a dull hum beneath the pounding of blood in Vlad’s ears.

Two banners fly in the air. The green and gold of the Dan snap on one side. The night sky with the day’s red and gold of the Drăculea on the other. Only one will stand in the end. The other will topple to the ground the moment the body of its defender lies dead in the dirt.

He quickly reevalues the odds. Vladislav is older. Taller. More experienced. Armoured in steel no one among the sea of men filling these plains has even dreamed of wearing.

The crowd’s laughter bites through the evening air. A shiver runs down his spine.

The horn blares again. Sharp and final. It is time.

Vladislav unsheathes his blade with a decisive motion. Its edge catches the fading light, glinting menacingly. Vlad mirrors his actions. A violent shout tears from the voivode’s throat as he charges. Heavy footfalls meet Vlad in a few strides. The old man’s movements are slow, mechanical, seeking balance. Predictable. Vlad bides his time. His muscles tense, poised to strike. His stance is ready — knees bent, feet grounded for quick movement. He watches the approach. Every twitch. Every breath. Come. Make your move.

In a flash, two bodies swathed in metal collide. Steel meets steel with a shriek that splits the air. Vlad grips the dagger loosely, hand ready to adjust swiftly. His sharp eyes hunt for any opening, any weakness. He holds, waits — until Vladislav is nearly upon him. Then he leans into the blow and twists his torso as the impact erupts.

Vladislav lunges forward, too close for a clean strike. His blade whips down, hunting for exposed flesh. Nothing. The blade scrapes against the breastplate with a sharp screech and skids off, leaving a pitiful scratch. His eyes widen as the young man’s gauntleted hand claws at him, tugging at the plates, yanking him closer. Vlad grinds his teeth as he finds the target he is looking for. With a brutal snap, the top of his helmet smashes into Vladislav’s visor. The man staggers back, gasping, vision swimming and exploding. He blinks, tries to clear the haze from his eyes. The world around him narrows into a tunnel of blurred shapes and sounds, his breath a ragged storm inside the helmet.

Sensing the advantage, Vlad charges with teeth bared in a snarl. Vladislav reacts on instinct. His body snaps into a defensive stance, blade up, hand tired yet steady. The enemy’s weapon slashes through the air. The steel whizzes past, grazing his armour but not finding flesh. Vlad presses on, but the fatigue begins to slow him down. Vladislav spots his hesitation, the aggression in the young man waning. He surges forward, no thought, only the sharp glint of the dagger seeking out a sliver of exposed skin between those steel plates. Cold. Merciless. The moment to strike is now.

He finds no opening. Instead, blade bites into blade as Vlad deflects at the last second. With a swift strike, he flicks his dagger to the side, sending Vladislav’s weapon flying from his grip and to the ground. But where exhaustion drags one down, fury drives the other forward. Vladislav waits until the youth makes one small mistake, succumbs to a moment of carelessness. It comes. Swift and sloppy. Vladislav seizes him as if he weighed nothing. His grip on Vlad’s left arm is iron-like, relentless. The strength catches him off guard. Before he can free himself, the older man wrenches the arm back. The shoulder yields with a sickening pop.

The pain rips his breath out of him. It tears through his shoulder like a jagged knife, jolting upward, stabbing into his neck. His arm falls limp, dangling by his side at a grotesque angle. The agony that floods him is sharp and relentless. A howl drags its way out of his constricted throat. The world collapses into silence and haze. Strong hands grip his waist and send him toppling to the ground. He does not blink, does not shut his eyes. He sees everything. Faces frozen in shock. Mouths twisted in screams. The hills looming behind them. Above him, the sky darkens. His back slams into the dry earth, and he feels it moving beneath him. The dagger flies out of his hand and falls next to him. Everything around him spirals without control. His arm. Fire. Searing every tendon. Every muscle ablaze.

A shadow comes between him and the sky. Vladislav moves fast. Too fast. In one savage motion, he tears the helmet from Vlad’s head. Green eyes flash wide as the voivode’s large hands close in. Vlad tries to roll to the side and escape the grip he knows is coming. His shoulder flares with pain and pins him to the ground. Vladislav kneels over him and straddles him. The hands hover, closer, threatening. They lock around the exposed neck—

And squeeze.

The first sensation Vlad feels is the tightening around his neck, constricting him like iron jaws. Pain scorches through his throat, molten, as if he swallowed fire. His lungs rebel and claw for air that will not come, every breath blocked by the unforgiving grip. His body spasms. Instincts kick in, meeting with nothing. Resistance. His eyes throb in their sockets, the world dimming. Vladislav’s fingers dig deeper. The pressure on his windpipe makes him gag. A ragged sound escapes his parted lips. Raw and choking. Barely human. Fueled by rage, the voivode heaves him up like dead weight and hurls his skull into the ground.

Vlad’s vision begins to blur. The edges of his consciousness fray, fading everything into a faraway smoke. He tries to fight the primal urge to thrash, to gasp for breath. He forces stillness into his limbs. Breathing shallow. No rash movement. The dagger flashes in his mind. A lifeline. Vladislav fails to notice that the right hand twitches to life, fingers crawling over the dirt with purpose. They find what they are looking for. The cold metal hilt. They close around it, pulling the weapon closer to the body lying in the dirt.

“Die!” Vladislav screams into his face.

Before the world begins to darken, Vlad’s eyes lock on the opening. A sliver of pale skin just above the breastplate, the flesh so tender and welcoming. He does not hesitate. He grinds his teeth as he raises his right arm. It drives the dagger up, thrusting into the small space of the unguarded neck that reveals itself to him. The grip around his throat slackens. The air floods back. Vlad pulls the blade hard to the side. The gaping hole rips wide open in front of him. The voivode tries to scream, but his voice is strangled. The once smooth throat becomes a ragged ruin, with dark red blood pooling and seeping from the severed vessels. He shuts his eyes as it gushes forth. It is warm, spilling over him like waterfalls, cascading across his face. A few drops seep into his lips, filling his mouth with a metallic taste. It runs down into his hair, binding it into a wet, sticky mass.

Behind the visor, the light in Vladislav’s eyes flickers, then dies. His body grows heavy with death. The armoured corpse crashes forward. Vlad barely manages to turn his head before it slams onto him, the weight of metal crushing against his chest, burying him beneath it. The heat of the summer sun still clings to the body.

From the distance, it was impossible to catch every detail. The voivode is dead. That much is clear. One soldier stands up and brushes the dust off his thighs. He walks over to the banner of the Dănești and yanks it from the ground. The colourful cloth falls discarded. But Drăculea does not move. Not a muscle twitches beneath the dead body. The hand that delivered the blow fell to the side with the blade slick with blood… and now lies there, unmoving.

The field is silent, save for the shriek of circling birds that have come to feast on the fallen. The faces of hundreds of men remain unmoving, breath caught in their throats. They wait for a sign. Any sign. But Drăculea does not move. He lies there, a body abandoned by life, giving nothing.

Dracea scans the swarm of bodies in the crowd, searching for familiar faces. There. Manea’s bone-white head. Dumitru is stumbling to his feet. Stan, frozen, shock carved into his pale face. Stoica. Buriu. Iova. Their tension mounts, second by second. Each man readies himself to drag the body of their fallen prince — their leader, their friend — from the dirt and carry it away to lay him to rest.

And then the body stirs.

“He is alive!” Dumitru cries out as he bolts past the others to get to him.

With a grimace of pain, Vlad uses the last dregs of his strength to force the corpse off him. He twists, bracing his legs, his torso, anything he can use against the dead weight. The dislocated shoulder throbs with each push, but he grits his teeth and shoves. Other hands reach down from above, rough and sudden. Men standing over him yank the body aside to free him from the crushing burden.

Vlad rolls over and, with a laboured grunt, pushes against the soil. A violent coughing fit overpowers him, lungs wheezing, gulping on the air. The blood on his face mixes with the dirt scraping him as he claws at the ground, the dust forming a hard crust over his skin. His fingers dig into the earth, anchoring him as he hauls himself up. His legs quiver, and he curls them beneath him as much as the armour allows, forcing himself up. His breath comes in ragged bursts, but he steadies himself, every muscle protesting the strain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dumitru’s hands reach for him, helping him stand up. He lets the motion carry him, legs dragging as he is hauled to his feet. An arm wraps around his shoulders and yanks him into an embrace. The mangled joint flares with pain again. He pays it little attention. He looks around. The troops from both sides are now standing in front of him. A few of the men walk away quietly, slipping off into the shadows to find their horses. Another pretender waits. The rest begins chanting. His name. Over and over. Vlad. Vlad. Vlad. Vlad. Vlad. The cry crashes into him in the form of hundreds of voices.

Now that name truly stands for something.

Now that name represents something bigger than himself.

He pushes Dumitru’s arm aside. He screams from the bottom of his lungs. The roar he lets out is guttural, overwhelming. It bursts out and shakes the air, and the depth of the sound carries itself across the Wallachian plains. The mouth open wide reveals the glimmer of white teeth, the contrast striking in the face smeared with blackened grime. He screams until the burning in his bruised throat stops him. His voice cracks, then breaks completely.

The men keep looking at him, unable to tear their gaze off him. They see what a voivode could be. Should be. Voievod. He who leads the warriors. He who stands at the front. Fighting. Bleeding. Burning. Who better to lead them than the one who suffers with them, bleeds with them?

Vlad.

Vlad. Vlad.

Vlad. Vlad. Vlad.

In a single triumphant moment, the years of exile scatter like dust. Only the pulse of a man on the verge of his fate remains. Eight years of turmoil have led to this place. The future Voivode of Wallachia. Ready to shape the new future of his land.

It is there. A breath away. All it waits for is to be claimed by his determined hand.

Phew. What a writing journey this has been. I started working on the initial draft sometime in February and only now managed to finally mould the piece into what I hoped it could offer.

With this little work of mine, I try to establish a more detailed picture of Vlad’s character and circumstances that hint at what kind of ruler he will be. While I still try to show him as the badass he indisputably was, my biggest priority is to show him as a man first, one whose body aches and betrays him, one who does not always execute things with perfect precision. At the time of this legendary battle, Vlad certainly did not lack military experience — but it was still the first truly big armed confrontation he led himself, and I found it crucial to show that such beginnings and first times hardly go smoothly.

Worry not. Many bold and impressive moments will come. Vlad was a big fan of duels, after all. Was he a military genius? Correct. Are military geniuses just born like that? Certainly not. And so he has to go through his trials to become that formidable warrior commander. I personally think that witnessing these struggles and setbacks makes his final victory (and the future successes) all the more impactful. I will let you be the judge of that.

Moving onto the facts now!

We know that Vlad’s second rule began after he killed Voivode Vladislav II in 1456, but the exact dates vary. I have stumbled upon three different months — April, July, and August 1456. I decided to settle with August as it made the most sense given the circumstances that led to this battle. From 1454 to 1456, Vlad was appointed by Hunyadi to guard the southern Transylvanian border against any possible attacks, and Vlad’s invasion of Wallachia largely depended on Hunyadi’s help and resources. Because we know that Hunyadi led the Hungarian defenders during the Siege of Belgrade (which took place from July 4–22), it would make a lot of sense for Vlad to meanwhile stay in Transylvania in case the Ottomans won and made their way north towards Hungary. Hunyadi died on August 11, therefore, the most logical solution was to wedge Vlad’s invasion into early August.

Vladislav II’s gravestone is marked with the date of August 22, 1456. However, it is estimated that this was the date of the engraving, not the date of his death. By August 22, Vlad must have already replaced Vladislav on the Wallachian throne.

Cneaz (pl. cneji) was a title borrowed from Old Church Slavonic. It was initially used as a title for the early Wallachian leaders (before the formation of the Principality of Wallachia), but I also found it as a title used for Wallachian petty nobility. Either way, the fact is that only higher nobility or important people could afford full armour, hence why Vlad fights a man who wears only gambeson (a padded defensive jacket worn as armour separately or beneath armour) and chain mail.

As you may have noticed, Vlad’s weapon of choice is a kılıç. It is a type of one-handed, single-edged and curved sword used by the Ottomans (among others). I will elaborate on this a great deal more in future works as I have prepared a whole lore around his weapons but, essentially, while I have him do fabulously with a wide range of weapons, he has a personal preference for the Ottoman ones, simply because he underwent more rigorous military training during his hostage years. Also, he rides a turkoman — this four-legged friend will also make frequent appearances in the future, so I will not spoil much!

Ardeal is one of the names for Transylvania in Romanian.

[twodiamondhoes]

Pspspspsps I am slowly rereading Dirges as I attempt to typeset the whole shebang for bookbinding (it still hits meeee!!!) and I'm wondering: were there any ideas that you had to put by the wayside?

Eeeee! I'm so excited to hear that!! <3

and OH BOY DO I EVER

Fun fact! There were two concepts for Dirges before it became Dirges.

A bog-standard spaghetti western with no supernatural elements. I dreamed up the original concept/finale scene while listening to the song Blood on My Name by the Brothers Bright. I was plotting a second fic at the time with all the eldritch stuff and while talking to my partner when I was trying to decide the reason that the Ratcliffes had fled England, we realized it would be so much fun to combine the two. One of the big things that I miss from the original Dirges concept was that Jimmy actually gives up being sheriff/deputy entirely and busts Tango out of jail, because his original arc was coming to terms with the idea that legal=/=morally correct.

the second concept is something that I wrestled with for the first few weeks of the HSBB. I loved it. I actually got as far as plotting the entire fic and drafting the first two chapters before changing the entire storyline to what it became. There are a few holdovers from this concept: Tango's sickles, and Tango's soul-vision. In this version, Tango wasn't an escapee from Hell, he was a "soulkeeper," or an emissary of death, who could see echoes of how someone was going to die (this actually leaned hard into the Dungeon Master Tango skin with all the soul-fire elements of it). The stronger the echo, the sooner the person was slated to die. In this version, the big arc is actually Tango coming to terms with falling in love with Jimmy, even though he wakes up every day knowing how short their time together will be. BEST wanted him back because they believed that he was their "good luck charm" because he always knew when things were going to break bad. In the end iirc, Tango turned it around on them and saved Del Sombra.

One day I might polish up the outline for concept 2 and post it, because I love soulkeeper Tango so, so much, but there were bits of the story that weren't as strong, and rewriting it was ultimately the way to go. :3

Thank you for this question!! It was a lot of fun going on this little trip down memory lane! <3

As a treat, have the very first thing ever written for Dirges, wayyyyy back in Concept 1, when the title was still "Homestead" and the only plot outline I had for it was this:

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” 

Jimmy whirled, his panic sharpening into cold terror as he realized that some of the shadows weren’t shadows at all. A scratch and hiss of a match being lit filled the silence between heartbeats, and Grian lit the lamp beside the door. 

Jimmy tangled his fingers in the mane of the Sheriff’s horse, instinctively taking a step closer to the beast. If he was quick—

Grian huffed, familiar irritation snapping across his features and clearing in another second. 

“You’re really going to take the time to saddle up that horse, when we have a perfectly good horse of our own outside? I thought you’d be in more of a hurry, given the circumstances.”

The silence of the barn suddenly struck Jimmy. He’d chalked it up to the calm before the storm, but the barn had never been quiet. Hadn’t he fallen asleep out here enough lately to know that the horses were never silent, even in sleep? A breeze whistled through the open door. The flame in the lantern guttered for a moment, but Grian didn’t close the flap. He was too busy fiddling with the latch. 

“Where are the horses?”

“Grazing.”

“It’s past midnight, Grian.”

“So it is.” Grian sniffed, not bothering to feign surprise. “And you’re still here.”

The light of the lone flame flickered across his brother’s face, obscuring him beyond even his usual stone-faced reticence. Behind him, Jimmy could see stars. He still had time. 

“You never did tell us what we were running from.”

A wry smile, an ironic smile, spread across Grian’s face. He looked at Jimmy like he was already mourning him. 

“Well, Tim,” he began. His voice cracked on the nickname, the emotion small enough that no one but he or Pearl would have ever noticed it. “It seems like now you’re on the run from the law. That’s enough for one man, don’t you think?”

Jimmy pressed past his brother, through the barn door. In the light of the moon, he could see what his earlier panic had blinded him to: Bullseye in the grazing pen, looking confused as to why he was ready to ride so late at night, when all the other horses were getting a lovely midnight snack. 

Jimmy looked back. Grian had taken his place at the side of Scar’s horse and was watching Jimmy closely. 

‘Thank you’ seemed too small, so Jimmy didn’t say anything at all. He ran to the pen and was over the fence in barely a minute. 

Grian was at the gate, leading Oreo inside to graze. He didn’t take his eyes off the horizon as Jimmy rode past him. Jimmy could practically hear him now, his voice prickling with rage and anguish: He stole away in the night. I didn’t even see him leave. 

Grian had always been a master of finding a way to tell the truth even in the twistiest of circumstances.

He was well down the road when he realized the light at his back wasn’t the rising sun. Bullseye skidded to a halt at his command. He could hear the terrified whinnying of the horses, safe in the grazing pen, as the stable burned. If he squinted, he thought he could see Grian, running back from the well. 

His breath caught on a lump in his throat, but he couldn’t stay to watch, and even if he went back, there was no stopping the blaze, now. He was just glad he’d had the foresight to argue with Grian over where to put the damn thing. 

He turned and guided Bullseye back onto the road. Despite his desperation, he couldn’t make his horse go at a full gallop. He couldn’t exhaust Bullseye before the real flight began. Even at this pace, he’d make it to town before they hung Tango. 

He had to. 

[wizard-finix]

had trouble picking just one scene but... for the director's commentary ask meme, the scene from the beginning of chapter 13 of stygian ringlet?? the one that starts "Minato was alone wandering the darkened streets of Tokyo." 👀

Ooh, this scene! I have thoughts on this scene 👀

I was actually a little unsure about including this scene. Originally, I was going to just start the chapter with Minato just waking up. But then I thought, why not add in a nightmare to kick off the next arc? Minato’s just had the single most emotionally stressful two days since coming back to life. He watched a friend be arrested with no guarantee that he would survive, ended up getting arrested himself, and reunited with Akihiko. Also, there’s questions he has that haven’t been completely answered yet, such as what him remaining alive might mean for the PTs and SEES. And of course, his fear of Erebus and the Fall happening if he’s not there to stop it.

He’s got a lot on his mind, that’s for sure.

I also wanted to put in some foreshadowing for the Shido’s palace arc and Minato’s internal conflict, so I though the nightmare he was having could serve that purpose. Minato wants to live, and he’s determined to see things through to the end with the PTs. He’s one of them now too! He made a promise, and he even forged his own will of rebellion to live through that promise! But he knows that there would be a heavy price to pay for doing so, so it’s a selfish wish he can’t bring himself to ask for. I want to address those conflicting feelings during Shido’s palace.

There was actually a specific element to the nightmare I was uncertain about, which was this:

“Minato began running towards him, only to feel a sharp, painful tug stop him just short.

He quickly recovered, straining against whatever was pulling him back, trying to close the distance between them. “Ren,” he called out. 

(…)

Minato reached a hand forward, desperately trying to close the distance between them, the pull digging even harder against his soul with a hundred sharpened points as he strained to reach him—”

For this, I was actually attempting to allude to Minato’s remaining ties to the seal with this particular bit by invoking the feeling of those barbed wires restricting him. There was actually one other time I hinted at this same feeling, right before he awakened in ch. 4 of Ghost of Mementos! (which was actually a bit of a happy accident that worked out in my favor, haha.) I was considering editing this passage to have him actually look at himself and see the barbed wire though, instead of just feeling the sensation. I wasn’t sure if it was coming across clear enough, but I didn’t want to be too on-the-nose? Decisions, decisions

As for other specific elements to Minato’s dream, I liked making the red tinge of the Metaverse actually turn out to be the light of Nyx’s giant eye; I feel like it highlights his worry about Nyx coming.

Also, Minato’s worries about Ren ending up killed in custody subconsciously got associated with old memories of seeing Shinjiro shot in an alley and being unable to save him, so that memory definitely influenced the nightmare he was having. So that's uhhh not fun for him!

Minato’s nightmare was a fun attempt at foreshadowing while also trying to show that Minato is definitely pretty stressed at this point in the story.

(And maybe also an excuse to indulge in a bit of angst. Because angst is always fun to occasionally sprinkle in.)

Thanks for the ask! :D

[pangolinheart]

FFXIVWrite 2023 DAY 26 - LAST

(I realized that despite having written several shippy pieces, I hadn't actually written a kiss scene with Rhiki. So, I had to fix that : 3.)

Rating: Teen Genre: Angst Characters: Sidurgu Orl, Rielle de Caulignont, Warrior of Light (Z'rhiki Irhi) Relationships: Sidurgu Orl/Warrior of Light Word Count: 1,248 Content Warnings: Implied Character Death

Dammit! He hoped he had been imagining it but no, the clambering behind them was definitely getting louder. They were catching up.

Fury’s flaming-

Searing pain arced up his side and he stumbled, clutching at the fresh wound just above his waist. Warm blood seeped through his broken mail and between the fingers of his gloves. Not good. He gritted his teeth against the pain. It was bad, but not the worst he’d ever felt. Not fatal. That wasn’t going to matter in a few minutes, though.

‘Stupid! Reckless!’ He could almost hear Fray saying in the back of his mind.

“Sid!” Rielle called from a few steps ahead. Rhiki had stopped as well. No! We need to be moving faster, dammit!

He glanced around them. The corridor had narrowed into something of a bottleneck. Good. He could work with that.

“Here, let me,” Rielle started, taking a step back in his direction, but he shook his head.

“I’m fine,” He growled, which they all knew was a lie. But they all also knew that Rielle had run out of mana ages ago, before they had made a break for the exit.

The cacophony behind them grew louder.

Shite.

He already knew what he was going to have to do. The hard part was telling them.

“You two keep going,” he panted. He could taste blood on the back of his tongue. He must have taken more of a beating than he’d thought. “I’ll catch up!”

“What?!” Rielle demanded, but past her, Rhiki shook her head.

“It won’t matter. We’re not going to make it. You’re not slowing us down that much,”

Fury take her, of course she wasn’t going to let them do this the easy way. The easier way, anyway. There were times when he admired her stubbornness and complete lack of sense, but this wasn’t one of them. Of course she was going to insist on picking one last fight with him.

“You will if I keep them busy.” He replied simply, his other hand tightening around the grip of his sword.

Rhiki’s eyes widened in panic as she realized what he intended to do. He tried to tell her with his own how sorry he was.

“No! No no no! Sid, no!” Fear sharpened each word. She was afraid because she knew he was right.

Rielle looked between the two of them anxiously. “What are you-“ She was a smart kid. It didn’t take her long to figure out, either. “Sid we’re not leaving you here!”

“Yes, you are!” The words hissed through his teeth as the hand that had been gripping his side reached for the wall to steady him. He looked to Rhiki pleadingly, but she was shaking her head again.

“Rielle’s right! You know I hate noble sacrifices!”

He cursed under his breath. “It’s not nobility! It’s practicality!” When he raised his voice he could hear the pain seeping in around its edges. Their pursuers were drawing ever closer, and urgency bled into his frustration. “We don’t have time for this!”

Rielle had opened her mouth to protest again, but he ignored her and looked at Rhiki. She could deny it all she liked, somewhere in her mind she knew he was right. He could see it written on her face. And every second they spent standing there was a second that they were losing in their escape. “Rhiki, please!” He supposed there was no point in sparing his dignity now. He’d beg if it would make her move. “One of us can die here, or all of us can! Take Rielle and go!”

She was frozen, staring at him. He wished she wouldn’t look at him like that. He didn’t want to do this to her. To either of them. He knew all too well the sort of pain he was about to inflict. But if it meant they would both make it out of here alive, he would force himself not to care.

Rhiki was moving back towards him, reaching for her sword. “Fine! Then I’ll stay and hold them off!” She sounded desperate. This close, he could hear the way the distress made her voice hitch, and see the way her other fist shook from how tightly she was clenching it. He caught her raised arm by the wrist and yanked it to turn her towards him so he could look her in the eye. So she could see his own desperation.

“Don’t be stupid!” He snapped.

“Rielle needs you!” She argued, the first traces of tears glinting in the corners of her eyes.

“She needs you too!” Gods be damned! This was taking too long. “The whole world needs you! You’re the bloody Warrior of Light! You have millions of people relying on you to clean this mess up! You have a duty! And I-“ He realized he had been shouting when he heard his own voice crack. His next words were softer, but no less forceful. “All I have is the two of you! You two are the last things in my life worth a damn, and I’m not going to lose you too!��I can’t!”

Her tears were falling now, and the sight was more painful than the grievous wound in his side. “Sid, I-“ Whatever she was going to say, he couldn’t listen to it. It would break him. This had already taken longer than it should have. Instead, he used his grip on her to wrench her up towards him and bent down to catch her lips in one last kiss. To shut her up, to comfort her, to tell her all of the things he didn’t have time to say. A silent I love you; the one that he didn’t have the strength to give voice to. It was the first time he’d found the strength to admit it to himself. As they kissed he could taste tears on her lips and hoped to the Fury they were hers.

Before he could risk becoming lost in the kiss, he shoved her away. “Take Rielle and GO!” He ordered.

She looked at him for a moment longer, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He knew that she wanted to argue, that she wanted to scream at him, but he also knew that she cared about Rielle as much as he did, and that she wouldn’t let her anger at him be the death of her. He sent wordless thanks to whatever gods might be listening when she turned and grabbed Rielle by the arm.

Sorry, Rhiki. She’d probably never forgive him for this, but he couldn’t help himself. He was selfish. He didn’t want to be the one left behind again.

“Sid NO!” Rielle, who had been stunned into silence by the kiss, had found her voice again, and he winced. He hoped she knew he was sorry. He was sure Rhiki would tell her. He heard her struggling against the woman’s grip, heard her yelling his name, but he had turned to face the coming onslaught. He was going to need to drag this out as long as he could. If he had to, he could always trip the old failsafe, he thought – the same one Fray had used in his own final battle, or so he had heard. A few extra seconds, paid for in blood.

Rielle’s voice was growing fainter, and he smiled bitterly through the tears he could finally allow himself to shed.

He was so, so sorry.

[fatedstrands]

As Above So Below \\@metamorphopsia\\

Wind ripped past his form as he rushed to keep trail with the Plant, their Solar Surfers cutting through the air without pause leaving behind nothing but a smear of light in their wake. They'd been given a tip from one of his Strands of another Eye of Michael experimentation facility. This one, however was using children. It wasn't often they'd heard news of this, but he'd seen the way blue eyes sharpened and shoulders tensed. It wouldn't take a genius to see the way his savior had barely retained His rage.

Thus they'd moved out as fast as they could, pushing themselves through the chilled night. Reaching the facility when the sun had reached its crest was both a blessing and a horrid curse. Breaking over the outer edge of the structure, they could immediately hear the screams of horror drowned by the violent cracks of gun shots. From the edge of his eyes he'd witnessed living metal lash out as he himself snapped down into the streets towards the dock. From his waist he unlatched the chain, letting it trail down his thigh before falling free. His body reeled back on the surfer, heel digging into the technology to snap the sail down. The small jet of the board activated as he twisted his body in the air, metal wrapped palm skittering along the ground, sparking as smooth metal rammed into the head of one armed male, hover jets blasting the man right off the docks and into the water. He moved, the board snapping into the ground, mechanical legs snapping down to ram into stone, locking it in place and releasing the rider. Gold gleamed like a beast in the night, eyes focused on one man who turned to his allies, screaming in terror as he pulled the trigger of his rifle, ripping into three more before the barrel turns on himself. He stands, his body between the damned and the innocent, a wall of protection that didn't even flinch as guns aimed to his frame. A firm kick and the board activated the solar sail, blocking the barrage of bullets from both his body and those he now stood charge over. Teeth grit as words slipped from his lips; "May the Gods have mercy on your mangled soul, your life reborn into one of suffering so you shall find penance for your sins." The metal chain slipped from his hand, the incense burner rattling as if a beast ready for war. The moment there's a break in the onslaught he burst forth, gripping the metal to swing it forth, arching the bulbus end to strike one, ducking to slide into another, throwing them down to their back. His body moved, fluid and smooth, like a well trained weapon, striking life down whilst minimizing his own ability use lest he drain himself. What none had expected, in amidst the fray, was the wildlife leaping in. Water broke, right as the apostle threw a body over the edge. When next he focused, teeth flashed towards his frame, talons arcing through the air towards his body. The horrendous beast was not native, another abomination forged by cruelty lunged for his life. He ducked the first swipe, though the second threw him to the ground, striking his head upon stone and stunning him. The world slowed to a trickle as his ears rang. Lights blared through his vision, barely seeing the child scream and reach for him from her mothers arms, terror marring her delicate little features. Rage consumed him then, bursting from where he'd been, barely cast aside from another monstrous paw that broke earth. The beast turned on him, snarling as he sneered, two monsters face to face. So dazed as he was, he'd missed the second beast barreling towards him. He couldn't even find it in his awareness to yell when teeth found his shoulder, the smaller maw wrenching him from the platform only to fling him like he was nothing more than a frisbee for fun. In moments, the world crashed around him, caving in rapidly upon it's sudden embrace. He sunk, breath escaping his lips for a moment only to be sealed with what remnants he had left. Crimson coiled in the clear water in ribbons as he drifted further down, vision glossing in and sharpening out from the head injury. Blood pooled on his tongue, clogging his throat until he coughed up what precious air he had left, making him spasm in the water as his lungs soon burned with acrid sea. Frantic desperation soon had clawed from him what little he had left of thought as he twitched in his decent, fighting for control of his unresponsive limbs. He'd slipped up, and this was his penance.

[thebowerypresents]

Bonny Light Horseman Find Beauty on First Night at Music Hall of Williamsburg

Bonny Light Horseman – Music Hall of Williamsburg – June 18, 2024

Beauty in music is often found in the perfect: a classically trained voice hitting the note, interlocking instruments in lockstep, complicated rhythms pulled off without error. But for other musicians, artists like Anaïs Mitchell, Eric D. Johnson and Josh Kaufman, there is much more beauty to be found in the imperfect. Each has built a successful career in the slightly off-kilter, and together, as the band Bonny Light Horseman, that knack for finding beauty in the almost, warmth in the ragged and joy in the imperfections has only been magnified. Tuesday night a packed Music Hall of Williamsburg found delight and warmth, joy and beauty in the first of two Brooklyn shows for the band.

The set opened with “Blackwaterside,” Mitchell’s and Johnson’s voices waltzing around each other with a glowing friendliness. Mitchell’s mournful singing on “The Roving” was offset with Kaufkman’s leap-off-the-page guitar. Bonny Light operate in the space where folk becomes rock, and at times during their show, you could almost see the evolution that took centuries take place in a single song: Johnson’s plunking banjo on “Green, Green Rocky Road” swallowed whole by Kaufman’s electric guitar and the swinging vocal harmonies; drummer JT Bates’s quiet folkie brushwork going stick-sharpened and back again on the lovely “Comrade Sweetheart”; the touching “Fleur de Lis” turning vicious with a slide guitar solo outro; Mitchell’s melancholy on “When I Was Younger” getting a full Zeppelin makeover midway through. 

Mike Lewis joined in on several songs with his saxophone, amplifying the emotional arc on “Jane Jane” and adding oomph to the rollicking set-closing “Sweetbread.” Like the entire show, the three-song encore was a mix of tracks off their just-released album, Keep Me on Your Mind/See You Free, and older material, with “Old Dutch” personifying their evolved rock and roll and “Bonny Light Horseman” reminding of their roots in the oldest of old folk and the beauty to be found therein. Perfect. —A. Stein | @Neddyo

(Bonny Light Horseman play Music Hall of Williamsburg again tonight.)(Bonny Light Horseman play Union Transfer in Philly tomorrow.)

(Bonny Light Horseman play The Sinclair in Cambridge, Mass., on Sunday.)

Photos courtesy of Katie Dadarria | www.instagram.com/dadarria

[ruth-posts-pokemon]

YOU HAVE AN AEGISLASH???? oh my ARC i literally got a honedge last week!!! any tips for taking care of one? my honedge is really shy (why do people say they’re scary. this guy is scared of his own shadow) so I’ve been gentle but if there’s any species stuff you’ve found out?

-@mmaxie-musings

Yep, good ol’ Soul! Seems we both ended up with shy swords, huh?

From what I can tell, he seemed more comfortable to be out of his ball when Red Tide was also out, so perhaps you could see about introducing your new pal to a similarly chill Pokémon? Someone to look to for reassurance when he’s nervous or uncertain, essentially taking cues that things are fine and it’s ok to relax. Though that’s probably going to be based on the sorts of Pokémon he’s comfortable with to begin with, rather than just how well their personalities theoretically mesh. Soul more or less picked Red Tide to be that stable figure on his own, so I don’t really have advice on how to go about potential introductions.

Once he was spending more time out of his sheathe I bought one of those densely woven practice target things made for Pokémon to train their cutting or slicing moves with; it seemed like a good way to get an idea of if/how he’d battle in the future, and helped him build up his confidence a bit. Probably also helps that having something to focus and spend energy on can distract from anxiety or the like if it’s present. Only downside was that finding a decent one that’d actually hold up took a few tries, and it wasn’t exactly cheap— make sure it’s rated for stronger Pokémon. Though, I suppose encouraging him to practice on trees might be a valid alternative, so long as it’s not inhabited by wild Pokémon that wouldn’t appreciate the disturbance.

I’d try to give advice on what to do if he evolves, but Soul wasn’t a Doublade for very long before The Rock Shop Incident took place. All I can say for sure is that it seemed better to not treat him much differently than before. Interacting with the two swords as separate entities confused him even when they were both unsheathed.

As for general care, I’d say a general steel type routine works just fine. I did get one of those stones for sharpening blades after seeing that suggested a few places, but I’ve never actually seen him use it, which might just be because he doesn’t battle super often and doesn’t experience the wear he might otherwise. It couldn’t hurt to offer the option, especially since there are plenty of other Pokémon that could make use of it as well. Oh, and don’t worry about how to handle the cloth, it doesn’t seem to get dirty like normal fabric does, it’s just the sheath and blade that need the occasional bath. Soul didn’t like it at first but after I’d say the… third time? He got used to it. I think he likes the buffing at the end now, always spends some time in the light turning and being all shiny haha.