#I’ll return to the spice eventually

[standinginthedawn]

after I finally finish writing this spicy au hak x yona confession fic, I think I wanna delve into a fluffy dark dragon and the happy hungry bunch adventure series of fics

the gang just traveling around, helping folks, having fun, getting into shenanigans

something episodic and wholesome

[drabbles-about-crk]

I know there are a lot of time travel au ideas, but here my hat to throw in the ring. (This came from talking to an roleplaying scenario that I and another user came up with)

For reasons undecided, the ancients all get sent to the past before the beasts became corrupted. This occurs before they get the soul jams however this does not stop the virtues from feeling drawn to them.

For ShadowVanilla, Pure Vanilla had been foraging in the forest away from his traveling group before he fell through a portal into an unfamiliar forest. When he dropped into the past, Milk felt a disturbance and decided to figure it out. Keeping his identity a secret for the most part, Milk takes PV to a cabin in the mountain. (That’s all I’ll say on this front)

For EternalBerry, I’m not decided on what Hollyberry had been doing nor where exactly she fell in the past other than close enough to easily get to the garden of Happiness (This came from the rp partner ->) However, unlike the rest, Bringer of Happiness does not disguise who she is to her and upon learning her role, Hollyberry picked her up into a swinging hug complimenting her. This was the moment Bringer got her girl crush for the buff adventurer. Of all the ancients, I thought having Hollyberry be the only one to know the beast as their virtue during their travel to the past was cool. (Pure Vanilla learns from Milk that Fount of Knowledge exists but not that they are one in the same)

For SilentLily, I let White Lily be her freak (affectionate) self for this one. She was in the middle of traveling so she had the most supplies on her. When she fell into the past, she didn’t notice at first (thought she got teleported) and traveled around trying to figure out where she was. Eventually, she runs into the Knight of Solidarity and decides to research(*cough* stalk) them at a distance. Said knight knew they were being followed but given the draw their souljam had to her, Salt didn’t care. They used a proxy form to stalk her in turn which ends up in a silly but messed up situation between them. (All virtues are a little messed up but in this case White Lily reacts to her draw to the virtue with a desire to research. PV and Hollyberry reacts by trying to befriend)

For BurningCheese, Golden had just found some treasure before she dropped into the past. Lucky for her, she dropped in an abandoned house which she decides to use as a base of operations. In a show of restraint, Herald of Change took a while to go after her. He felt the draw and desperately wanted to find the source, but he had a job to actively do and needed to wait. When he did go find her, Golden Cheese had become a merchant and established herself in the kingdom he was working on. They have a weird reverse Aladdin-esque relationship because she originally thinks he is homeless/a traveler down on their luck and lets him stay with her as muscle (even if she can kick butt, it gets annoying having to do it every other day). Eventually she realizes that Spice isn’t who he says he is and assumes he is the prince of the place trying to learn about the common people. Unlike her fellow ancients, she is upfront about her wanting him romantically. She confesses she knows he is a prince and promises that one day she will become a merchant of such wealth that no one can claim she is unworthy of him. Spice says she is already worthy but she says that a treasure like him deserves someone who is an equal which she strives to be.

For MysticCacao, Dark Cacao had been in the middle of a fight before he got portales to the past. A kind village near the base of Flour’s mountain patched him up and gave him a place to stay. At first, he decides to protect the village to repay their kindness until he can finds a way to return home. Like Spice, Flour tries ignore her draw as she has visitors who want the Granter of Volition to grant their wishes. At some point, she uses a projection (think a more accurate version of that weird ghostly version of Dark Cacao) to go down the mountain to see what was calling her. The villagers think her a priestess of the temple and Dark Cacao ends up befriending her. It is a very introvert like friendship where they mostly stay around each other quietly observing each other and the world while occasionally infodumping. Flour tries to get him to come up the temple but he has devoted himself to his two goals: protect the village and find a way home. At some point, those searching out the Granter of Volition let out their anger about the wait on the villagers causing Dark Cacao to fight and chastise them for their actions. Flour uses this as an excuse to order Dark Cacao to come up to her temple which he complies with. He rejects her offer to join the temple once more and states he wishes to achieve his goals by his own efforts since he doesn’t want to be in debted to her. However, he does agree to the position working at the base of the mountain- it gives him the right to manage the visitors who come by which is helpful for protecting the village. Flour uses her magic proxy to continue speaking with him.

[charliemwrites]

it is my borfday. I am now 20 whole years. So I ask: 1fur1 reaction to readers borfday? I have 1fur1 thoughts but they aren't ready yet... They're still cooking

Happy Borfday!!!!! Two decades 🎉🎉

Okay just for you, bean - I’ll make it a full part too, even. This is very fluffy up until the end when it gets just a hint of spice.

(No human boys in this one, sorry!)

You haven’t said a word about it all week - and why would you? You live alone with three dogs. It’s not like they care that it’s your birthday; or even understand what time is, really. (Except for dinner time of course.)

But the day of your birthday dawns, a little rainy. You let yourself sleep in a bit, mumbling five more minutes three times in a row when Ghost nudges impatiently at your cheek.

Eventually you do get up though, giving each of your boys a crooning “good morning” and laying kisses on their precious heads. You stumble to the kitchen to start your coffee, even pull out the fancy beans you reserve for special occasions. While it’s brewing, you start gearing up the boys for their morning potty. The precipitation is mostly mist right now, but you’d rather them not smell like wet dog.

You’re trying to belt a wiggly, impatient Johnny in when your phone rings. Huffing, you tap at the speaker icon and try to wrestle the stupid hood over his big-ass ears.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart!” your mom trills through the phone.

At the noise, Johnny thankfully goes still. You finish securing his raincoat and turn to Konig. Thankfully, he’s much more cooperative about getting dressed - even if he takes every opportunity to lick your face.

“Uh, thanks,” you answer. Honestly, you were hoping she’d forget.

“What are you doing today to celebrate? Going out with friends? Maybe a date…?”

You roll your eyes as you finish adjusting Konig’s (custom) raincoat.

“Definitely not. I was just gonna stay in, order some food, drink some wine…”

You haven’t even finished before your mother is protesting.

“No, no, no, you need to do something special! Not every day is your birthday.”

And thank fuck for that, you think, shaking your head.

“It’s not that big a deal,” you insist. The boys crowd as you lead the way to the back door and prop it open. They seem oddly reluctant to leave your side. You assume it’s the rain and shoo them off, your mother still on speaker.

“Well if you won’t do anything, I will.”

“Ma, you really don’t need to—“

“Dinner will be at 6:30. Don’t be late!”

And she hangs up. You groan, run a hand down your face. Well. At least it’s only dinner. You can still do the rest of your plans.

“Boys!” you call, noting that they’re mostly just congregating at the edge of the yard. They instantly return to your side, even Johnny - who has a tendency to make you chase him in the rain.

They each file inside, sit and behave while you remove their raincoats and hang them to dry. As usual, they follow and crowd while you make up your coffee. Add a bit of whiskey just for fun; you won’t need to drive for a while.

The boys climb onto the couch with you, happily arranging themselves in a warm circle. Konig at your back like a living pillow. Johnny on your right, head in your lap. Ghost just in front, pressed against your shins and warming your feet.

You settle in with a contented sigh and sip your coffee. Even put on a show you’ve been meaning to get to.

Midway through the episode, Ghost slips off the couch and slinks off. You notice in the back of your mind, but he tends to be the moodiest of your boys and figure he just wants some alone time.

When he comes back, you hum at him, kissing his muzzle as he takes your other side. As the next episode is loading, Johnny hops down.

“Biiiiig stretch,” you coo, grinning as his back legs extend. He wags, licks your hand in parting, and trots off. You hear the doggy door clatter, figure he didn’t do all his business after all.

About an hour later, the doorbell chimes. You jump, but… the boys are oddly quiet. Usually they’d be rioting that someone dares come to the door. This time, though alert, not so much as a growl.

Put off, you pad to the door and check the peephole. Just a delivery man with a… frankly monstrous bouquet.

You open the door, prepared to tell him that he’s made a mistake. But he says your name and address and tells you happy birthday, gently handing it over.

You blink as he saunters back to the truck, almost don’t notice Ghost standing sentinel right beside you.

“Huh,” you muse, finding him watching you. “Who d’you think ordered me flowers?”

He makes a little “ruff” noise. You snort and close the door. It’s a beautiful arrangement, you must admit. All your favorites. It even came in a vase!

You inhale the sweet scent and sigh, unable to keep from smiling. Usually you think flower arrangements are a bit silly, so expensive for something that will last so little time. But it’s been ages since you last got one and someone clearly put thought into it.

You offer each of the pups a sniff, laughing when Konig sneezes a bit. You set the vase on the kitchen counter where it won’t become a casualty of any enthusiastic tails and you’ll get to look at it regularly. Try to look for a card but there isn’t one.

Hopefully, whoever sent it will reveal themselves by asking if you like it.

You settle on the couch again with a lingering smile, scratching at Ghost’s ears when he presses his face against your shoulder.

Another hour passes in peace when there’s another knock at the door. Again, the dogs stay eerily quiet. This time, you’re greeted with a huge bag of items.

You unpack it on the couch, Johnny sitting by your knee. A new plush blanket, a pretty mug, a video game you’ve heard good things about, the next book on your reading list, your favorite candies, and even an expensive new pair of headphones (since Johnny ruined your last ones).

You let him sniff curiously at each item, amused by his involvement in your gift unwrapping.

“Wow,” you breathe, staring at your pile of gifts. “This is more than I’ve gotten in years. I don’t even know what to do with it all.”

You start by eating some of the candies. Johnny’s tail wags furiously the entire time, even when you remind him that candy is Not For Him.

At some point in all the craziness, Konig’s scurried off somewhere. Not surprising, you figure. All the guests must have made him shy. He’s not a fan of really anyone but you.

Eventually he returns, though, and you’re sure to welcome him back with praises and kisses before he climbs into his spot. You happily return to your show, scratching absently at your snuggly pack.

Just around noon, there’s one last knock at the door. Your favorite takeout place, including a box of the really good German pastries that you never let yourself get more than once every other week. Fresh baked too!

You hum happily as you eat, wishing you knew who to thank for it.

“I feel utterly spoiled,” you laugh as you save the rest of the pastries for later. “I definitely don’t deserve all this.”

A deep bark nearly startles you. Konig. He hardly ever makes a peep!

“Listen to you, baby!” you coo, wiggling your fingers to entice him closer. He comes to your side instantly, chin on your stomach, staring up at you with big mismatched eyes. “Such a lovely voice. Ich liebe dich, Herr Konig.”

He wags happily at you, a big, silly canine grin on his face. When you duck down to hug him, he leaves kisses all over your face and neck.

By evening, you’re in a good enough mood that you’re not completely dreading the visit to your parents’ house. You get dressed, kiss each of your boys goodbye, and leave.

It’s not… bad per se. Sure, your mom makes your sister’s favorite meal, and your dad doesn’t even realize why you’re there at first. Your sister’s husband also keeps making weird comments about you being single and your biological “clock” but—

Well, you’re just there for dinner. At least your mom made homemade cookies; a classic you’ve always enjoyed. But not even that is enough to make you stay longer than absolutely necessary, making your excuses that Konig still gets separation anxiety.

The drive home is long and you feel exhausted from putting on the “grateful daughter” song and dance. When you pull up to the house, though, you perk up when you see another package.

It’s a… basket? You carry it inside, too dark to see what it is on the porch. Immediately greeted by the boys, you don’t get a chance to look at it at first. But once you do…

It’s a self care basket, you think. A ridiculously nice bottle of wine, a bath bomb, body cream, sugar scrub… a bottle of the lube you always use. New lingerie. A toy. Not just any toy either. One you’ve been putting off buying because it’s close to a hundred pounds and you’ve got three big boys to feed.

At first you think it’s your ex but…. No. No, everything in this basket is things you’d pick for yourself. Things he never knew you well enough to buy. And he’s too cheap besides - and too much of a stuck up dick to ever dream of patronizing adult toys.

You hesitate over it. But….. well, you’ve already brought it inside. Doesn’t matter if you use any of it or not; and it’s stupid to let it go to waste.

So you feed the dogs and wander to your room.

And it. Is. Decadent.

You linger in the bathtub for way too long, giggling at the sparkles in the water, sipping wine and nibbling on German pastries. Even sacrificed one of the roses from the bouquet to let the petals float in the water. Start the first couple chapters of your birthday book, sigh and talk nonsense to your boys, all of them lingering in the doorway but behaving.

And when you finally get to bed, you run the battery out achieving your “birthday orgasms”. (Remain shockingly uninterrupted by any of the boys.)

Sometime before midnight your dream of gentle hands cleaning you up, pressing kisses everywhere. Voices whispering “love you” and “happy birthday”.

It’s the best one to date.

(Again, happy borfday!! I love you and I hope this was a good gift 💕)

Main Story | Konig pt.2 | Price pt.1

Masterlist

[bitchface24-7]

hi! i’m currently really sick and i just need something to read… gn/m reader x viktor or both jayce qnd viktor sick comfort? thank so much and have a great day <3

MY POOR DARLING - VIKTOR X READER

synopsis: you’re sick, unfortunately. A basic cold, but you feel miserable. Your nose is clogged, your head hurts, you’ve got a nasty cough. Good thing you’ve got your boyfriend to take care of you.

warnings: common cold, being cared for, fluff, Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/f or m/m

p.s. It sucks that you're sick, my mum is currently sick too. Hopefully it’s not too bad and you get better ASAP!!

Being sick is horrendous. You knew you were in trouble when you woke up and your nose was clogged, you couldn’t stop coughing, and you had a pounding headache. You were sick.

You just groan in frustration and plop back down into your bed, wanting to sleep the sick away.

Your plans get interrupted by your loving boyfriend walking in and seeing your pitiful state, he smiles lightly, “You sick?”

The grumbled and whiny no that escapes you actually convicts you. You’ve just confirmed his suspicions.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

With that, he leaves you alone for a few minutes. You’ve almost drifted back to sleep when Viktor returns with a sweetened tea and some medication.

You shuffle slowly to sit up and sluggishly take the pills, popping them into your mouth and taking a mouthful of the perfectly warm tea; gulping down the two pills with ease. A small smile graces your face, “Thank you.”

A small huff of amusement escapes Viktor as he looks down at you, he lightly cards his hands through the hair at the base of your scalp, “No problem, darling. Now I’m going to effectively quarantine myself and try my best to care for you.”

A startled laugh escapes you before coughing over takes you, “Aren’t you sweet?” You sleepily bring the mug of tea up to your lips and drink slowly, trying to stop the coughing fit.

Viktor casually takes a book from the shelf and sits down at a comfy chair in the corner of the room, your own personal library. He opens the book and starts to read aloud. His smooth melodic voice filling the room.

You can’t help but smile as Viktor reads to you. You’ve always loved Viktor reading to you, it makes the books even more interesting. So having this sweet treat as you’re sick makes it that much better.

Eventually you fall back asleep, the medication, tea, and Viktor’s voice lulling you to sleep.

When you do wake up, hours later, it’s to the smell of chicken, spices, all around a delicious scent. It’s even better when it’s brought to you on a serving tray.

“I hope you’re willing to eat, or I just made my homemade chicken noodle soup for nothing.” Viktor jokes, his tone light and eyes sparkly. You giggle at him, “I’m starving. Luckily I'm not nauseous, so I'm going to devour it. Put it down pretty boy, stop teasing me.”

Your pretty boy quirks an eyebrow at you and does as you command, a chuckle escaping his plush lips.

He takes his seat back and re-opens the book, continuing to read to you as you eat your soup.

Being sick sucks, but Viktor makes it manageable.

Tis’ the season! I hope everyone is okay and if you're not, I hope everything gets better soon! My mums sick so I’m trying my best to stay away, or vigorously wash my hands after I hang out with her LMAO

[navybrat817]

Do Stud and Smartie do a nice Thanksgiving or do they just have a relaxing day?

It would be low-key if they celebrated, nonnie!

So Thankful

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You share some laughs with Bucky while you cook together.

Word Count: Over 1.1k

Warnings: Puns (so many puns), fluff, being thankful, inner monologue, established relationship, feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Short and sweet for Stud and Smartie. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was Bucky’s idea to start cooking early so you could eat sooner and relax later. You were more than okay with that. While today reminded you of the blessings to count and memories to cherish, neither of you wanted to go overboard. A nice, simple meal to show that two of you were thankful for the good things in your life and each other was more than enough.

No traveling. No stress. Just each other.

I’ll always be thankful for you, Stud.

You glanced over at Bucky as he checked on the food in the oven before you went back to your task at hand. The kitchen was a safe haven in your apartment and making meals together was something you looked forward to no matter what the occasion. Though the space could be hectic at times with the banging pots and sizzling sounds, it was also an area to relax and have fun with your creations.

The impromptu dance breaks brought an extra layer of warmth in between cooking.

Bucky looked over your shoulder as he came up behind you with a small hum. “Looks good,” he commented as you added a pinch of spice to one of the side dishes.

You angled your head to brush your lips along his jaw and took a moment to breathe him in. He wrapped an arm around your waist in return and he pulled you close. “You look even better.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” you smiled.

“I'm a mess,” he mumbled, giving your jaw a kiss. “Don't even have a shirt on.”

“And I'm thankful for that,” you sighed dreamily. He said earlier that he’d put a shirt on once you finished cooking, but you would've been happy if he stayed in his sinfully sexy gray sweatpants only. “So, so thankful.”

“I don't think our families would appreciate me video chatting with them without my shirt on,” he joked.

You snorted as you tried to picture the look on your mom and dad’s faces. As much as you missed not seeing them today, the video chat would help. If Bucky really didn't wear a shirt, they would make light of it.

And nothing would top the hickey discussion, your cheeks hot from the memory alone.

“Becca would never let you hear the end of that,” you said, leaning back against him. “And you may have to put a shirt on, but you'll have to eventually get out of those pants.”

He chuckled deeply, your eyes fluttering shut when his mouth touched your ear. “Will you help me with that?”

“You know I will,” you replied, smiling to yourself. “And I hope this dinner won’t be the only thing filling me up tonight.”

Bucky pulled away from your ear before he burst out laughing, the happy sound reverberating in the room as his chest moved against your back. It was like he was sharing his laughter with you. “Well, I’d love to stuff your turkey,” he said once he caught his breath.

“Yeah?” You smirked, turning in his arms to face him. “You wanna butter my biscuits?”

What’s a day like this without puns?

His eyes crinkled like he was going to laugh again. “Oh, yeah. I’ll butter your biscuits real good,” he rasped. It wasn't fair that his puns sounded sexy while yours sounded ridiculous. “Maybe I'll candy your yams, too.”

“Oh, my God,” you giggled when he pushed his body against yours and pressed your back into the counter.

“I’m not God. I'm just Bucky,” he grinned, leaning in close enough that his lips touched yours. “But maybe I can show you my meat thermometer and you can drop to your knees like you’ll pray for me to put it in your mouth.”

I mean, yes.

“Okay, seriously. What the hell have you done with my Stud?” You demanded, trying to shove him back even as heat shot through your body. Your beefy man didn't even have the gall to budge.

“Just let me check your temperature,” he pleaded with an innocent stare, a great contrast to what he was offering. “Make sure you’re hot and ready.”

“How did you say that with a straight face? How?!”

“This is me. This is who you're marrying,” he said proudly, your cheeks warm at the reminder that the gorgeous man in your personal space was going to be your husband. The heat rose more when his gaze swept over your body. “And I can't decide what I want first. Thighs or breasts. Both are juicy and delicious.”

You sharply inhaled as his eyes darkened a shade. “I don't know if I want you to stop or continue, but I’m telling everyone at Friendsgiving this weekend what you said.”

He tilted his head as if he was contemplating the options. “I think you want me to continue, especially since the turkey isn't the only thing that needs basting.”

I’ve created a monster.

You giggled all over again, your side almost aching. “St-Stop,” you wheezed.

He framed your face and kissed the tip of your nose, his touch almost drawing a whimper from you as you calmed down. “I'm sorry,” he said sincerely before he smirked again. “Why don't I give you something to gobble on until we eat? It might help.”

I must stop this man.

“You think you’re so ‘punny’,” you said, resting your hands over his. And he was. He would always find a way to make you laugh.

The charming smile he gave you was almost hot enough to melt your panties. “I like to think I'm adorkable.”

Yes. Yes, you are.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “This is what I have to look forward to, huh? A lifetime of this?”

Bucky’s eyes went soft before he closed them, pulling you in for a deep kiss. He kissed you like it was as easy as breathing, open, steady, and natural. It was like the floor beneath your feet vanished. You floated, but his lips and tongue tethered you to him. It reminded you how loved you were.

And you would always be thankful that he gave you that gift.

“As long as you're by my side, it’ll be the best life I live,” he whispered, giving you another soft kiss. “And I’m very much looking forward to it.”

You had to swallow the tears in your throat. Who wouldn't choke up at that? “I’m looking forward to it, too,” you whispered, your heart racing at the fond look in his eyes. “And Stud?”

“Yeah, Smartie?”

You smiled, having to get one last pun in. “You’re welcome to mash my potatoes anytime.”

Oh, these two. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[daistea]

Hey sweetpea! You are the absolute queen of Mithrun content!

Can you please write a mithrun x femreader where they are in a relationship and attending a boring ball at the palace, but something goes wrong and the situation becomes dangerous. So Mithrun with his hand on her waist, teleports reader to safety without notice, but he doesnt join her (so like he is just sending her off to safety while staying himself) and reader is just there at the safeplace walking in a circle and getting super frustrated at him because she cant know if he is safe or hurt

And when he comes to get her he is like "i didnt want you to get hurt" like it was nothing

And so like fluffy scolding ❤️❤️

haiii! <3 I kept it short and sweet !

Word count: 2,600-ish

Mithrun x FemReader

It was one thing to wonder, another to experience. Countless novels depicted balls and galas within the Northern Continent’s Elven court as glamorous. You recalled one book you read where the young protagonist danced with her enemy, and they touched hands, and ripping their eyes from each other quickly became impossible. You imagined gentle hands on backs, whispers as you danced in more ways than one, and good food. The good food was possibly the most intriguing part of every depiction. 

 Yet, you no longer had to wonder. You had experienced an Elven ball, and the food was not good. 

 “I don’t know what else I expected,” you lied, because you certainly knew what else you expected. In fact, you had an entire list of expectations. That list was slowly dwindling as each moment beneath the chandeliers passed. 

 The candles attached to the chandeliers were not lit with simple fire, but rather magic maintained by the palace servants. As a result, mana lingered in the already stuffy ballroom like an invisible gas. The magic nipped at your arms as if trying to get your attention, to remind you of the sheer power of the Elven court mages. The crowd’s mostly white dresses and tunics reminded you of sea foam. The floors, a shined and tan marble, were the sands the foam stretched across. And it was just as loud, though the sound of laughter and gossip was far less calming than water. 

 Mithrun didn’t even bother asking for an explanation of your words. He knew all too well that you had expectations, since you’d extrapolated each and every one before arriving. Another thing he didn’t bother to do was warn you. 

 “I warned you,” he said. 

 You held a half-eaten cracker between your thumb and index finger. It tasted like mustard and a sad attempt at spice. You were mainly looking for a place to subtly throw it away when Mithrun responded. 

 “You’re a lying liar who lies,” you told him. You had half a mind to give him the task of throwing away the cracker— though he’d most likely just toss it in the corner and cause a mess for an innocent servant to clean up. 

 Mithrun gave you a slow, flat look, “I did, though. You were saying that the food must be good since it’s made by the palace chef. I told you ‘remember the nut cake’ and you insisted that there would be no nut cake at the party.”

 Right. Nut cake was for Elven commoners and hospitality, not elegant galas. Yet, just ten feet away was a table with precisely three nut cakes on fancy stands.

 “That was not a warning,” you informed him. 

 “Then what was it?”

 “A reminder.”

 “A reminder,” he echoed and he glanced at the crowd swaying in the middle of the ballroom. It was an intricate knot. Couples were like strands of yarn weaving between each other until everything would eventually become too tight. Mithrun then looked back at you. Despite the light overhead casting a shine on his hair— freshly brushed, your own handiwork— his eyes still reflected nothing. 

 You returned the look, “What?”

 “Just throw it in the corner,” he shrugged, then continued, “the cracker.”

 “I might try it again, just to see if it’s still bad,” you sniffed. 

 “It’ll still be bad.”

 You chose to ignore him, “Maybe I’ll try that honey candy in the shape of a squirrel over there. You can’t mess up honey, can you? Not even the Elves can mess up a honey flavor.”

 They could, actually. Somehow. You were lying to yourself again. 

 “Or, you could dance,” Mithrun murmured. You looked back at him to find that he’d shifted closer, his head tilted in your direction so you’d be the sole recipient of his voice. Locks of silver curls fell forward and brushed against his cheek and jawline in the exact spots you most enjoyed touching. 

 “I could dance?” You asked, “I suppose I could, but should I? I might just embarrass myself. And I can barely hear the music. And my clothes are a bit tight. And I still have this cracker.”

 “You’re making excuses.”

 You were. 

 “I simply expected more…” you paused as you tried to locate the correct words. “More excitement. Everybody’s just standing around and talking, or dancing in the stiffest and least romantic ways possible.”

 There was a young couple nearby who wouldn’t dare loosen their shoulders. The woman stared beyond his shoulder while he avoided her eyes. Next to them was a couple of vastly differing ages, and the woman was artfully avoiding the too-personal questions lodged at her like spears. Everyone else you could see danced as if the two-step was a business transaction. 

 Mithrun nodded, though the lack of facial expression betrayed that he didn’t share your woes. “These events are mainly political. The nobility use them to make connections and gather information. Himea only throws these events when she wants to know something specific about someone. Or get something done.”

 While Mithrun didn’t mean to, his explanation implied intrigue and drama. An elegant party thrown simply for information, connections, and espionage. If only the nobility were better at being interesting. 

 “Then why were you and Pattadol invited?” You asked. Pattadol had disappeared around an hour ago after spotting someone who, apparently, invented her favorite printing press font. 

 The question was partly a challenge. You knew why the higher-ups in the Canaries were invited, but how they factored into the pursuit of information and power remained a mystery. If Mithrun cared enough, he could serve Queen Himea well with his powers of observation and deduction. Unfortunately, Mithrun did not care enough. His presence seemed to only be a formality. 

 “It’s a formality,” he said. 

 Right. You set the cracker on a passing waiter’s plate, resisted the urge to wipe your fingers on your nice clothes, and instead settled for the edge of a tablecloth. 

 He cared enough to use his skills of observation on you, though, and shifted closer. His shoulder pressed against yours. “You’re disappointed.”

 “It’s just not very fun,” you murmured. 

 “Then let’s dance. Or you can go make friends and gossip.”

 “I don’t know many of these people,” you looked up at him. His good eye was half lidded, almost, and dark as it flickered across your face in search of something. A stretching, pulling, delightful warmth crawled up from your chest and threatened to enter your throat, but you swallowed it down as you continued, “And we’ve never danced in front of other people, especially a crowd like this. We might look odd.”

 He only stared. A further argument sat on the tip of your tongue, yet Mithrun’s good eye flickered up and over your shoulder. His hand went to your waist, and while he wasn’t looking at you, that one touch was enough to shift your mind in a new direction.

 “I mean, it might actually be sweet, us dancing together here,” you mused. 

 When you and Mithrun danced, it was always in the dim— midnights in the kitchen, when he couldn’t sleep and you stayed awake to keep him company. He always buried his face in your hair and held you close as you both swayed. There didn’t need to be music. As with most things, Mithrun danced with all the enthusiasm reserved for painting a fence. Still, he held you, and he enveloped himself in you, and he always had to be talked into letting go when your yawns became too difficult to ignore. Perhaps it would look odd to the Elven court, but perhaps the Elven court needed something odd. 

 “Alright, let's do it,” you continued. You slid your hand onto his arm, the other moving to rest on his shoulder. Yet, he still wasn’t looking at you. His good eye narrowed at something behind you, and his brows furrowed as the corner of his lips twitched into displeasure. The warmth in your chest instantly cooled. “What is it–”

 A scream as sharp as a knife sliced through the air. The laughter and gossip halted. Surprised, a violinist played a wrong note only seconds before the body hit the ground. 

 Your heart wrenched with sickness. Yet, before you could turn around to see what happened, the pressure of Mithrun’s hand on your waist increased and he slid it to the small of your back, yanking you towards him. A split second view of his expression revealed that he was glaring. Someone screamed. Then, another scream followed the first. It became a chorus, with the guard’s heavy footsteps serving as the bass. Someone important commanded the room, but it went ignored in the blooming chaos. 

 For a fourth of a second, you registered the recalibration of your atoms, and a flicker of anger passed through your mana-filled form. Yet, there was no time to scold Mithrun. He never allowed you any time for scolding. 

 The blink of your eyes was over and dim firelight surrounded you. Gone was the expansive ballroom, the chandeliers, and the crowd. The screams were muffled by layers of wall from where Mithrun had teleported you. 

 “Dammit!” You smacked the wall— whose wall it was, you had no clue. It looked like a random guest room on the other end of the palace. That meant it was far from the ballroom. That meant it was far from the chaos. And far from Mithrun, who was probably neck deep in said chaos by then. 

 You made a line to the intricately carved wooden door and grabbed the handle, then turned. Nothing. You tugged. Nothing. You pushed and turned and cursed all at once, but the lock didn’t dare budge. Did Mithrun mean to send you to a room locked from the outside? If so, it was a bit impressive that he could teleport a whole person that far and that specifically, but you’d figure out whether to praise him or not later. For the moment, no amount of cursing or whining would open the door. 

 With a huff and heavy heart, you looked around the room. While the furniture was neat and expensive, there was no clutter. The closet door was open, and the inside was empty. The bed was so perfectly made, with no wrinkles on the blankets, that you wondered if anyone had ever dared sleep in it. 

 At least Mithrun had sent you to an apparently unused guest room. You could hardly stomach the thought of a panicked noble retreating to his room and finding you there. In the hallway, rushed footsteps passed. Guests rambled and theorized while they tried to find suitable hiding places. No amount of eavesdropping revealed exactly what had happened, though. 

 Worry-tinged nausea began to weigh you down. You dared to sit on the edge of the perfectly made bed, and the mattress lightly creaked beneath your weight. Shadows from oil lamps and mage-lights stretched across the floor through the crack beneath the door. Mithrun was not among them, you knew. He wouldn’t run. He would fight the intruder until the end simply because that was what he did. And as much faith as you had in his abilities, sickness still crawled up your throat and weakened your knees. 

 You paced. You laid on the floor. You bonked your head against the wall. You paced some more. The sounds of passing nobility and servants died down, becoming few and far between. While there was no more distant panic from the ballroom, tension still had its cold fingers wrapped around your neck. 

 Anger that you couldn’t— wouldn’t— deny made its home at the forefront of your mind. Mithrun knew you’d be worried, yet he teleported you away despite that. Mithrun knew you could defend yourself, yet he didn’t trust you to stay by his side. Scripts of the imminent reunion began to play. When he returned, you would tell him how stupid it was to teleport you away. You would inform him of your worry and anger. He would most likely say something frustrating without meaning to. Each and every lecture that you structured ended with the mental-image of your lover responding in possibly the most infuriating manner. Even in fake arguments, he won. 

 Hours of that passed. Hours. You were convinced that it was hours. It was hours. Probably. Hours of waiting, fuming, burning like the fires of—

 The door opened and you instantly shot up from your spot on the bed. You’d laid down at some point, by the eighth hour or so, spread out across the now wrinkled covers and most likely burning a hole into the mattress from your heat. 

 Your heart clenched as you registered the familiar figure in the doorway. Usually, you would’ve run into his arms— knocked him down and laid on the floor as you kissed his face and he simply accepted it. 

 Instead, you glared. Mithrun blinked at the sight, his hand sliding down from the doorknob and landing at his side. He was so…

 Every line of your prepared argument melted away. Your body moved without your consent, and you gracelessly scrambled to get off the bed and storm towards him. Mithrun stepped into the room and shut the door. The lock clicked the very moment that you gripped the front of his tunic, “What the hell were you doing?”

 Mithrun looked down at you with his brows only slightly furrowed, as if he was confused why you were even asking that question. “Fighting the assassin.”

  “Assassin?” You gasped. 

 “It happens every year.”

 “Every year?” You clutched his tunic tighter, “There’s an assassin every year?”

 “Did I not mention that?”

 “You didn’t! You certainly did not mention that!”

 “Oh, sorry.”

 He didn’t seem very sorry. 

 “And you—” your tongue tangled as you took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. “You sent me away. You sent me to this room and made me wait for hours—”

 “It’s only been thirty minutes.” Neutral, Mithrun looked up at the clock on the wall. 

 You decided to ignore him. “It felt like hours! Why was there an assassin? What happened?”

 He sighed and closed his eyes, then gently took both of your hands and unlatched your fingers from his clothes. “Someone always gets assassinated at the annual ball. It’s just what happens. The guards cleared the guests out of the room, while Flamela and I searched the area for the attacker. We found him, I kicked him off a balcony—”

 “You kicked a man off a balcony?”

 He opened his eyes and looked at you, “Yes. Anyway, I sent you here to keep you safe. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

 Mithrun gave the explanation with the same tone one would use for a grocery list. Yet, he leaned in slightly, still holding both your hands, watching you as if looking for something only you were able to give. It was no surprise that he wanted to keep you safe. Yet each time he prioritized you and your safety, your heart threatened to jump out of your chest. 

 “Okay,” was all you could manage to say. 

 “You’re mad,” he observed.

 “Somewhat,” you lied. The urge to grab his face and kiss him was screaming in your ears. 

 “But you’re safe,” he reasoned with a little nod as his hands released yours. “So I’m satisfied. I wasn’t willing to risk anything.”

 You knew. And the expectation coloring his expression betrayed his utter lack of sympathy for your concern. You were safe. When Mithrun wanted something, he tended to get it. 

 “We never got to dance,” you grumbled. 

 He sighed, it was almost a groan, but his arms wrapped around your waist nonetheless. You snaked your arms over his neck and pulled him close. Without music, without a crowd, without the lights and glamor and intrigue, you let the rest of the world melt away. 

[pmak2002]

SPICE POISONING

Paul wakes up in a pool of sweat next to Chani. The visions and the exposure to endless amounts of spice was making him feel out of sorts and not in a good way. He’d be terribly ill when spice was in his meals and sometimes in the spice melange meant to heal him.

Despite the exposure to spice his body still didn’t adjust to it like he was supposed to. It made him so sick and after all he had been through his body was tired so tired.

He awoke to sweat and coughing his body wracked with horrible chills and pain all throughout his body. He groaned and reached for Chani beside him panting and coughing.

“Chani” he whined “Chani”

She awoke to him shaking her and he was coughing and had tears in his eyes.

“Chani I don’t feel right.” He whined.

She immediately sits up and notices the sweat soaked sheets.

“Oh Usul.” She said worriedly she felt his forehead and found feverish heat.

She helped Paul out of bed so she could change the sheets.

“I’ll fetch you another pair of nightclothes. You don’t look so good.” She said worriedly.

Paul nodded.

“Guess I’ll get the healer too.” She kissed his head.

Paul whined

“But Chani!”

“Usul you sweated through the sheets and your nightclothes. I’m getting the healer!” She said sternly.

Paul didn’t object and let her leave. Once again the Lisan Al Gaib was ill and it was becoming routine which didn’t make Paul happy. Why was he so sick? There had to be an explanation for all of this?

Right?

Paul curled up in bed and waited for Chani to return.

Soon the medic and Chani return and the medic assess him.

She sighs “spice poisoning. Your immune system is still struggling with the spice exposure.” She explains

“Why?” He asked tiredly

“You have a weaker immune system than us Fremen so lots of illness can happen. Plus the amount of spice does more harm than good at first.”

The medic explained. She gave him a spoonful of a sticky medicine.

“That should help you it doesn’t have any spice so it won’t make you worse.” She said

Paul nodded and groaned. Chani nodded at the medic and they left.

“Stomach hurts. Everything hurts.” Paul whined.

“Shh I know the medic told me the medicine should help. She’ll give you another does tomorrow. She said she had a feeling you had it when you weren’t eating and spacing out at dinner.” Chani explained. Every freman knew when Paul was sick when he didn’t eat much or zoned out. Despite him trying to hide it from everyone. He had lots of tells.

Paul coughed and Chani helped him to his bathroom to change into fresh nightclothes.

Paul doesn’t complain as she helped him change into fresh nightclothes. “Mm tired.” He whined when she was done.

“I know come on.” She helped him settle back into bed and set up a puke bucket next to his bed.

Paul whimpered when he saw it.

“Medic said a symptom was nausea.” She explained and Paul nodded. Although he hated throwing up.

Chani made sure he was comfortable before joining him in bed.

“No wonder you get so sick being here Usul you have the weight of Arrakis on your shoulders.” Chani said.

Paul nodded. “I used to get sick a lot more often when I was a kid and I guess all the stress now is getting to me in a way I wasn’t expecting.”

Chani nodded and nuzzled him. “It’ll be alright maybe once things eventually settle down.” She said.

Paul nodded and hoped she was right.

[syrupfog]

Infiltrating the Marines is honestly pretty par for the course, at this point. Penguin might even say it’s a bit BORING. 

Actually, there’s no “might” about it. It’s INCREDIBLY boring, and tedious, and Penguin is pretty sure that even if he had started as a marine, he would’ve defected to piracy by now. 

Like, gods above, Law’s only directed them to be here for three weeks, but three days in and Penguin is considering causing some trouble just to feel ALIVE. 

It doesn’t help that Shachi ended up filtered into a department on the far end of the base.

So here Penguin is, bored out of his mind and serving SLOP in the canteen. SLOP. Like, this is a downgrade from gruel. Have Marines never heard of spices? 

“Cadet,” a very boring Commander says, turning to Penguin as Penguin hurries to put down his ladle and salute.

“You’ll be delivering meals to the brig today,” the Commander says. 

Penguin’s eyes—hidden under his cap, of course—light up. “Yes sir,” he says. He has no idea where the brig is. 

Laden with a full cart of slop, he then proceeds to get hopelessly lost. The place is labyrinthine.

When he locates the brig, the Junior Lieutenant at the door keys him in, and Penguin finds him in a significantly dimmer hall of cells. 

He hands bowls of slop through the bars of a number of sad looking prisoners that he can only imagine are hapless unlucky pirates.

But at the very end of the hall, in the last cell— well now, this is a surprise. 

“Oh,” says Penguin brightly. “You’re the Massacre Soldier.” 

The Massacre Soldier has several more chains on him than most of the hapless pirates. He’s still got his mask on, at least.

“How… are you going to eat this?” Penguin asks. 

The Soldier, who had been doing a decent job pretending Penguin isn’t there, turns toward him. “Like a fucking dog, I suppose,” he rumbles in a deliciously low voice. 

“Well that’s no good,” Penguin says. “I’ll find a straw.”

He wanders off to find a straw. 

It takes a while. The marine base has apparently become “eco conscious” so there are no plastic ones, but he eventually comes upon a metal one. Well. Possibly it’s a small metal pipe, but close enough. 

The lieutenant doesn’t question it when he returns. Dang, these guys really need to work on their security. 

“Here you are!” Penguin says, sticking the straw in the slop and sliding it forcefully in his direction. 

“…Thanks,” The Massacre Soldier says, sounding somewhat confused. As Penguin is leaving, he hears the Soldier say, “I’ll kill you last.” 

That’s nice, Penguin thinks. Very kind of him. 

Penguin ends up taking meals to the brig on the regular. It’s a nice change of pace, and he learns to hide straws in his uniform. USUALLY The Solider gives them back, but a few are missing.

It’s two and a half weeks into his three week stay when Penguin’s very boring routine is interrupted by explosions. 

Ah, Penguin thinks, finally some excitement. 

Unfortunately that excitement comes with a little more chaos than expected, and he gets caught up in a crowd of

panicked cadets running every which way. Penguin has to work against the flow because he’s pretty sure the most dangerous place right now is going to be wherever the marines are exiting. 

And the most interesting will be the Brig.

He’s almost down there— the halls here are much more deserted— when another explosion sounds and the walls around him crumble. Penguin lets out a muffled shout as he’s brought down by a pillar collapsing directly on top of him. 

Shit. 

That fucking hurts.

He can’t move, can’t lift it from where it’s crushing his abdomen. There’s definitely some cracked ribs. 

Ah Shit. Law’s gonna kill him if he dies. 

Suddenly, his attention is taken up by the sound of heavy footsteps coming toward him. 

The Massacre Soldier and Eustass Fucking Kid

“I’ve got the twerp,” Kid says. 

“Wait,” The Soldier shouts, putting his hand out. 

He points at Penguin. “Straw Guy,” He says. 

Well. 

“That’s me,” Penguin groans. 

The Soldier, still at a run, fucking KICKS the pillar to pieces and grabs Penguin around the middle, hoisting him under his armpit. 

“Demeaning,” Penguin wheezes. 

“Hello??” Kid screeches. 

“Straw Guy,” The Soldier says to Kid, pointing with his free hand at Penguin. 

His free hand which, it turns out, is covered in blood and has four metal straws between the fingers. A makeshift weapon.

“You can’t just bring a pet marine home, Killer” Kid yells as they run. 

“Mine,” Killer says. He’s POUTING. 

“If it helps,” Penguin speaks up, “I’m actually a pirate.” 

They stop briefly to kill some loose marines. 

“That doesn’t help,” Kid says.

“Yes it does,” Killer argues. He pats Penguin’s hat with his bloody hand. 

Kid screeches in frustration. “Fine!” He yells. “Take home your fucking pet pirate.” 

“Thank you,” Killer singsongs. They have to stop to murder some more marines and Penguin sees his straws at work.

Its gruesome. 

Finally they emerge into sunlight at the top of the base, Kid’s ship looming over them. Penguin wonders if Shachi’s waiting for him. Hopefully not. He’s indisposed. 

Killer carries him onto the ship and, only stopping briefly to dispose of the straws, goes straight down into the depths of it. 

Penguin finds himself shortly thrown on a messy, unmade bed. 

“You get your own room?” He asks. 

“First mate privilege,” Killer says, and then he’s on top of him, one LARGE hand covering Penguin’s eyes. There’s a thunk, and then lips meeting his own. 

It’s an odd experience to be passionately kissed with your eyes forcefully covered. Penguin’s not against it, though. 

When Killer breaks the kiss, Penguin says, “Could’ve just gone for a blindfold.” 

“Haven’t done laundry, Straw Boy,” Killer says. “And maybe I like the feel of your lashes.” 

Ohhhhh that’s. Penguin blushes. “I’ve got a name,” he says after the next time Killer’s mouth disconnects from his. 

Killer hums in response, chasing his lips. 

“It’s Penguin,” Penguin gets out.

Killer pauses. 

He sits back. 

He inadvertently puts pressure on Penguin’s face, pushing him against the bed, and Penguin groans in protest. 

“The heart pirates?” Killer asks. 

“You’ve HEARD OF ME?” Penguin squeaks. 

“…that’s a yes,” Killer says. Then he’s kissing Penguin again.

Then he’s moving down, sucking a bruise into Penguin’s neck, and only disconnecting long enough to say, “Kid’s going to kill me when he finds out.” 

“As long as he doesn’t— kill ME,” Penguin complains, writhing under Killer’s teeth. 

He feels Killer grin against his neck.

“I’ll let your uptight captain know where to find you in the morning,” Killer says. 

“He’s not uptight,” Penguin argues (lies). But then Killer’s working hickies into his neck again and Penguin decides he’s just going to embrace being Straw Boy. Until morning, at least.

[theaawalker]

a christmas memory ❆ susan pevensie.

Pairing: Susan Pevensie x fem!oc Song Inspo: Graveyard by Halsey Word Count: 2,162 Summary: a Christmas dinner promises snow, reminiscing, s'mores, cuddles, hot chocolate, and a life-changing phone call. Warnings: mentions of death Masterlist: see fandoms (pc-friendly)

The heavy snow had been falling for hours, carpeting the streets and rooftops of London in a thick, white blanket. Inside a cozy townhouse tucked away on a quiet street, warmth radiated from a crackling fire in the living room fireplace. The scent of roasted vegetables and spices lingered in the air, mixing with the sweetness of hot chocolate and the crackle of the fire. Susan Pevensie stood in the kitchen, her hands busy chopping vegetables for the Christmas dinner she had been planning for weeks. Her movements were purposeful, but there was a gentleness to them — a love for the moment she was about to share with her family, the people who meant the world to her.

On the couch across the room, you sat nestled into a thick, knitted blanket, sipping from a mug of hot chocolate. You were absorbed in your book, Count Luna by Alexander Lernet-Holenia, a gothic, WWII novel that Susan had initially thought too dark for her taste but had come to appreciate for its complexity. The dim light of the room flickered off the pages of the book as you turned them, the snow outside casting a soft glow through the window.

"It's going to be perfect, Susan," you said, looking up from her book and catching Susan's eye with a soft smile. "The dinner, I mean. Everything's ready for your siblings. They’ll love it."

Susan smiled back, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she leaned against the doorway, feeling the warmth of the moment.

"It’s important to me," she admitted, her voice soft. "Christmas means so much to them, to all of us. And this dinner... it's a chance for us to be together, after everything we've been through." Her gaze softened. "I want them to feel at home, to feel loved. They don’t visit often enough."

You nodded, a knowing look in your eyes. "I get it. I’ll make sure it’s all perfect. The rooms are all set up for them. They’ll be comfortable, and after dinner, we can all relax with some s’mores by the fire."

Susan chuckled, the warmth of the moment filling her heart. "You really do think of everything."

Your lips quirked upward. "It’s what I do."

The conversation drifted as Susan resumed her work in the kitchen, her hands moving as though on their own accord. You returned to your mystery book, but the atmosphere was peaceful, a shared understanding between the two of you.

Eventually, the conversation returned to the book.

"I think Count Luna is a bit like a reflection of the past," Susan said thoughtfully, breaking the silence. "It's about escaping reality, about running from the things we can’t change."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

Susan hesitated, her mind drifting back to a time long ago, to the days when she was just a child, before everything had changed.

"When I was younger," she said slowly, "I was running from something, too. From a life that was too complicated. From a war that made no sense. My siblings and I were sent away to the professor’s house during the war, to be safe. But I can hardly remember how we passed the time there... it's all a blur."

A flashback unfolded in her mind.

[ Flashback: The Train to the Professor’s House ]

The sound of the train was a constant hum beneath Susan’s feet, the rhythmic clacking of wheels on the track almost lulling her into a trance. She was just eleven years old, her mind still struggling to grasp the magnitude of what had happened. The war. The evacuations. Her parents’ sudden disappearance. She sat in a corner seat of the train, her siblings clustered around her: Peter, ever the protector, Edmund, looking sullen, and Lucy, wide-eyed and uncertain. They had been sent away to live with a professor in the countryside, far from the bombings and the chaos.

Susan couldn’t remember much about the journey itself—just the way the world seemed to blur through the train window, and the hushed voices of her siblings, trying to reassure each other. The journey was long, silent, as if the train itself held its breath.

"Do you think we’ll be safe, Susan?" Lucy asked in a small voice, her tiny hands clutching her sister’s sleeve.

Susan smiled softly, though she wasn’t entirely sure. "We’ll be fine, Lucy," she replied, though she wasn’t convinced herself. She looked at Peter, who gave her a nod of reassurance, but there was fear in his eyes, too.

Edmund broke the silence, his voice full of bitter edge. "I don’t even know why we’re going," he muttered, "It’s not like we’re any safer in the countryside."

Peter glared at him. "Stop being difficult, Ed. We don’t have a choice."

But Susan didn’t intervene. She only gazed out the window, watching the world rush by in a blur of grey and green, wondering what the future would hold.

[ Flashforward: Susan and Yours Townhouse ]

Susan snapped back to the present with a deep breath, trying to shake the memories loose. Looking from the living room and sensing Susan’s shift in mood, you put your book down and stood, moving toward the kitchen.

"That sounds like such a difficult time," you said softly, your arms wrapping Susan from behind in a comforting embrace.

Susan leaned into the embrace, savoring the warmth.

"It was. I can’t even remember how we passed the time at the professor’s house. It’s all a haze — just bits and pieces. But I know it was when I started to realize how much I wanted to protect them, to keep them safe." Her voice dropped. "I promised them that I would."

You kissed the top of her head. "I can see that. You’ve always been their protector, Susan."

Susan smiled faintly, then pulled away, her thoughts drifting. "I think about that time sometimes. How we came from a place of so much fear. But when I think about it, I remember how we all stuck together. Even Edmund."

Your eyes softened. "The bond of family. That’s what matters most."

Susan nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of all those memories. "I think that’s why it’s so important, this dinner. To remember those bonds. To keep them strong."

You smiled and kissed Susan’s cheek. "We’ll make it perfect. And we’ll make new memories, too."

The conversation shifted then, to lighter matters.

"How did we even meet, I wonder?" Susan said, her tone playful. "I remember you were so… irritable."

You laughed softly. "I was not!" she protested.

"You were," Susan said with a smirk. "You bumped into me at the train station and gave me such a look."

You grinned, recalling the memory. "It wasn’t my fault you were standing in my way."

Susan shook her head, grinning.

[ Flashback: The Train Station ]

The bustling train station was a cacophony of hurried footsteps, clattering suitcases, and the distant screech of arriving trains. Susan Pevensie stood in line at the ticket counter, her mind preoccupied with the journey ahead. She was on her way to Doncaster, a trip she had decided on a whim, hoping for a change of scenery. The cold winter air nipped at her skin as she adjusted her scarf, the December chill biting at her exposed cheeks.

She was lost in thought when she heard a voice behind her.

"Excuse me, but I think you're standing on my foot."

Susan turned sharply, a mixture of surprise and irritation crossing her face. Behind her stood a woman, clearly annoyed, with a raised brow and arms crossed. Her dark hair was pulled back by a furry headband, and her sharp eyes were fixed on Susan with a mixture of impatience and amusement.

"Sorry," Susan muttered, stepping back. She was not in the mood for a confrontation. "I didn't notice."

You tilted your head, eyeing Susan for a moment before a wry smile crept across her lips.

"You’re one of those people, aren't you?" You said, tone laced with sarcasm.

Susan raised an eyebrow. "One of what people?"

"The type who don’t notice anything outside their own little bubble," you said with a shrug, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

Susan blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I’m sorry, but I don’t think—"

But before she could finish her sentence, the announcement over the PA system blared to life, drowning out the rest of their conversation. You sighed, clearly frustrated by the interruption.

"Great," you muttered under your breath. "I’ve already missed my train, and now I’m stuck with this."

"Maybe you should watch where you're going next time," Susan retorted, not ready to back down from a challenge.

You gave her a look of incredulity. "Oh, I’m sorry, am I ruining your perfect day?"

For a moment, the two exchanged sharp glares, their personalities clashing like two magnets with opposing poles. But then, without another word, you turned and walked toward the train platforms, leaving Susan fuming behind you.

[ Jump to: The Train to Doncaster ]

As fate would have it, both women found themselves on the same train to Doncaster. The train car was crowded, the scent of coffee and stale newspaper filling the air. Susan had already claimed a window seat and was about to settle her luggage when she heard the unmistakable sound of heels clicking on the floor.

The woman from the station approached with purpose. Your eyes met Susan’s, and a flicker of recognition passed between them. Susan frowned, her annoyance from the earlier encounter creeping back.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" you asked, her voice more resigned than polite.

Susan hesitated for a moment.

"I'd rather you not," she said, not willing to back down so easily. The last thing she wanted was to share space with someone who had already rubbed her the wrong way.

Your expression hardened. "Listen. I’m not asking for much. There’s no room anywhere else."

Susan could feel the irritation rising in her chest, but before she could reply, a man appeared, sliding into the seat of hers with a smug look on his face. He glanced at both women and then focused entirely on Susan.

"Excuse me," she said, "I believe this seat is taken."

"I'm afraid not anymore." The man said, his voice grating. His gaze flicked briefly to you, the woman next to Susan, a sneer crossing his lips. He looked back to Susan, wearing a façade of a sweet smile. "Yes. You, sweetheart. You’ll have to find another place."

Susan and you exchanged a brief, wary look. Then, in unison, you both turned to him, glaring at the man who had taken what was Susan's.

"This is my seat," Susan said, her voice low and firm, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

You stepped forward as well, her eyes blazing with defiance. "And this is my seat," she added, her voice sharp with irritation.

The man smirked, clearly thinking he could intimidate them.

"I’m not interested in what you think," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Without warning, the you reached out and grabbed the man by the arm, feigning a horrible sneeze. He wiped his glasses and gaped in shock.

"Apologies, I have- have..." You sneezed again. "Terrible allergies. It's the leather of the train seats, it-" you sneezed once more, taking him aback.

The man wiped his glasses again and gave Susan a look of bewilderment.

"You heard her," she said coldly. "Best not to catch something in this season."

The man stumbled, clearly taken aback, and after a few moments of hesitation, he backed down, muttering curses under his breath. He stomped out to the aisle and off to the other side of the train car, leaving both women standing in the aisle, victorious.

Susan couldn’t help but laugh, the tension that had built between them suddenly evaporating. "Well, that was... something," she said, glancing at you.

You grinned, arms crossed as you gave a small, satisfied shrug. "I do hate being underestimated. And it’s always nice to watch someone get put in their place."

Susan raised an eyebrow, still uncertain but intrigued.

"I didn’t think you had it in you," she teased, stepping back to let you sit.

"Oh, I can be surprisingly stubborn," you replied with a smirk, settling into the seat beside Susan. "You wouldn’t believe the number of people who’ve underestimated me." Your gaze softened. "And you? You’re not so bad yourself."

The remark caught Susan off guard, and for a moment, she was at a loss for words. She hadn’t expected any kind of warmth after their heated exchange. But something in your eyes told her there was more to you than met the eye.

As the train pulled out of the station, the cityscape of London fading into the distance, Susan found herself feeling oddly comfortable in your presence. The cold, tense atmosphere between them had dissolved, and in its place was something else — something unexpected.

You two spent the rest of the journey talking, your earlier tension giving way to easy conversation. You discovered you were both headed to Doncaster for different reasons, but both had a certain openness to the unknown, a curiosity that drew them together. By the time the train neared its destination, Susan realized that the woman sitting beside her was no longer a stranger. In fact, she wasn’t sure when the animosity had faded into something else entirely.

[ Flashforward: Susan and Yours Townhouse ]

Susan chuckled. "It was the start of something good."

The memory filled her with warmth, the way you two had both defended each other, slowly becoming friends, then more. It was a story she would always hold dear.

You leaned in and kissed her, a tender kiss that lingered for a moment.

"I love you," you whispered. "This evening will be perfect."

Susan smiled, feeling the warmth of the kiss linger. "I love you too."

"Now, what do you say we finish those s’mores before your family arrives?" You quipped.

Susan nodded.

"Yes, let's. They’ll be here in," she checked her watch, "ooh! Twenty minutes! I have to get the casserole out and--" But before she could finish, the phone rang in the hall. "That must be them. I'll get that. Would you get the casserole and begin setting the table? Remember, Edmund likes sweets, so put his furthest from the centerfold cake."

"I will. I will." You rubbed her arms and nodded, seeing her off to the ringing telephone. Susan hurried to answer it, her mind distracted by the thought of her siblings arriving.

She answered. "Hello, Peter? How far are you?"

The voice on the other end was cold, official. "Is this Susan Pevensie?" Susan knit her brows. "Speaking. Who is this?"

"Merry Christmas, ma'am. This is the London Police Department. I'm sorry to report there’s been an accident on the Bradley Manor train. A crash, you see." "Oh, God." Susan grabbed the phone with both hands. "Are they alright? My siblings. Peter, Edmund, and Lucy. W-what hospital are were they sent to?

"Ms. Pevensie. Your family... your brothers and sister, they... they didn’t make it."

The words hit Susan like a physical blow. She stood frozen for a moment, unable to comprehend what she had just heard. Then, slowly, she hung up the phone and turned back toward the kitchen, her face pale.

You, in the process of cooling off the casserole, looked at the kitchen counter with a smile. "The casserole came out great, my love. Oh! Lucy's going to love it. You said it was her favorite dish, yes? Did you tell them merry christmas for me, Susan?" There was a pause. "Susan?"

As soon as you turned around and saw the expression on Susan’s face, your smile faltered. "Susan?"

Susan stood motionless, the weight of the news sinking in. Your voice trembled as you approached and asked, "What did they say on the phone?"

Susan swallowed hard, her cracked voice gutting out but a whisper. "They’re not coming home."

The world seemed to stop as the reality of those words settled between them. The fireplace crackled softly, the s’mores and casserole forgotten, as the snow outside continued to fall, blanketing the world in an endless white.

[siennafrxst]

↳ cassiopeia 𖤐𓈒࣪₊˚

pairing: loki laufeyson x female reader

universe: mcu

cw: anticlimactic angst, eventual fluff

word count: 1.5k words

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“Okay, let’s get out of here.”

Loki and Y/N swiftly exit the gathering, leaving behind no evidence of the havoc they had just wreaked.

Even though everyone (especially Thor, Odin, and Frigga) knew the particular duo that would be insane enough to execute an equally insane plan, that never stopped them from continuing to do so. Even after the multiple times they’ve been thrown and locked away into cages like wild animals, it was worth it. Wrecking formal gatherings were practically Loki and Y/N’s most beloved tradition. And whenever they did, the mess they’d cause would always work to give them enough time to get away from the boring event. Besides, you can’t deny that it never fails to spice things up.

Chuckling to themselves, the two Asgardians continue to disappear from the crime scene and eventually head out into the quiet night.

“That never gets old,” Y/N confesses with a grin plastered on her face.

Loki returns a similar smile, nodding in agreement. “I don’t quite think I’ll ever get tired of doing that.”

“Of course you won’t, you’re the God of Mischief. It’s what makes you—well, you.”

He chuckles softly once more at her statement, staring into her eyes for a brief moment before examining the bewitching, starry night.

“The sky has quite a lot of stars to offer us tonight.”

Y/N follows his gaze and looks up, the many balls of light shining luminously unto them.

“What constellations can you spot?”

“I see… Cassiopeia, right over there.”

He points a finger towards the formation of stars as she nods, discerning the said constellation.

“Do you know the myth behind it?” she questions in curiosity.

Loki gives her a knowing look, raising his eyebrows. “Of course I do — what do you think of me?”

She rolls her eyes at his arrogance. “Enough with the cocky act and just answer the question. I know you want to.”

He lets out a scoff, momentarily gazing back into the mesmerizing constellation before telling the story. “Cassiopeia was a stunning yet boastful queen who claimed that she and her daughter, Andromeda, were the most beautiful creatures to exist, which includes the Nereids. They were insulted by her assertion, and so they made Poseidon punish her for it. But, the only way to prevent him from doing so was if she gave up her own daughter to a sea monster. Cassiopeia selfishly agreed, however, she would later on make a deal with a man named Perseus, promising to rescue Andromeda in return for her hand in marriage. Unfortunately, when he managed to rescue her, Cassiopeia attempted to break her promise with him. But, Andromeda and Perseus fought for their love, so on the day of their wedding, Cassiopeia ordered Agneron and his army to stop them. In the end, Perseus managed to use Medusa’s beheaded skull and turn everyone to stone. And so, the happy couple got their happy ending. The end.”

A soft smile forms on Y/N’s face, noticing the glimmer of excitement hiding behind his emerald green eyes. Loki was never one to show much interest in — well — anything, so seeing him enthusiastic in a certain topic (other than pulling pranks on Thor) was a nice change. It was a side of him that she rarely got to see, but when she did, she loved every second of it.

“You know, if all else fails, you would be an excellent astrology professor.”

Loki rolls his eyes at her sarcastic remark. “Hilarious,” he replies in a deadpan tone.

Y/N chuckles softly, her face perking up promptly as she recalls something. “Hey, isn’t there a nebula within Cassiopeia?”

Loki nods. “Right, the Heart Nebula. Which, you can tell by its name, represents…”

Loki held back, reluctant to say the word he never believed could be real. A feeling that he was sure he would never experience again.

Until he met her.

“Love,” she finishes in a soft tone, her eyes immediately finding his.

They both may have been almost a thousand years old, but they were still completely oblivious when it came to that one, cliche emotion. That one emotion that was arguably the most powerful one, though neither of them knew it at that time. That one emotion that drew the two Asgardians closer, clueless to the reason behind it. Despite almost being complete opposites, like fire and ice, something made them fight for what they had. Something bigger than they realized.

They were just too naive to know what it was. Until one of them would eventually crack the code.

“Loki… there’s something I need to confess.”

He sharply inhales, already having an inane idea on where this may lead. But for some reason… he didn’t want to stop her.

“Go on.”

She sighs. “Well, I’m grateful for our unlikely friendship. Despite our years of constant fighting and petty rivalry, we managed to get over that and become… whatever it is we are, exactly.”

He hums softly, signaling for her to continue.

“But… I can’t ignore this feeling that I’ve been feeling for the past few years. This feeling that I’ve never felt in my entire existence, but… I think I have a solid idea on what it might be — as cliche as that may sound. I don’t know how to put it in words, I just — it’s just this feeling I get whenever I’m with you, and I like it.” She sighs once more, seemingly expaserated. “Look, I’ve never done this before, but, what I’m trying to say is…”

Her mouth was left agape, but no words fell out of it. She could only stare desperately into his eyes, begging for him to interupt her at any moment. But to no avail. Loki simply stood before her, completely dumbfounded with what she was telling him. And yet she couldn’t read his face. She couldn’t tell if he felt the same way, or if he was utterly disgusted, or if he had even understood the words coming out of her mouth. Truth be told, she didn’t quite understand the nonsense she was spewing out either. But it was better than having to keep her mouth shut about what she was feeling. Because she knew that one way or another, she had to let him know. Let him know his effect on her. Let him know the way he was making her feel. Let him know how much he means to her.

But in this very moment — his silence, the void state on his face — it made her want to take all her words back. She’s never been more vulnerable to anyone else before. Maybe she was just making a fool out of herself, opening herself up to the literal God of Mischief. Maybe that was a mistake on her part. But this feeling she’s been feeling for the past few years… it was no mistake. She knew that it meant something. It had to.

Muttering up the strength again, she finally broke the silence.

“Are you really just going to stand there and make me have to finish my sentence?” she questions, almost scoffing.

And to her surprise, he nodded.

“Yes. Yes, I will. Because I want to hear the exact words come out of your mouth. And I want to hear you mean it.”

Loki stepped closer towards her as she was left astonished, not expecting that kind of response from him. But, even if he hadn’t, she knew that she needed to say it.

“Fine. Then…”

She momentarily closes her eyes — having him watch her like this was driving her insane. But when she opened her eyes once more, she was met with the same, desperate eyes she was wearing just a few seconds ago. As though he was longing for her to say it. As though he had been waiting for as long as she did to act upon their feelings. And that was all the courage she needed to keep going.

“…I think I’m in love with you.”

In an instant, Loki brought their faces together and kissed her lips, not wasting another second with her.

And for a moment there, time seemed to have stopped. All sense of meaning and logic just disappeared when their lips touched. The two grasped and held onto each other, scared to let go of one another only to realize that it was all just a dream.

When the two finally pulled apart breathlessly, they stay in that singular moment of silence — the rustling of the wind, the muffled chatter from a far distance, the soft yet comforting breathing coming from them both. Their foreheads still connected, they stay in each other’s presence, processing what had just happened. Processing their emotions, the decisions they made tonight. Everything that led to right now.

Until they finally opened their eyes, gazing into one another for one more second before Loki broke the silence.

“I think I’m in love with you, too.”

And just like that, the stars in the night sky weren’t the brightest thing in the universe anymore. It was the smiles that formed on their faces in this very moment.

after more than 3 months, I finally got the motivation to write something for loki. very timely as well since the loki series 2 trailer just came out. I miss him so much why’d they have to kill him off.

likes and reblogs are vv appreciated.

[moondustwritesblog]

thoughts for eternal sugar cookie (backstory and legendary costume + headcanons)

since this has been bugging me for a week now even if i don’t play crk lmao

cut for potential spoilers specifically on where eternal sugar cookie corresponds to what region in Beast-Yeast

note: since their wiki said that they have no known pronouns yet, i’ll be using they/them (tho I think it was confirmed they’re a girl? idk). this is also (mostly) based of their wiki

eternal sugar cookie, the Virtue of Happiness

as the wielder of the Virtue of Happiness, eternal sugar cookie was known to be the most joyous of the five fallen heroes: they would often visit their fellow heroes and spread happiness to them as well as to the other cookies of cookiekind

when it comes to their friends, they would listen to mystic flour cookie, they would see what burning spice cookie is doing, attend to wherever shadow milk cookie was and be with silent salt cookie if they want to, all being happy for them

as for the cookies, whenever they would fly from one place to another to visit the others, they would stop by and be with what is making the cookies happy and leaving saying when the cookies want to feel happiness then they can visit the Sugar Paradise

when they would come back home, they would tend to the fields, go on for a stroll or fly in the gardens and sleep in the clouds or the comforts of the paradise afterwards

cookies would then visit and feel happiness just as what they said, feeling it over and over again. even their fellow heroes would visit

until the cookies, including their friends, would go home

if only the cookies won’t leave, they would think, but understanding why because surely they’ll come back, right?

right?

the fall of the Virtue of Happiness

eternal sugar cookie’s decent into corruption started when the cookies slowly wanted to leave the Sugar Paradise to either explore other places (which they allowed at first but noticed that the cookies are not coming anymore or are never returning) or to simply feel other emotions than happiness which they do not understand since they thought that happiness should always be felt by all cookiekind

when cookies started to leave one by one, they felt as if they are not doing their part as the Virtue of Happiness and wanted to do better

so, they try

they would check in with their friends and how they are doing but the last time they saw mystic flour cookie was that she was going to be inside a cocoon to fulfill the other cookies wishes; burning spice cookie keeps looking more bored as ever; shadow milk cookie is not usually where they think they be and can’t find him and silent salt cookie is growing more distant by the day, what is going on?

and try

the cookies are not feeling happy like they used to, eternal sugar cookie thinks if they are doing something wrong, when did this happen?

and try

from what they have known, mystic flour cookie’s cocoon was opened by greedy cookies, burning spice cookie eventually got bored and left his kingdom, shadow milk cookie started to shapeshift and would drift away from the truth as the time passed and silent salt cookie is nowhere to be found, why is this happening?

not to mention the cookies, they think that they shouldn’t have come to the Sugar Paradise in the first place, how did this happen?

eventually, they grew tired and don’t see the point of being a virtue anymore since the cookies will just come and go over and over, even not coming, making them act less of the Virtue of Happiness and more of the Beast of Sloth

the Sugar Paradise begun to fall, wilt and crumble

the rise of the Beast of Sloth

what push eternal sugar cookie to the edge was when cookies started coming back, asking them for happiness once more to which they thought was more of a chore, dismissing them and was about to fly away, when the cookies stop them and ask to be given happiness by them since the other heroes have become Beasts, turning away from their duties and other hero is still nowhere

the Beast would then asked why would they want to feel happiness if they are going to leave, feel different, come back like nothing happened and repeat the cycle all over again, who do these cookies think they are?

maybe mystic flour cookie was right and that they should all just return to flour

the cookies respond that is how it goes —

maybe burning spice cookie was right to destroy and they should all just fall to destruction

that sometimes happiness is not always what is felt —

maybe shadow milk cookie was right and that deceit —

and that this is all the beast’s fault, are you kidding me?

angered, the Beast of Sloth retorts back saying that if cookies do not want to feel happiness then they should not feel happiness at all

and maybe

they flew high, higher than they ever did, rested themselves on a dark cloud and yawned

just maybe

they raised their hand and —

silent salt cookie was right to leave

the sky turned jam red that day

bonus (this is self-indulgent so you can skip this part if you want)

eternal sugar cookie flew away, thinking of never returning to the Sugar Paradise, or what was left of it, ever again

they have searched everywhere, the ivory pagoda, burning spice cookie’s kingdom and to the witches where shadow milk cookie is at, where are they anyway?

the sun was starting to set and the moon was starting to rise when they’re wings give in, losing hope

it was only then they felt a tap on their shoulder, that they looked up and saw silent salt cookie in the moonlight as if the cookie sliced it in half

the others soon followed — mystic flour cookie who was now the Beast of Apathy, burning spice cookie who was now the Beast of Destruction, shadow milk cookie who was now the Beast of Deceit and silent salt cookie who was now the Beast of Silence

the five heroes are now together and even if they have fallen, have been corrupted and have descended to villainy —

eternal sugar cookie never felt happier

legendary costume

probably a demon version with their wings swamp with the angel wings to the demon ones and would change their color palette a bit to match it

a precorruption version but it’s unlikely since from what we know is that eternal sugar cookie can’t shapeshift (unless stated by devsisters) and would’ve look the same, beast or not

headcanons

their name was once just “sugar cookie”. the only reason why they are called “eternal sugar cookie” is because the cookies during their time thought their reign (as well as the other beasts) rule was eternal. until it’s not

or it could possibly be that the cookies who enter the Sugar Paradise who were then given happiness by eternal sugar cookie felt like it can go on eternally only to wake up from an eternal slumber instead, forgotten. like how the paradise is now

their voice could be between moonlight cookie and black forest cookie giving them a somewhat soothingly creepy voice (or they can just sound as angelic as they look that can make you fall asleep and never wake up idk)

note: this is not to say that i think that black forest cookie is creepy or anything (you know what i mean ig)

they didn’t have the devil wings and the tail before they become corrupted. it only showed when they broke the sky

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Judgement Call (Part VIII: The Raid)

⭒Din Djarin x Original Female Character⭒

GIF credit to @perotovar

Previous | Next

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Summary Din and Zakia raid the Imperial hideout in Nevarro to make things right.

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Author's Note If you prefer Ao3, it's here. Thanks for coming along!

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Word Count: 4.7k+

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“Why’d you ask about the kid?” 

Zakia waits until they are outside of the bazaar walls and almost to the Crest before she brings it up. They both carry supplies to replenish from the Jawa assault, a nice distraction since the question had come from Din inside the tavern. 

“Curious as to why there’s so much fuss, that’s all.” 

Zakia relents with the answer, instead choosing to watch him tap on his new vambrace. The Mandalorian must’ve been back to the ship already since his gear is synced up. He releases the hydraulics for the hatch with just a few taps. 

“I see.” Zakia hums, teetering up the ramp. She lets Din take the boxes from her, eyes dancing over the unfamiliar silver armor. “And you’ve had an eventful day.”

His helmet oscillates downward, taking in the new adornments. “I visited the covert. My armor was compromised.”

Zakia taps one black-lacquered nail against his chest plate. She lets the heat from earlier rush back to her head, voice dropping. “It looks good.”

“That so?” Zakia quickly takes note of the distance in his voice. It hides behind husky suggestions for things she’d rather save for when they’re both of sound mind.

Her Mandalorian is somewhere far away from the present. She chooses to gently run her nails beneath the fabric of his cowl rather than tap them suggestively against his chest as she had moments before. 

One hand floats up from his side to rest on her hip bone.

“Are you alright?”

“Just ready to get out of here.” He bumps his helmet into the side of her head. “I’m gonna get us into hyperspace. Why don’t you unpack and I’ll be down soon?”

Zakia can’t say that she’s opposed to the idea of leaving town as soon as possible. Karga had been left with the promise that they’d return in a couple weeks for a new set of pucks, and he happily encouraged their leave. She didn’t follow through on his wisdom about buying a camtono of spice, and opted for rations instead. 

Rations which make up the contents of the crates they just lugged back, and now fill the floor she organized upon landing. Zakia voices her agreement with Din, and starts slotting away supplies as he vaults himself up the ladder and into the cockpit. She worries as he goes, but tells herself they’re only a hyperspace jump away from a break. 

Above, the pilot’s chair is warm from the faint sun and welcoming to Din’s body. He settles into the familiar spot and begins his normal start-up. Engines and computer modules first, then a quick pre-flight assessment. Practiced movements have the sequences completed in less than a minute. The acceleration lever begs to be pulled, but Din can only stare at it.

The sphere used as a finger hold is still set aside, and his hand hovers above uselessly. Thoughts of their infant bounty removing it surface violently, and Din forces bile back down his throat. That memory clashes with another of his two Mandalorian rescuers the day his planet was plundered and his parents killed

Din chokes on his own breath and has to kick his chair release to get away from the controls. Tries to tell himself the new armor is heavier and he’s just adjusting.

But stars, he’s never felt so claustrophobic in his own helmet. Din’s right hand grips the top of his chestplate.

‘Foundlings are the Future’ 

Two saviors giving him a life after his young one is destroyed, utter those words on a loop in his mind. They clash with the recollection of his recent exchange with the Client, and Din’s psyche is poisoned by betrayal. 

HE was a Foundling. The Child was an enemy. 

A job. 

But was he an enemy of theirs?

Din’s boots push the chair back to its original position, hands knocking the controls back into standby position and eventually turning them off altogether. He runs a diagnostic with the new tech in his helmet and makes sure his munitions are full. 

And Din drops down the ladder, where he comes face-to-face with Zakia. 

She’s coming around the corner from the galley with a rag in her hands when he lands, her features twisted into confusion. 

“Is something wrong? I heard the power shut off.” 

The Mandalorian considers lying to her. 

In just a few short days, they relived many of their worst moments togethers, and it’s that thought that prompts Din to swallow his desire to keep her safe and spit out the truth. He stops at the hatch controls with a heavy exhale. Turns to his partner who he’s gone through years of bloodshed and violence with.

“I’m going to get him.” 

Zakia’s single good eye hardens. Her head tips to the side and puffy braids fall over her shoulders. Din assumes she’s going to object, given her eagerness to leave right away. 

“I’m coming.” Her blasters are secured back into their holsters as she speaks. 

If she could see his face, she would be watching his mouth open and close like a fish out of water. The woman before him continues to grab ammo from their armory. 

This woman, he reminds himself, carried his own child. She’s the same woman who had his back, healed him, and stayed with him over every hill and through every valley. Who was destroyed when their child was lost. And now, is willing to run back into the maw of evil because another child is on the line. 

“You’re… Are you okay?”  

Familiar with her Mandalorian’s preference for action rather than words, Zakia is normally unphased when his sentences are short. Right now, while she tries to keep mounting adrenaline at a reasonable level, she thinks he might be heatstroking under the helmet. His words are slow. Unsure.

“No.” Zakia yanks her long jacket on and positions the hood.  “But I know how to make it right.” 

“Good.” Din suddenly starts moving again. He crosses the hull and pulls a long case out of the netting, one Zakia quickly notes is new. “But first… I want you to open this.”

At his side, Zakia flips the latches on the case. The lid is heavier than she expects and falls open with a clang. “Din, this is-”

“Yours.” His fingers trail across the gift. “I had it commissioned for you. It’s Mandalorian-made.”

Inside, a rifle greets her. Sleek and black, with the same forked tip as Din’s Amban. It’s not a disruptor rifle though- the barrel’s too small and the scope too big. It’s also offset, adjusted over to the left side of the barrel. Even the stock is customized, with a padded shoulder and adjustable bolts. She’s never seen anything like it on the regular market. 

“I don’t know what to say…” Zakia flounders at his helmet. “Your Armorer made this for me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Zakia picks up the gun, surprised at how lightweight it is. Underneath she finds a strap that isn’t attached by the standard bolts. 

Din gives her a crash course on the sling while they go over a plan. His sure hands tighten the strap beneath her coat, and he explains the complex magnetizing system that allows her to pull it on and off her back quickly. Zakia experiments with the switch built onto the front while Din stocks up on blast charges, appreciative that she doesn’t have to fight with pulling a strap over her head to get set up.

When they’re both prepared, Zakia raises a hand and braces it on his helmet. Her fingers swipe a speck of dust off the visor, stroking up and down the cold surface as if she was dedicating it to memory. “Let’s go get that kid back.”

Not able to withstand the urge, Din crowds her back against the ladder. Places a hand over her eyes. 

“Close.” 

Zakia does so without question, leaving Din two free hands to remove his helmet. He tucks the Beskar beneath his arm and cups her cheek, carefully tracing the outline of her lip with the pad of his thumb. When a smile tugs the corners of her mouth, Din crushes his lips to hers like it’ll keep them alive on the hair-brained scheme they’re about to execute. He tries to convey everything he’s been feeling through the kiss but gets distracted when her fingers run through his hair. 

Din replaces his helmet after smoothing down said birds’ nest, and Zakia waits until she hears the armor latch in place to open her eyes. Din’s hand lingers on her face. 

“This is the Way.”

-

 In a dumpster just off the main drag, they locate the Child’s bassinet. 

Zakia and Mando exchange a glance. It’s clear nothing sinister has happened, at least on the inside. There's no blood, no sign of a struggle. They keep moving until Din finds a rooftop he deems suitable, halfway to the Imperial’s hiding place. They both slink across on their bellies, elbows propping them up onto the edge. Mando pulls the Amban rifle from his shoulder and turns on the noise detection, pointing the duel-ended weapon towards their target building. 

“What are they saying?” Zakia whispers. Her shoulders bump into his pauldrons due to the close proximity.

“Something about working quickly. They can’t guarantee their people’s safety.” Din mutters, slow and echoey while he repeats it to her. 

They drop back into an alley from the rooftop. Din leads the way until they’re next door, tucked into another crevice between the buildings.

“I’m going in. There are Stormtroopers who have blasters, and you don’t have armor for a full on assault.” Din starts, “You keep watch outside. If someone that’s not me comes out, kill them. Just make sure no one is around to see.”

Zakia nods her understanding and motions for him to go on. He shows her to a dark steel door, lone porthole made for a droid to look out on the right side. Din knocks on the door with a closed fist, and both hunters crowd together in their hiding spot. The orbital unit for the droid appears in short order, and Zakia lashes out to strike it with Din’s vibroknife.

“Once I’m out, there will be Stormtroopers everywhere.” . 

Zakia raps her knuckles on his helmet. “The com unit I gave you is still synced to your helmet. Call me if there’s a problem.” 

They part ways, taking off in either direction away from the door. Zakia crams herself into a small space around the building’s corner, knife waiting in her right hand and new rifle a comforting presence on her back. She hears footsteps moving in her direction, and flattens herself against the wall. 

“Clear by the entrance. Taking the corner now.”

Cheap, crackly modulators installed in Stormtrooper helmets are a blatant giveaway that they’re the enemy, and Zakia breaths in deeply. She spots the white armor round the corner, and stays in the shadows until he makes it far enough from the street that her ambush won’t be noticed.

Zakia surveys the white plasticky armor, deciding there was more vulnerability in the front than on the back. She clicks her tongue against her teeth to catch his attention, and the trooper spins around into her waiting hands. The mercenary is quick to slide the knife between the armor on his neck, effectively silencing him as he drops dead. She withdraws the weapon just as precisely, wiping the blade clean on the trooper’s undershirt. 

After she locates and terminates the second trooper, Zakia continues her track around the corner. She found a hole blown into the wall and presumes one of Mando’s charges had been responsible for that. Blaster fire ricochets around inside, and Zakia squints. Too much plaster dust pollutes the air to make anything out clearly, but she does see two troopers lying on the ground inside. More footsteps move rapidly towards her position.

“Shit.” She jogs into the opposite alleyway from before, back against a dumpster so she can peer out.

“Here’s the entrypoint.” 

Zakia watches a trio of the white-clad soldiers inspect the hole in the wall from her shadowy position.

“Thermal indicated two invaders.”

Since when did run of the mill stormtroopers have thermal detection in their  helmets? 

Zakia briefly entertains the thought that they might share a pair of binocs, but after the reward they issued Din for the Child, she figures they aren’t ordinary guards. 

“It did. Let me switch over.”

Cutting her losses, Zakia leaps from her nook and fires three shots from her new rifle. Two land on their mark, but a third ricochets off the wall somewhere. She ducks behind the dumpster as the remaining trooper opens fire. 

The Trooper closes in, and Zakia drops to the ground when greeted with more gunfire. She reattaches the new rifle to its magnetic sling just as he lunges for her. Clunky armor slows him down, but Zakia’s smaller frame puts her at an immediate disadvantage. 

“Stand down!”

Zakia gets her arms up and around her assailant’s neck when he tackles her at the waist. One of her hands makes it under the edge of his helmet, and she claws at his skin with sharp nails. Cuffs appear from somewhere on his belt, and he gets her right wrist locked up before reaching for her left.

“Stop resisting!”  He shouts at her, making a crucial mistake when he stands from her body to try and flip her over. 

“Fuck off!” Zakia spits back, pulling her knee back to her chest and launching her boot into the trooper’s groin. Despite the fact they wore armor, it’s not always effective, and her boot lands mostly behind the cup. 

“Ha. Gotcha.” Zakia mocks. Feet back beneath her, Zakia dodges a swipe from him, turns and kicks his right knee in from behind. When he drops to her level, she loops her free hand through the unoccupied side of the cuffs, dropping the whole set around his helmet until the chain is against a vulnerable section of throat. Zakia tightens her arms, holding there until he stops moving. She lets him clatter to the ground, checking her cuffed wrist for injuries and tugging at the meta.

The com unit stuck inside her hood chimes obnoxiously in her ear, and Din’s voice fills her senses

“How do I know I can trust you?” He’s yelling to someone, and Zakia stops in her tracks.

“Mando?” She asks, hand pressing against her other ear to muffle outside sound. “Where are you?” 

His next words are quiet, soft enough to avoid his modulator’s reach. 

“Just inside the gate. They have me surrounded.”

“Who?” Zakia demands.

“The Guild. I’m gonna talk quickly, pay attention.” She can hear him trying to contain heavy breathing. “Get the high ground and pick as many of them off as you can. I’ll give you a go signal when it’s time.”

“I’m going up now from the hideout.”

Zakia hoists herself onto the rim of the dumpster and hauls her body to the rooftop above it. From her vantage point, she can see the gate on the horizon and runs that way. She crosses from building to building until the arch above the bazaar’s entrance grows larger and she can see down into the street. She spots Mando’s gleaming armor near an idle speeder, the Child swaddled in blankets and resting in the crook of his arm. He’s surrounded by Guild hunters, led at the front by Greef Karga. A pang of anger strikes Zakia at the man’s actions, but she can’t count herself as surprised. Bounty hunters aren’t loyal. They go for the highest bid, not the highest moral ground.

Zakia stalks forwards on knees and elbows to the edge of the building, half a block away from the standoff. There’s an old water tank support beside her draped in waterproof canvas, and she hides herself between the bars and gets situated for a shootout halfway behind the canvas. She pulls the rifle from her back and tucks it into the crook of her left shoulder, eyes naturally ducking into the scope. 

“I’m in place, Din. Under the water tank, directly behind you.”

A click of static comes in place of a response, indicating he heard. Zakia faintly makes out Karga’s voice in the distance, and syncs the rifle to her com. She turned on the noise detection feature, but the conversation fades. Mando’s body slowly turns to face the speeder, and his whispered voice rings into her ears. 

“When I move.”

Zakia places her crosshairs on the bounty hunter nearest Din. “I’ve got you.”

Gunfire puts any ongoing negotiations to an end. Din drops the Child as gently as possible into the speeder and swivels to shoot a nearby hunter. Zakia pulls the trigger on her target, a satisfied smirk crossing her face as the man drops. The Mandalorian jumps in the speeder, lying on his back so the Beskar faces up. Zakia quickly readjusts her aim and moves to the next open target. She sees Mando encourage the speeder’s droid pilot into moving via blaster, and the vehicle takes off. 

Din shoots enemies along his path as well, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Luckily, enough chaos fills the streets that Zakia’s shots blend into all the others and no one takes note. The sniper turns her sights sharply to the left, searching for any imminent threats. She sweeps by a few reloading and pops off a few shots in their direction. It’s not until she spots a familiar form between two buildings farther down that she halts.  

Greef Karga. 

His blasters are aimed at the droid on the speeder Mando has commandeered. Zakia growls as he tucks himself into the alley a few inches further, preventing her from getting a proper shot off. Sliding her tongue over her teeth, Zakia lines up her best possible shot and pulls the trigger. 

She sees Karga’s blaster fire just as she does, and the weapon flies from his hand. Much to her dismay, Zakia’s shot is half a second too slow and the droid is defunct in a shower of sparks. She still laughs at Karga when he yanks his injured hand back though, being sure to keep the rifle still. 

“Gotcha, bastard.” 

Karga searches desperately for the source of the shot, though Zakia doesn’t let herself tempt fate for satisfaction and stays behind cover. Her mind briefly considers the fact that he will most likely turn her name into the Imperials after their last conversation, so she’s momentarily glad that her current actions are solidifying her own bounty. Din and her will be wanted for having the Child, and she is fairly sure its value far outweighs that of a single sniper. 

Zakia breathes in and out slowly, eyes searching for another target. Mando is pinned, and the cacophony of blaster fire has ceased. He needs a distraction, and he needs it fast. She points in the direction of a hunter creeping towards the speeder, and exhales as her finger draws the trigger back. The slug strikes true, blood spraying in an arc as his arm tears away from his body. Zakia quickly reloads and fires two more shots. Hunters take note of the direction the shots come from and express enough caution to hide themselves.She switches the noise detection back on to listen for any movement. 

“That’s one impressive weapon!” Karga calls out, loud enough for her naked ears. A tinny echo of his voice crackles through the comlink. “I wonder who’s firing?” 

Zakia smirks and shakes her head. Karga can talk all he wants from behind the corner of a building, hiding from the barrel of her gun.

“Here’s what I’ll do.” Din’s voice is hard and leaves no room for argument. “I’m gonna walk to my ship with the kid and you’re gonna let it happen.”

“No. How about this? We take the kid and if you try to stop us, we kill you and we strip your body for parts.” Karga hollers back. “We’ll track down your mysterious sniper, too. Eventually.”

Zakia locks onto the hunter moving towards Din from behind the speeder. Just as the figure raises his blaster to shoot the Mandalorian, Zakia pulls the trigger and his head bursts into pieces. Din reacts to her shot instantly, lunging forward to fire at the growing group near his feet. Din eventually resorts to using the flamethrower in his gauntlet but it’s too easy for the lackeys surrounding him to duck out of the way. Out of options, the Mandalorian squishes himself down into the speeder. 

“Zak, I don’t have a way out,“ a soft coo from the child follows his words, and Zakia freezes with finger hovering over the trigger. “You’re going to run out soon.” 

“No! Din, you’re not allowed to give up now!” Zakia lines up another shot, one more skull shattering into the Nevarro street. Her throat tightens, and tears bite at her already burning eyes. 

Aim, shoot, reload, aim. 

Click. 

An empty cartridge clatters against the plaster roof.

“Zak, get out of here. Take the ship and go.” 

“Shut up, you moron. We just-” Zakia swallows, choking on her words. “We just figured this out. I won’t leave you here.”

“And I can’t leave another kid.” For the first time since they received the child’s bounty, her Mandalorian sounds sad. 

Hopeless.

“I love you, Djarin.” 

“And I-”

Zakia’s comlink falls from her hood as a massive projectile shoots overhead, effectively cutting off the conversation. She yelps as the canvas whips around and tumbles out of her hiding spot. Another blob whistles by the rooftop, and Zakia frantically scours the ground for her comlink. 

Eyes skyward, Zakia sees more and more figures drop into view. They all float midair, a familiar shape sending chills down her spine. Gunfire erupts in the plaza again, and hunters fly in all directions.

“The Covert.” She breathes.

Mandalorians of all shapes and sizes surround the bazaar. Some with jetpacks, and others with heavy repeating blasters, all fighting the same enemies as them. Facing so many elite warriors, half of Karga’s crew goes running. Others make foolish attempts to stand their ground. 

“Zak, if you can hear me, stay there. Someone is coming for you.” Din is running, she can tell by the strain in his voice, and it almost turns her lips into a smile.

“I will. You get the baby and get out of here!” Zakia switches off her com and swings the gun onto her shoulder. She observes the Mandalorians and their incredible power from her position, chest heaving. All the hunters are preoccupied with their new foes.

A bright streak of light shoots towards her, and Zakia staggers a step back as the source, a hulking figure that probably amounts to three of herself, lands on her rooftop. This Mandalorian is broad and tall, with heavy artillery guns melded into his armor. He surveys Zakia for a brief moment before tipping his head to the side.

“So you’re the one who’s stuck with Djarin.” 

Zakia senses humor beneath the mask and pulls her cowl down. 

“He’s more stuck with me, I think.” She hums, tilting her head to observe the battle. “But nonetheless, I can’t express my gratitude. Your Covert has saved us.”

“Foundlings are the future.” Her savior nods his head as Din has done a thousand times. “This is the Way.”

Zakia grips the rifle strap where it lays over her chest. “So, you’re here to save the damsel in distress then?” 

“Djarin asked me to bring you to safety. He’s getting the Razor Crest off the ground, and we’ll meet him in the air.” This Mandalorian, similar yet so different from Din, looks her up and down. “You don’t look much like a damsel, though.”

“Thanks. Do I at least get a name?” Zakia fishes for detail, stepping towards the hulking figure with more confidence than most would approach one of his culture. “If not, I get it.”

“Vizsla. Paz Vizsla. I ran with Djarin in the Fighting Corps.” An explosion rings out behind them, and they watch the hunters get pushed back in their direction. “But I must insist we get moving. I fear I will be stuck with Djarin the rest of my life if you are damaged.”

The sound of the Crest’s engines powering up is audible above all of the shooting. 

“I’d have to agree. Thank you.”

Paz only nods. “Keep your head down.”

Zakia braces herself as Paz pulls her into his massive chest, wrapping one heavily-armored arm around her waist. She folds her arms around his midsection, one hand twisting in his cloak and the other gripping his cuirass. 

“Is there a countdown, or-” Zakia’s own screech interrupts her sentence as Paz pushes off the ground. His jetpack’s heat radiates down her legs, and Zakia instinctively squirms in the Mandalorian’s hold until she can wrap them around his (which she likens to tree trunks). Zakia thinks she hears a chuckle underneath the helmet, which forces her to consider ending her embarrassment by letting go and just crashing to the bloody scuffle below.

“First time?” Paz calls over the roar.

Zakia looks up enough to convey her displeasure, and Paz laughs again. They fly for what seems like hours through Nevarro’s volcanic atmosphere until they catch up with the Razor Crest. The hatch slides open, forgoing the normal ramp and Paz propels them forward. He lands rather gracefully, and Zakia picks her head up from his shoulder to begin extracting herself from his body.

“That was terrifying.” She manages, loose pieces of hair astray and legs shaking. 

The Mandalorian- her Mandalorian- chooses that moment to clamber down the ladder. Paz locks visors with Din, and the larger steps back towards the door. 

“Ret'urcye mhi, vod.” [Goodbye, brother].

Din returns the sentiment, and the door seals shut behind Paz as he rockets out of the ship. The airlock blinks to life, confirming it’s good for ascent. Zakia tries to turn back towards Din but he saves her the trouble, arms snaking around her and pulling her into his solid body. She goes willingly, cold Beskar and hard points of weapons as a warm reassurance that he’s safe.

“I didn’t think I was getting out.” Din murmurs in her ear. 

“Don’t ever tell me to leave again, you hear me?” Zakia shakes him by the pauldrons, and Din chokes a laugh. They break apart moments later, the latter glancing at the ladder leading upstairs.

“Do you want to see him now?” Din asks, low and tentative like he’s afraid she’ll decline.

The child. In all the commotion, Zakia forgot about the little green creature.

“Yeah. “ Her heart thumps against her ribs all while a warm feeling curls itself into her stomach. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

Zakia follows Din up, and the Mandalorian takes his normal seat at the helm. Din switches the ship off auto-pilot and starts prepping for a jump to lightspeed. Zakia looks around and spots the child on the floor near Din’s chair. He strains towards the dash, pattering around the Mandalorian’s boots and fixated on something high above him. Zakia remembers the beast reaching for the knob on the acceleration level before and there’s no doubt the makeshift toy stuck with him as well. 

Unbeknownst to Din, tears leak from Zakia’s eyes when he frees the silver ball and drop it into the child’s waiting hand. The gesture is simple enough to mean nothing, but her heart jumps in her chest and she swallows back a sob. Zakia kneels, right hand coming to rest on Din’s knee as she lowers herself down near the baby. It looks at her and tilts its head, big ears twitching all about. 

“You’re sweet, but you caused a lot of trouble.”

Big brown eyes blink at her. The Child looks from the Mandalorian to her before offering up the toy he had just received. A small smile spreads across his tiny face, and Zakia’s heart flutters. She extends her hand to stroke a finger across its forehead. 

“I think we’re gonna get along real well.”

-

Thank you for reading, much love ❤️

Masterlist

[findswoman]

Honor Guard Ball Story?

Thanks for the ask, as always! 🙂 I’ve already described that one here, and I’ll add a quick snippet here:

“Aw, hey there, Zeb,” Groz greeted, standing up to exchange shoulder punches with Zeb, then nodding to Shulma.

“Hey Groz, hey fellas. “You met Shulma, right?”

“Yup.” Groz saluted her with the traditional hand-over-fist gesture. “How are ya?”

“I am well, thanks.” Shulma returned the gesture. “And you?”

“Pretty good, pretty good. Hey, why don’tcha two siddown?”

“Arright, but just for a bit, ’cause I think they’re about to start the first quintrillion.” Zeb nodded in the direction of the musicians.

“Heh, heh, ’course,” chuckled Gunvar, helping himself to a substantial handful of spiced warra nuts. “This is the first time you get to dance it, Zeb. I remember, last year you had to wait for the bo-rifle dances an’ stuff to actually do anythin’.”

With one thing and another, this one has definitely been in the “marching far away” category, but I’ll eventually get back to it, somehow!

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 5 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 7483

chapter summary: Chloe comes home to him, just in time to face you again at the movie’s wrap party. But it seems nothing can stop the inevitable.  

chapter warnings/tags: SMUT (finally), officially infidelity, cheating, accusations of drug use, insecurity

a/n: this is what I imagined Dieter and reader wearing to the party.

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For the first time in a very, very, very long time, one of Dieter’s projects ends on time and within budget. No psychopathic directors, no nitpicking changes to the script, no reshoots because the studio had a stick up its ass.

And – he can proudly say – no trouble-filled, cocaine-fueled hysterical breakdowns from the talent. He’s on the other side, uncomfortable with the silence– the peace – and waits for the other shoe to drop. It never comes. Scott even gives him a specific call out on the last day of shooting for being (and this is a direct quote) “a upstanding leader and insightful character actor, whose commitment to the craft ensured the success of this film.” 

Scott also gave you a glowing review as well, but whatever. 

On top of all that, Chloe comes home two days later. 

She smells like sharp, warm spices, he remembers when he buries his nose in her hair. She walks through the door and she’s in his arms, close to his chest, against that burning knot he can’t seem to shake. He carries her – her suitcases still by the front door – all the way up to their bedroom and, delicately at first, proceeds to ravage her. This body is familiar, he thinks, as he doesn’t even take off her underwear before thrusting his fingers inside of her. He watches her eyes roll back with deep, deep satisfaction and he closes his eyes, committing the sound of her cries to memory, if they weren’t already there. He needed them to paper the inside walls of his brain so he could pluck them down whenever he wanted. His brain needed a renovation. 

“Dieter, slow down, baby,” she mewls, pushing on his shoulder only to tighten her grip on him, twisting his shirt. He wants to beg her to do that to his hair. “I still smell like airport. Lemme take a shower first.”

To prove her wrong, he yanks off her underwear – a little lace thing that he wants to put in his pocket – and dives, tongue-first, in between her legs. He moans as her talons latch onto the crown of his head and he laps at her clit. 

“I don’t give a shit, baby. You taste so fucking good. I need you.” 

And he did. Despite where his fingers and his tongue and eventually his cock went, she made him whole. She smoothed out his rough edges, stroking down this frantic energy he had been carrying for days like wired hair on the back of his neck. He poured so much of him into her that when he came inside of her, this immeasurable weight was gone. 

“What the fuck was that, Dieter?” Chloe pants when they were done. They are both dripping in sweat, skin blisteringly hot, and gasping for painful breaths. “I’m not complaining exactly, but my God, where did that come from?”

He looks up at her, his head on her chest. She’s absently playing with his sweat-streaked hair so he thinks she might not be really mad. He shrugs, his heart still pounding as if it were inside of a drum, and presses a kiss on her shoulder.

“I just fucking missed you.” 

“Yeah, I got that . . .” 

He feels like he loves too strong sometimes. Too much. He squeezes his eyes shut in shame. 

“Did I hurt you? I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“Honestly, Dee, just a little. I just got a seven hour flight and you come in like a horny tornado–,”

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to – I just –,”

“Dieter, stop. It’s fine.” She kisses him and his anxiety falters.

“Let me make you dinner, while you take a shower. I’ll rub your feet later, if you want.”

She laughs and he feels things shift, return to normal. “Okay, baby, okay. And, you know, I missed you too.”

He shifts onto his elbows, trapping her below him before she can shimmy off the bed. Her eyes are bright and she’s smiling at him. 

Why would I risk this? Why would I risk her for you?

She strokes a damp curl behind his ear. “What? What are you so smile-y about?”

“You mean the world to me, you know that, right?” He kisses her gently, quickly because there’s more he has to say. “I don’t know who I am without you. I want to be the person you want me to be.”

“Dieter–,”

“I’m serious.” He swallows, shaking his head, suddenly fearful of what he almost lost. “I can’t do any of this without you.” 

It’s late evening and the shadows are long and he thinks he sees one pass over her face for a moment, but then she’s smiling again. 

“Of course, baby. I love you too.”

   The following morning, an invitation for a cast-and-crew screening of the film at Scott Manley’s home comes through the mail. It’s on nice cardstock and everything. With the press circuit coming soon that would take them on the road for weeks, Dieter is inclined to throw the damn thing in the garbage. But Chloe insists. 

“Oh, c’mon, Dieter, don’t be like that,” she says as she rifles through the mail while they wait for coffee to finish brewing. “I wanna meet your co-stars. And from what you’ve said about the director, I think it’ll be lots of fun.”

He crowds behind her with one hand on the island, the other wrapping around her waist, his pinkie digging beneath the fantastic green leggings she’s got on. 

“I can think of something that would be even more fun.” He noses the back of her ear. 

“Dieter, stop. You know I don’t like sex before yoga.”

The coffee pot beeps and she slides out of his arms. 

“Wait, yoga? Now? It’s eight in the morning.”

“I go every Tuesday with Marlene. This isn’t anything new.” She pours in MUD and the smell reminds him of fertilizer. 

He swallows. “But you just got back. I thought we could spend the day together. There’s a new art exhibit that I thought you’d like to –,”

“Dieter, I’ve just spent three months deeply entrenched in the art world.” She glances at him as she pours the sludge-y mix into a travel mug. “I think I’d rather do literally anything else.”

“Okay, then you pick. We can do whatever you want, but I’d–,”

She puts a hand on his chest and kisses his cheek. “We’ll talk when I get back. And we’re going to that party, okay? It’ll be good for us.”

He nods vaguely as she picks up her keys, yoga mat, and coffee and heads out the door without another word. 

Us. Okay. That’s good news. 

Thirty minutes later, he’s out running Griffith park until his knees buckled, sweat soaking the front and back of his shirt, and he’s overworked himself so much he thinks he might puke. 

God, he fucking hates running. 

She does come back, as promised, and they go see a movie. It’s dark and he holds her hand. 

He gets her door for her before the valet can, but his eyes are scanning the grounds, unsure what he’s looking for, but highly aware of an encroaching something. Maybe it was the storm above. If there was any luck, Scott planned for the viewing to be outside and with bad weather, he’ll have to cancel the whole thing. Frowning darkly, he takes Chloe by the hand, tossing the keys to the Jaguar to the boy in a red vest, and starts up the steps of the Tudor-style home two at a time. 

Fuck, he forgot he hates this shirt. The orange color is all wrong and the collar always itches the skin on his neck and–

“Dieter, honey, slow down!” Chloe demands. He freezes and she’s still two steps down, trying to balance up the stairs in heels and a chiffon, plated dress. “You’re running like something’s on fire.”

Immediately, he relents. He helps her up the stairs and rubs her elbow. 

“Sorry, sorry, I think I’m just nervous.”

“Oh, sweetie, why?” She tucks up a fly-away curl across his forehead and he kisses her knuckles, still frowning. “You used to love these.”

Above the slate-gray sky grumbles and the wind rushes the trees surrounding the property. 

“I dunno. I just feel like there’s going to be too much . . .”

He trails off and swallows. There’s not enough words to manifest exactly what he’s so afraid of.

“There’ll be too much temptation, right?” 

His eyes snap to hers. 

She’s frowning sympathetically. “There’s all kinds of alcohol at things like this. And God knows what other shit people are bringing. It brings back bad memories, right?”

It feels like he’s choking. He can only nod. 

“I know, baby. But you’ll get through this. You got through that party at that hotel, right? We’ll just do it again.”

He suddenly wishes she isn’t touching him, isn’t so close with her hand on his cheek. She kisses him on the lips but he doesn’t react. 

“C’mon. We won’t even go near the drinks.” 

He lets her pull him up the stairs. He catches one more glance at the rolling sky. He doesn’t like the tense smell of ozone that’s building. There is too much electricity in the air.

There is a brief moment of reprieve when he sees the inside of Scott’s home for the first time. The tall, cream walls hover in fixed arches over the doorways. The wainscotting is crisp, fine, matching the black edgings and black and white tiled floors in all but color. The furniture and tables are held up by beautiful copper pipes, made soft by wood accents in the knick-knacks and artwork. Splashes of green plants highlight the corners and shadows. The windows are wide and striking, coaxing in every thread of light. The house opens to a long foyer that disappears into the bowels of the house, with a thick stack of white stairs on the right that shrink up to another level. To the immediate left is an immaculate black-and-cream dining set of tables and chairs, and further down the hall, faint music and laughter creeps over the dark hardwood floor.

This is the house of a real, big-time, actual adult. Not exactly his first impression of Scott Manley. 

“Dieter, you were so mean when you talked about this man,” Chloe hisses as she shuts the door behind them. “This place is gorgeous. There’s no Star Wars anywhere. Does his wife work?”

Dieter shrugs, awestruck. He cranes his neck up to try and see where the second floor disappeared to. 

“I have no idea. I never even heard him mention his wife.” 

“He must be a pretty successful director to have a place like this in LA.”

“We’re on the outskirts, sweetheart, don’t sound so impressed.” 

Chloe opens her mouth to respond, when someone down the hall calls his name. “Dieter!”

It’s Scott. Dressed exactly like he did during the entirety of production, with the exception of a black blazer. That is new. He’s a bit pink-faced and there’s a glass of something amber in his hand. He’s smiling and it makes Dieter weirdly uncomfortable. 

“So glad you could make it! These things always go over better when you’ve got your stars!”

He turns to Chloe, but Dieter jumps first. “Natalie’s here?”

Scott’s wet mouth opens and closes. “Erm, well, yes. Why wouldn’t she be?”

He forcefully unclenches his face. “Why does she do anything?” 

Chloe and Scott watch him with uncertainty for a moment, then Scott beams at her. 

“And you must be Mrs. Bravo!”

“Chloe works just fine,” she laughs sweetly and lets him take her hand. 

“I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but Dieter here talked about you so much I feel like I know you like a close friend.” 

He relaxes when her hand slides over his forearm. She stares up at him with her big eyes, her pink mouth grinning. She feels solid next to him, more solid than he is. 

“Did he now?”

So what if you are here? Chloe is here instead and she’s here to stay. He smirks at her and presses a kiss to the arc of her cheek.

“Of course, baby, all good things.” He glances at Scott again, who shifts back and forth on his feet, unflappably uncomfortable with displays of human affection. “Is Heidi here yet?”

“Oh, they didn’t tell you? She can’t come. Production on her other shoot got extended by three weeks.”

“Oh.”

It stings more than he thought it would. Her last email, because that has been the only way to get in touch with her lately, said she’d probably be able to make the wrap party.

“Well, if you’d like to see it,” Scott says, swaying on his feet, “the party is back here.”

And that’s how he enters the wrap party of his most successful project to date. With a beautiful woman at his side and a confidence that oozes. Scott leads them out to a square courtyard, with a single lemon tree in the center. There’s a relaxed beat playing from somewhere in the bushes. The night is cool and there’s a breeze. Everything’s glowing warm. People laugh and drink, peacefully. The waiters slide around offering canapes and champagne. In the garden beyond, there’s a screen and chairs. 

This is it. This is the moment he’s back. Back on top. Everything is right in the world. Everything is exactly as it’s supposed to be. He is where he is supposed to be. 

And then he sees you. 

And you’re still not wearing any fucking pants.

 “Dieter, honey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

He blinks, his brain not connected to any part of his body. He feels hollow. Smooth on the inside. 

“Dieter. Dieter!”

Her nails dig into his chin as Chloe yanks his focus down to her. There’s something cloudy about the way she looks at him.

“Dieter, what are you looking at?” She doesn’t quite laugh but she tries.

“Nothing, baby, nothing.” He rubs his thumb over her shoulder. He can feel the tension in her neck. “It’s nothing. Just surprised to see this many people. It’s no big deal.”

She frowns, no longer committing to the charade. 

“I’ve never seen you make that face before. It was . . . I don’t know. It . . . scared me. I’ve never seen you look like that.” She repeats. 

He makes sure he’s not trembling when he runs his fingers from her shoulder down to her elbow. “Like I said, I’m nervous about being here, baby. It’s nothing.”

“That’s not–,”

“Dieter Bravo, as I fuckin’ live and breathe!” 

Mark Bronson in a crisp white shirt and black slacks climbs the stairs to the pavilion, his beard tinged with gray and braided down the center. He’s grinning when he yanks Dieter into a hug. He smells faintly like cheap vodka and cigars, but it’s not unpleasant.

A woman follows up behind him, with hair redder than the sunset and a matching red flush. The waitress, who’s name is . . .

“Molly, hey, how are you?” He leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. “It’s been too long.” 

“Hey, you said, you were gonna bring your wife to this,” Mark said, frowning with his hands on his hips. And then he takes Chloe’s hand and spins her. “Now, I know this beautiful creature cannot be your wife. She’s way outta your league...”

“Don’t I know it?” Dieter chuckles as Chloe laughs. Molly hands them both a drink as Mark bows in front of her. His is ice water. 

“Chloe Bravo, you are magnificent.”

“Chloe, this is Mark and his wife, Molly. Mark and I met a few years ago. I’ve only had the pleasure of meeting Molly once.”

Mark snorts as his wife winds her short arms around his long slender waist. “A few years ago? Dieter, it’s been a bit longer than that.” 

“Okay, well, who have you known longer? Me or Molly?” 

Chloe tucks her arms up into his chest and lays her head on his collarbone. He wraps his arms over her back. His grin teases Mark.

“Hey, man, what are you trying to do to me? Get me in trouble?”

“How long have you two been married?” Chloe asks sweetly. She smells like peach tea and, in his pants, his cock twitches. 

“Oh, ‘bout fifteen years.” Mark glances down to Molly. “Is that right, darling?”

“Fifteen this April.”

“Wow! So you must have been through it all. All the crazy celebrity gigs, right?”

Molly smiles and Mark kisses the top of her forehead. 

“Oh, yeah. All the press circuits, red carpets, premieres. I thought the worst was over and then Instagram came along.”

“The studio makes me have an account, darling, I’m helpless to stop them,” Mark laments pitifully and the rest laugh.

“Well, you might have to give this one here some pointers,” Dieter nods to Chloe in his arms, “she’s coming with us on the circuit for Recovery.” 

“What? No, I’m not.” Chloe lifts her head from his collarbone, her arms suddenly like weights against his chest. 

“What’d you mean? Of course you are. That was the plan.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” She pulls out of his grip and crosses her arms. “I told you months ago that my father has a gallery opening this month.”

“A gallery opening? The thing your dad always has going on?”

Chloe swallows as several on-lookers turn as his voice raises. “Dieter, let’s not do this right now.”

“We never talked about this. When did this happen? Were you going to say anything or just leave?” 

The crowd around them goes silent. She glances around, shame thinning her mouth. 

He doesn’t care. He’s not so much angry as he is . . . petrified. He was telling the truth earlier; he can’t do this without her. 

“Dieter, calm down, you’re making a scene.” 

“No! When were you going to tell me?” 

He’s not going to grab her – he’s not his father – but his stomach squeezes like a fist. His heartbeat is somewhere in his wrist and his head and his knees. The wind is suddenly too loud, the chatter is too loud. What is that smell? There are pennies in his mouth, rattling against his teeth. 

“Chloe, can’t you just do this one thing for me?”

“Jesus Christ,” she hisses suddenly with real malice, “everything I do is for you.” 

Her mouth snaps shut when she realizes just how many people were staring. 

The lightning is thick in the air, a spark running in circles against a tinder. 

“Oh, yeah? Then where the fuck have you been the last three months?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. And lower your voice.”

“Is this what it takes for you to have a conversation with me? For you to actually look at me for five fucking seconds? I can barely get you on the phone for more than a minute, if at all!”

“Dieter, you’re being irrational.” Chloe’s eyes are scorching, fierce. She’s threatening him. She’s going to use her most powerful weapon against him. He knows exactly what she’s going to say a second before it comes out of her mouth. “Are you using again?”

Inside of him something breaks. 

He can feel the bend, the crack, the bleed. It wavers in agony.

Whether or not she actually means it is beyond the point. Beyond the pale. He’s trying – he’s been trying – so hard – so fucking hard – and it doesn’t fucking matter to her. His weakest point is her party trick. 

It comes in a rushing wave, overtakes him, drowns him. This is how the spiral hurts. 

He shoves Mark aside, going back towards the house. Back into the heart of this living thing that’s trying to eat him alive. Behind him, he thinks he hears your laugh. High and loud. 

He comes to the first door he finds on the second floor and nearly kicks it open. 

It’s up to his eyes. He can’t see straight. There’s pain over his eyebrow, in his shoulder, his fingers. It concentrates in his chest – he unbuttons his collar all the way down – he’s shaking – he’s shaking so badly — 

Count down from ten, the nice lady at the rehab center told him. 

You’re having a panic attack, darling. Don’t worry. It’ll pass. Count down and focus on what you can see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. Ground yourself in the space.

10. 9. 8 – 

He gulps down air, hand on his chest to keep his heart from bursting out through his ribs.

7. 6. 5 –

It’s an office, he realizes, when the room stops spinning. The walls are dark, much darker than the rest of the house. This is where the moss has grown, away from the ivory. 

Here, there is no noise from the party. He can still taste copper in his mouth. It smells like tobacco and mint here.

4. 3. 2 — 

The settee is a dark teal and the short, squat lamps on the oak desk hum orange. Walnut brown bookcases line the walls. 

And there in the corner, behind the desk and leather-backed chair, is a cabinet. Low to the ground. With gold tumblers and a mirror on top. 

On shaky legs, he goes and opens the square doors. 

His mouth goes wet with wanting. 

Whisky.

Rum.

Vodka.

All of it. 

Just one. He needs only one. 

The bottle is cool, smooth. He takes out the corked lid and the aroma fogs up his brain like condensation on glass.

Are you using again?

No. But he could be. The door opens behind him.

“Dieter, what the hell are you doing in here?” 

Of course.

Of course, it was you. 

Maybe it always was. 

“What? Did your wife put you in time out?” You smirk when he doesn’t answer and you shut the door behind you. “Or was it Scott? The night’s still young, Dee, so many other things to fuck up and –,”

“Natalie.” His voice is rough. It rumbles out of his chest on his last breath. “Don’t. Please . . . just, don’t. Not tonight.” 

His hand shaking, he puts back the bottle of whisky. You narrow your eyes at him.

“Shit, what the hell happened to you? You look terrible.” You say, frowning as though confused, as if this is some convoluted plot to fuck with you. “I saw you run off and I thought, this would be a great time to remind him what a piece of shit he is . . . but you look like someone beat me to it.”

You stay firmly planted in front of the door, arms crossed, as he comes to the front of the desk and leans back against it. He feels cold sweat stick to his lower back.

“Seriously, Dieter, are you sick?” 

He shakes his head. His stomach always feels hollow after one of those episodes. “No, just a bad night.”

“Like bad crabs or found out your aunt died bad?”

“Natalie—,”

“Just tell me. What happened?”

He lifts his gaze to you. It’s hard to believe that less than a month ago, he felt like he could tell you anything. In that golden house on the hill. When you were different people. You look genuinely concerned.

“Dieter, I’m going to go get a doctor unless you—,”

“Look, I have these . . . episodes, alright? My head gets all foggy and I can’t stop shaking and I can’t breathe right. I just need some space.” He adds pointedly because the expression on your face has changed. 

“You get panic attacks?” You take a step forward, hand reaching forward before you let it drop, as if remembering you can’t touch. “I, uh, I know what that’s like. I . . . I have them too.”

“C’mon, don’t do that. Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not — I’m serious!” Your brow furrows as your eyes flash hotly with anger. “They started after I moved away from my mom. And now, I just . . . manage the symptoms.”

“Yeah, how?”

You give him a look and he frowns.

“You know what’s not good for panic attacks?” He playfully glances to the ceiling as he lists them off on his fingers. “Bennys. Cocaine. LSD. I could keep going.” 

You put your hands on your hips, scowling. “Fine but waiting to get fucked raw by life isn’t the way to handle it either.”  

He bites his cheek, crossing his arms across his chest. “So, then we’ll just wait it out and see who survives the longest. Then we’ll know who’s right.”

Another dare in your eyes. He meets the challenge. But this time, you swerve first.

You drop his gaze.

“It’s a coin flip, right? Only a matter of time . . . before we both fucking lose it.” 

He doesn’t like how that truth sits in the back of his mouth. As usual, you’ve rattled in him something he didn’t know was loose.

“So, then go for it.” He opens his arms wide. “Say whatever has been stewing away in your head for weeks now. I’m an easy target.”

Your mouth rolls, pouting like an eight year old. You narrow your eyes at him. “Nah, you’re too pathetic right now. When I tell you what’s been on my mind, I want you to burst into tears. It’s no fun if you’re already like this . . . what happened?”

It didn’t feel like pity coming from you, even if he knew you had been picturing his balls in a vice grip since filming wrapped. 

He sighs, and picks at the skin on his left thumb. 

“You’ll be thrilled to know I just made an ass of myself in front of half our colleagues and coworkers. And then my wife asked, very publicly, if I was using again . . . I feel like I can’t fucking win.”

“Well, you’re not, right? Using?” In those knee-high black suede heels, you stretch across the room and take the place next to him. Just like you had at the pool. You crossed your arms too. A concession— another white flag amongst the bitterness.

He shakes his head. 

“So then fuck that. And fuck her for doubting you. Why did she ask that?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought — hoped — she was coming on the press tour for Recovery.” He rolls his jaw from side to side. “I’m getting sick and tired of spending my nights in a hotel room by myself.”

He catches the corner of your eye and his neck warms. 

“Not like that . . . I mean, fuck, maybe a bit like that. I don’t know. I’m trying everything I can to keep this marriage alive and she just feels . . . ambivalent.” He swallows. “Last time, I gave her an out. After the arrest and before rehab. I told her I’d sign the divorce papers, whatever she wanted. She could have my money, my house, my car. I just didn’t want her to have to live with the embarrassment of being married to me. And, instead, she told me, ‘the money isn’t important to me’. I was so grateful at the time, I didn’t question it. But now . . . I sometimes wonder if this is how she punishes me. She didn’t want a divorce until she broke my heart first.”

You’re uncharacteristically silent. The white ruffles around your wrists flutter as you put your hands on the other side of your hips, fingertips drumming the desk. 

“Did you ever think maybe the problem isn’t you? Or her for that matter?”

“What do you mean?”

You sigh, an exasperated smile on your face. “Take a look at where we are, Dee. Normal people don’t live like this. Normal people don’t do what we do. No one else will take us so we congregate amongst ourselves to establish a new baseline of crazy.”

“And, what? Anyone who enters our orbit is doomed to be fucked in the head?”

“We’re all fucked in the head, Dieter. You. Me. Scott. Hell, even your pretty little wife out there.” You glance at him. “This whole place is a fucking breeding ground. A breeding ground for the worst parts of ourselves. It’s nasty and terrible but we don’t have to be nasty and terrible and alone. So, if she made you think that you’re the fucked one, that you’re the unlovable one, then . . . she’s wrong. She’s so fucking wrong.” 

Outside, thunder rumbles and the orange lamps flicker, casting shadows like heartbeats, but neither of you care. 

Your lips are a dark purple tonight, matched by mauve smears over your eyelids. You look . . . ethereal. 

He doesn’t know he’s falling, tipping forward into the plush cup of your mouth until he feels your breath rush against his lips. 

Purple, like bruises, he thinks as he watches your eyelids flutter shut. He wants to keep his open, to watch the moment your mouths finally connect, but you overwhelm him. He’s not strong enough to fight back anymore, to pretend like he doesn’t feel anything for you.And, oh, he does feel something. He feels it so strong— wants it so badly— it feels like a physical weight in his chest. 

He wants you. God, he wants this and he’s wanted it for so long. 

Just this one thing. This one thing. 

The throbbing of the broken thing inside of him is quiet. 

His hand winds up into your hair as he finally takes you by the neck and open-mouth kisses you. You shudder as if surprised, as if this wasn’t an inevitable conclusion. His other hand presses against your jaw to steady you, steady him. 

The kisses aren’t light. They don’t hesitate. They are wet, and they bite, and it’s a little bit of teeth and tongue and spit. He licks the corner of your mouth and your tongue batters into his. His tongue rides the valleys of your mouth tasting like sweet champagne. That talented, fucking legendary Dieter tongue —

Both of his hands grip you by your jaw as yours burrow into the fabric of his shirt just below his ribs. He pulls back slightly to nip your bottom lip and he tastes that familiar caustic burn of whiskey. The first sip of alcohol he’s had in years and he smears it off your wet mouth.

“Fuck, baby—,” Mouth still sealed to yours again, he slips his hands down your sides as he glides to his feet. The rings on his fingers make indentations in that maddening bare patch of thigh. He goes further and swipes his pinkies under the backs of your knees as he grips your thigh from underneath. “C’mere—,”

You bite his lip in retaliation when he swings you both into a clear spot of wall. The nearby paintings shudder in the resounding thud but, short of God stopping by, there’s nothing that would pry him off you now.

Now that he has those hips under his palms. He balances you on his thigh, the wall at your back, giving his hands and mouth the freedom to explore. He wants to kiss you so hard you vibrate through the wall. 

He can feel his lips swell from the force of your kissing. They sting and ache but fuck if it wasn’t a brand new vice he could torture himself over. He is so lost in the relief of it — this is what you taste like, what you smell like so close, this is what you sound like — this is what awaited him for days in New Mexico, if he had just taken it — that he leaves his waistband very open. 

His fingers around the sides of your neck, he nearly barks out when you slide your hand down to his crotch and stroke. The angle isn’t right to give you full access, but your half-lidded, blurry desert eyes are begging him for more. 

“Fuck me,” you gasp into his teeth. “Fuck me, Dieter, please. That’s all I want. Please, fuck me.”

He’s too taken by the wet patch, dragged up and down his thigh, to argue. You roll your hips, eyes never leaving his, and he groans, deep and anguished. 

Your cunt is already warm. 

He pulls away from you against the wall and nearly stumbles back to the desk. He doesn’t know exactly what he shoves to the floor but there is sound, perhaps glass breaking, before he lunges forward, snags you by the hand, and pulls you into his chest. The force of his tug draws you up into his arms, knees digging into his sides, his mouth again inches from yours. 

Broken open, he finally opens his mouth to the stream of filth that has been rotting his brain for months. 

“I want you on that desk. I’m gonna fuck you on it every way I want to and then when you’re so cock-drunk you can’t see straight, I’ll ask you how you want it. You want it on top?” He grabs the hinges of your thighs, and grinds his hips against the front seam of your shorts, right into your clit. You sway against him, eyes fluttering, mouth open. “Or will you let me fuck you from behind? So I can watch this perfect fucking ass bounce.” 

“Whatever — whichever way— you want,” you say breathlessly, your tongue thick, as you lean your weight forward and he stumbles back onto the desk. 

The desk groans when his back smacks against the wood, your tongue and teeth fighting back against his. You’re straddling him, knees on both sides of his slim hips, and you’re chasing that crackle, that spark in your crotch. You rub yourself against him and air is expelled from his nose.

“Ngh— Shit—,” he pulls back to look at you. Your hair is a knot spawned from pulling and jerking. The purple eyeshadow still glows in the dark but the lipstick — oh fuck — is smeared across your mouth as though you had tried to take it off with your forearm. Because he’s fucked up, his already hard cock twitches. 

Panting to let oxygen return to your brains, he takes his time trailing his hand down from the dip where your shoulder meets your neck, down to the first button of that ridiculous, flowy blouse. The vest seemed like an accessory and he was grateful he didn’t have to pick that apart too. You watch his deft fingers open the first button, and then the second, and the third, all the way down to the end. 

He groans when he waves back the curtain of fabric around your torso and exposes the soft curves of your tits. You are surprisingly still and annoyingly quiet as he drags a finger, featherlight over the rise of your lilac lace bra. He dips his finger across your other breast and sighs.

“Wanna take my time with you,” he slurs. His thighs flex and you bite your lip. “Wanna open you up, bit by bit, so I can just slide right into your pussy. Want it to soak my pants.”

“I want that too. I want that so much.” You lean forward, letting your warm cunt settle over where he’s rock solid. He moans against your lips and you grin. When you open your eyes, he’s glancing at the door. It’s unlocked. 

“Anybody could walk in at any second.” You don’t want to give him ideas as to who specifically could, lest he be overcome with stupid guilt. If you didn’t rail Dieter Bravo tonight, houses were going to be burnt down. “We’d better make this quick.” 

Quicker is better, he agrees as he slides you off him and begins unbuckling his belt. You undo your own shorts and somehow manage to wriggle them off your legs while still in those heels. He can see the dampness on your inner thigh and he works faster. 

He shucks his pants down just off his hips. Quicker is better, he agrees as he positions you back on the desk, those audacious black boots hugging his waist. 

Quicker is better, he thinks when he looks into your eyes, your hand cups the back of his neck and your back arches to give him better access. Your other hand is around his cock, as he balances one hand on your hip and the other flat on the desk. 

Quicker is better. 

Because those feelings you both share, those soft gentle feelings that want to make love and not just fuck — are wiped clean from existence when he slides into you. Your face crumples from the first stretch of pain, roasted with pleasure.

“Oh, goddamn it, Dieter. You’re so big.” 

“I know, baby, just— breathe.” He kneads your hip in his hand, huffing and struggling to fight firing back with his hips, and lets you adjust. He’s only got a bit more than the tip in and sweat cracks your brow line. 

You swallow and shift your hips forward. Your pussy swallows up more of him and you both groan.

“You’re doing so well, t-taking me like this. When I haven’t gotten you ready.” He kisses your jaw. Your skin is fire hot. You inch your hips closer to the edge of the desk. 

“C‘mon, baby, just a bit more.”

He pushes the last bit of the way, his pelvic bone pressed up against your clit, and you wail, your head dropping back. The front of his lap is soaking.

He smirks at you, a wildfire cooking every sensation, every thought, every autonomous function that wasn’t required for fucking clean out of his body. He puts a wide hand up to your cheek and kisses your skin between his knuckles. 

Your voice is breathless in his ears, and it gives him pause for a minute. Your cheeks are flushed, mouth puffy and kissed-out. You need a hickey on your neck, or several, he muses to himself. This thing he’s been holding onto since he walked onto the studio lot months ago is rusting, creaking, and for once, he doesn’t want to push it onto someone else. He doesn’t want you to have it because he knows you already do. His affection is corrosive sometimes, but you’re just alkaline; salty, burning, acrid. He wants to melt into you. His eyes half-lidded to watch your face, his hand cradling your head, he pulls out an inch only to thrust right back in. 

“You’re ruining my life, you know that?” 

Flint flashes in your eyes as you nearly snarl, your hair fisting into his hair and tightening. It makes his neck arch back and the moan gets caught in the back of his throat. 

“You wanted your life ruined. You’re just using me as an excuse.”

Hissing, his hold around the back of your neck roughens and he pulls you into his mouth. You’re met with teeth and tongue and a press of his hips that stretches you out completely. With your teeth around his bottom lip, you whimper just like you did on the couch and he can’t hold back any more. 

He starts fucking you in earnest. 

Every brutal stroke is rewarded with a high, sharp cry — he makes himself go deeper, the nails at his shoulder dig deeper into his skin, and it sparks pleasure down his back. 

His hand at your face slides down to your waist to hold you as his hips thrust and pump and scorch the inside of your pussy with his cock. He brushes something devastating inside of you and you naturally arch, naturally bend to take even more of him. 

“Oh, fuck, Dieter— Jesus Christ, Dieter—,”

“Keep talking, baby,” he huffs, “you’re grabbing me so tight I think I’m seeing spots.” He reaches between the open materials of your shirt to mold and shape and squeeze your breasts. His thumb brushes over your clothed nipple, and you hum. The thought of his mouth on them drags his eyes shut. 

He pounds you, he chases that pressure behind his eyes, in his gut, he wants you to always remember who you make these sounds for. You wail again and his cock pulsates. 

He ducks his head and catches your mouth as he lifts up. It’s sloppy and messy and neither of you can stay locked like that with the way your bodies wobble. He aims and drops a kiss on the corner of your mouth. The hand on his bicep trails up to the back of his neck and digs into his hair. You hold him close, and your foreheads naturally fall together. 

He jerks you closer, grinding into you instead of thrusting, just to watch you shake.

“Dieter, please—,”

“Hush, baby, I’m gonna take care of you. Such good care of you and this pussy. Squeezing me so tight. This pretty pussy needed someone to take care of her.” 

“You’re filthy.” 

“Yeah, and you like to listen to it.” He’ll keep running his mouth as long as it takes to clear out the mess in his heart, in his head. He’ll probably never apologize for what happened in New Mexico and neither will you. 

He mouths your ear before rocking back, building back up to his earlier pace, the sound of the wet slap of his hips into your thighs implanting itself into his memory. The desk where he dragged you shines and he half-wants to stop and lick the wood grain. He shudders at the idea your cunt would taste like your mouth – whiskey-soaked and salty. 

You’re drowning in the taste of his hot breath. Sweat grows on his spine and under your breasts. A look passed between you and him that can only be given when fucking wants to give way to something more — when there’s a crescendo of feeling building just by looking into someone’s eyes as they enter you again and again. It’s intoxicating. You feel drunk.

He kisses your mouth again briefly before arching up, moaning. His hips stutter — less focused, but harsh in their need. Your cunt flutters around him and he drives in that much faster, rougher. He can feel your skin break out in goose bumps under the palm of his hand.  

“G’ –n’ think I’m gonna come,” he grunts, his breathing uneven and ragged. His eyes are squeezed shut and he knows if he looks at you again, if you give him that look of naked vulnerability, he’s going to cream for at least ten minutes. 

You nod frantically, pleasure bobbing up from the pit of your stomach to your aching clit. Words are near impossible now.

“Put your thumb — there! Ah!”

He watches you almost recoil in the electric jolt you experience as he brushes your bundle of nerves with this thumb — anything harder would be too much —  the pace only slightly faster than the pounding of his hips.

“That’s it, Dieter, you’re so good– you feel so good.” His knees buckle at the praise, at the strain in your voice. 

“Tell me, baby, I need to hear it–,”

You lean closer to him, breath mixing with his, and you press up against where his fingers press into your clit. “You fill me up so well— I’m—I’m so full— of you. You’re so thick.”

He pinches you and in seconds, your cunt is smothering him.

“Ah — oh God — Dieter!”

You’re milking him and he clenches your thigh as you finally tumble over the edge with a shout. The instant his restraint to make sure you came first is lifted, he comes, coating your pussy and emptying his balls completely of his spend.

His shoulders slump, the aftershocks of his orgasm making his spine tingle.

He’s got his head buried in the curve of your neck, a pleasant hum everywhere in his body. Your cheek rests against his damp temple. 

He’s not going to think about his cum leaking out of you and staining what is presumably his director’s desk. 

You laugh, almost deliriously, fighting to catch your breath. His chest heaves as his lungs gasp for air. 

“Fuck. I mean– wow– fuck– I– wow.”

He grins at that. He kisses your collarbone.

“Now, what to do about the crowd outside the door . . .”

He glances at you, questioning. You huff, trying weakly to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, still struggling for a normal breath. 

“There’s no way every person in this house didn’t hear that. Fuck, I bet the audio is on YouTube already.”

He chuckles and finally has enough feeling in his legs to stand up straight. He noses your cheek.

“Look out the window.”

You do and are met with a torrential downpour. White lighting clashing, thunder roaring, rain slapping the glass. You hadn’t even noticed it started raining.

“No one heard a thing. And no one’s going to notice two people gone from a party of dozens of people.” He cups the back of your head and kisses you soundly. “They don’t know a fucking thing. We’re safe.”

You take his word for it and wrap your arms over his shoulders. You kiss him back.

You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

[mikaela-granger]

The Long Wait (Season 5) Chapter 15

Into the Schwarwald Part 1

Fandom: Grimm

Pairing: Sean Renard/OFC

The Long Wait Masterlist

A/N: As the ladies wait to hear from Monroe and Nick, a blast from the past comes to see Rosalee with interesting results.

***Lorelei’s POV***

The next day when Lorelei noticed that Adalind seemed extremely anxious about Nick, she suggested they both get out of the house and go visit Rosalee at the spice shop. Without any of the kids. Adalind had seemed a little unsure, but after some encouraging words from Angela, had agreed. As Adalind was driving them to the spice shop, Lorelei pointed out that this would probably benefit Rosalee as well, seeing Monroe had left for Germany with Nick. Lorelei was also extremely eager to get a look at the new books.

Rosalee greeted them happily. They shared a cup of tea in between customers. Eventually, however, Rosalee seemed to pick up on Lorelei’s eagerness to see the new books and sent her off down to the basement. Leaving the older women alone, Lorelei slowly descended the stairs to the basement. Her gaze immediately fell on the trunk. Grabbing a chair, she dragged it over to sit in front of the trunk. Thankfully, the trunk hadn’t been locked, allowing Lorelei to easily gain access. So many books, she felt like a kid in a candy store.

***Adalind’s POV***

As Lorelei immersed herself in the Grimm books downstairs, Adalind was helping Rosalee out in the shop. It felt good to do something useful, to try and keep her mind of Nick.

“I’ll call you when the cinchona arrives?” Rosalee was speaking with someone on the phone. “Uh huh. Ok, you’re welcome.”

Adalind approached Rosalee, jar in hand, as she hung up the phone. “Maybe I should check on Lorelei. She’s been down there a while.” Adalind told her. Although the younger women had emerged a couple of times, to use the bathroom, it had been well over an hour since they had last seen her.

Rosalee looked at her. “I’m sure she’s fine. She can get lost in books for hours.” Rosalee assured her. “But you don’t have to do any more. You’ve done plenty today.”

Adalind nodded slowly, before deciding to voice her concerns about their men in Germany. “Don’t you think we should have heard from ‘em by now?” She asked Rosalee.

The smile slowly left Rosalee’s face. “Yeah. Maybe.” She sighed. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

Adalind bit her lip. “Maybe they’re out of cell service.” She suggested, sounding unsure.

Rosalee nodded. “Yeah, that’s one of the things I keep telling myself.” She admitted. “I’ll try to come up with a few more for you.”

Adalind couldn’t help returning her smile. She sighed. “I might still go check on Lorelei though. Because that is someone, I can reassure myself is fine.”

Rosalee nodded understandingly as Adalind left the main shop room. Descending the stairs, Adalind found the pregnant Grimm sitting at a table, surrounded by books and completely engrossed in them. Adalind gently called out her name a couple of times before Lorelei finally looked up. “Sorry, just checking on you.” Adalind told her. “Hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“Oh yeah, sorry. It’s just these books are so fascinating.” Lorelei said, a large smile on her face. “There are so many different types of wesen in these books. I didn’t realise there were so many.”

Adalind couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “I never realised just how many types there were either.” Adalind admitted glancing down at the books before returning her gaze to Lorelei. “Do you need anything? Water? Food?”

Lorelei shook her head. “Nah., I came prepared. I know how I get so there were quite a few bottles of water and snacks in my bag.” She said nodding towards the bag sitting on another chair. Lorelei looked up at her. “Oh. I’m sorry. Are you waiting for me to be done so you can go home?”

“It’s fine. It’s been nice getting out of the house. And getting my mind off everything…Well, mostly.” Adalind assured her. “Take as long as you want. But maybe you should choose a different seat, that one can’t be good for your back.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right.” Lorelei admitted. “I might put these away and bring a couple upstairs. Relax on the bed in the side room.”

Adalind nodded. “Alright. I’ll see you up there.”

Leaving the younger woman, Adalind headed back upstairs. She could hear Rosalee with a customer, so she decided to make some tea for the three of them. As Adalind was finishing up, Rosalee sounded like she was finishing up with the customer as well. “I can’t believe it.” Adalind heard Rosalee say.

“Ugh. Well, I have to go. You take care Rosalee.” The customer said and a few seconds later Adalind heard the door open and close.

Adalind turned to face Rosalee as she entered the side room, an unreadable expression on her face. “What happened?” Adalind asked in concern.

“Somebody killed Andrew Dixon.”

Adalind’s eyes widened. “The guy running for Mayor?”

Rosalee nodded. “Yes. He was shot at a rally just a couple of hours ago.” Rosalee said looking shocked.

“Oh my god!” Adalind said, just as shocked as Rosalee. Portland wasn’t exactly a place where politicians were assassinated. “Did they get who did it?”

Rosalee shrugged as the bell above the door rang again. “I don’t know. A customer just told me. She didn’t know anymore than that.” She said as the someone rang the bell at the counter. Rosalee sighed, putting on her customer service face before returning to the main shop. “Can I help you?” Adalind heard Rosalee say. Adalind frowned as she saw Rosalee freeze just outside the door. “Tony?”

“Why didn’t you answer my letters?” Adalind heard a male voice say.  “I know you got ‘em. I checked the address outside.  I sent ‘em here.”

“No Tony. I’ve moved on with my life and I don’t think we need –.“

The man Adalind couldn’t see cut her off. “I need your help.”

Rosalee let out a sigh of frustration and Adalind saw her back disappear from the doorway. Adalind quietly crept closer to the door, still staying out of sight. “The kind of help you need, I – I can’t give you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t want to get into this.” Rosalee told the man.

“You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you anything.” Rosalee said angrily.

Adalind glanced in the direction where the stairs to the basement were, praying that Lorelei had become absorbed in the books again and wouldn’t be coming up anytime soon. Although Adalind was sure that, even pregnant, Lorelei could take this guy, she shouldn’t have to.

“I went to jail for you.”

“You didn’t go to jail for me Tony.”

“I robbed those people ‘cause you were crashing.”

“You robbed those people so you and Carlos could get high.” Rosalee said loudly.

“Well, Carlos is dead now. J.J’s in Boise, and Burt’s in jail. I got no one left to turn to.” Tony said, his tone dropping. “I need five grand. You can come up with five grand. I mean, look at this place. Probably make that in a day.”

“You need to leave, now.” Rosalee told him.

Adalind jumped as she heard a crash and the sound of glass breaking. “So, you get your little ass straight. And think you’re better than everyone. You know me, Rosy, and you should know better than to piss me off.”

More sounds of glass shattering. Adalind peered around the corner to see this Tony shoving jars off the shelves. Rosalee grabbed him arm. “Get out.” Rosalee shouted.

Tony turned around and backhanded Rosalee so hard she fell to the ground. “You owe me, bitch!”

Adalind couldn’t stay silent anymore. She stepped into view. “Stop it!” She yelled at him. “Leave her alone.”

Tony turned his attention to Adalind.  “How much money you got?” He asked in threatening tone as he started to approach her.

“I’m calling the police.” Adalind said, trying to keep her tone strong, not allowing him to see her fear.

“The hell you are.” Tony growled as he woged. A kackenkopf, although Adalind wasn’t a hundred percent sure about that.  Adalind’s eyes widened and she took a stepped back as he approached her menacingly.

Adalind winced as she suddenly felt a pain in her stomach. “Ah.” She cried out hunching over as the pain increased.

Tony woged back when he reached her, a smirk on his face. “Still want to call the cops?” He asked mockingly.

Adalind straightened up as the pain started to ease up. “Tony, no!” Rosalee yelled at him as Tony grabbed Adalind by the shoulders, one hand swinging back, no doubt with the intention to hit Adalind.

Adalind winced glancing at the hand as it started to move towards her face. Adalind felt a familiar ripple across her face as Tony’s hand froze before it reached her face. Tony looked at his hand in surprise, as did Adalind. Adalind’s surprise turned to horror as Tony screamed out in pain as the fingers on his hand bent backwards with a sickening crunch. One by one. With a terrified look between Adalind and Rosalee, he retreated out the door.

Adalind looked at Rosalee, the horror she felt reflected on Rosalee’s face. Rosalee seemed to come out of the horror faster than Adalind, as she ran to the door, closing it and locking it before she turned back to Adalind. She was breathing heavily, trying to catch her breath, her expression a mix of surprise and relief.

Adalind didn’t feel that way. No. It couldn’t be back. Not now. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” Adalind cried, feeling the panic rise inside her.  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Rosalee slowly approaching Adalind. “Oh my god. It can’t be back. It can’t be back.” Adalind said as Rosalee gently took her by the shoulder and led her into the side room. “I don’t want it back.”

“Maybe…Maybe it’s just temporary.” Rosalee said as she sat them both down on the bed.

Adalind shook her head frantically. “No, no, no. I can’t have it back.” Adalind cried. “I never want it back. Don’t – please, you – you can’t tell Nick. Please!” She begged Rosalee, struggling to get the words out. “Please promise me that you won’t tell him. He’ll get rid of us. Please, you can’t tell him.”

“I won’t tell him.” Rosalee promised, her tone calm. “But you can’t keep it from him if it – if it happens again. It would be so much worse if he found out, and you hadn’t told him.”

Adalind bit her quivering lip. “I can’t go back to being that.” Adalind told her tearfully.

Rosalee gently rubbed her shoulder. “You are so different now. Maybe it would be different even if it came back.”

“You don’t understand what its like being a hexenbiest.” Adalind told her. “What it does to you, the way it makes you think and feel. It’s not good.”

Rosalee let out a sigh. “Maybe we can find a way to…boost the suppressant.” She said, giving Adalind a nod before getting up and walking off to cheek her books.

“Rosalee! Adalind!” Lorelei shouted from the main shop.

“In here.” Rosalee called back.

A few seconds later, Lorelei was in the doorway, gun in hand. “What the hell happened? I heard someone screaming.” She asked looking panicked.

“You can put the gun away. The danger is gone.” Rosalee assured her.

Lorelei glanced between them, looking concerned as she tucked the gun into the back of her jeans. “I’m sorry I didn’t get up here faster, but you know, only so fast I can move.” Lorelei said before coming to sit beside Adalind. Adalind bit her lip to keep herself from crying. Lorelei gently placed her hand on Adalind’s cheek. “What’s going on?” Adalind shook her head before throwing her arms around the woman. She felt Lorelei’s arms wrap tightly around her, her hands rubbing her back soothingly.

Adalind heard Rosalee sigh. “An old…acquittance of mine showed up here. Someone I knew in Seattle.” Rosalee explained to Lorelei. “He wanted money. I wasn’t going to give it to him. Things…escalated and he finally left.” Rosalee paused. “Adalind, can I tell Lorelei?”

Adalind nodded; her face still buried in Lorelei’s neck. She could feel herself starting to calm down. “Yes.”

Adalind stayed where she was as Rosalee explained what had occurred to Lorelei. Lorelei’s grip on her tightened slightly upon hearing what Adalind had accidentally done to Tony. Adalind felt a sense of relief that Lorelei didn’t seem disgusted when faced with the knowledge that she was holding a hexenbiest who was getting her powers back.

“If you want to find something that could help boost the suppressant than I am happy to help look through the books.” Lorelei told Adalind.

Adalind sat back, wiping her tears away. “You really should be resting. You’ve been bent over books for hours.”

Lorelei smiled at her. “I’ll lay on the bed while I do it. I want to help, and researching is something I can do.”

***Lorelei’s POV***

Sitting reclined back on the bed Rosalee had in the side room of the shop, Lorelei continued looking through the book she had selected. It was the third she was working through. As much as Lorelei wanted to try and ease Adalind’s distress, she wasn’t very hopeful that they would be able to find anything. Still, she continued to look. Anything to try and help her friend.

Lorelei did find her mind wandering though. Rosalee had advised her of the news she’d heard from a customer. About Andrew Dixon’s assassination. Why the hell did someone decide to kill a city mayoral candidate? Andrew was just your regular, run of the mill, small time politician. Between books, Lorelei had jumped online to see what the media was reporting. There were of course speculations, but Lorelei doubted any were true. Lorelei did find out the assassination had occurred at the rally Andrew had been holding, his shooting caught on camera. Lorelei had been unable to bring herself to watch the footage. Andrew was a good man; she got along well with him. And his wife. Oh god, her heart went out to that poor woman and her young children. Not to mention Sean. He had been present at the rally. Figuring he would be busy trying to track the shooter down, Lorelei had sent him a message to check in on him. He was understandably upset about the whole thing.

Lorelei was brought out of her thoughts by Adalind. “We should be getting home.”

Lorelei glanced up. Adalind was looking between her and Rosalee, who was sitting nears the shelves lining the side wall. She was probably right. It was getting late. They needed to get the kids fed and bathed, and in to bed. Placing the book down, Lorelei sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Rosalee nodded as she stood up, looking at Adalind. “His name is Tony. He was part of a group I used to crash with for a while in Seattle.” She explained. “Sort of a low point in my life.” She sighed. “No money, bad relationship, experimenting with…to many things. Wish I could just bury that entire part of my life. You ever do anything like that? When you were young, that, you regret?”

Lorelei slowly stood up as Adalind sighed. “Not really. I was kind of a nerd student. Kind of like Lorelei.” She said, throwing a teasing smile towards Lorelei. “I guess I wanted to prove to my mother that I was nothing like her, so, I became a lawyer.”

“Oh.” Rosalee said, looking a little surprised. Her expression shifted to some of empathy. “How are you feeling?”

“About the same.” Adalind admitted. She hadn’t really handled the news that her powers were coming back well.

Rosalee sighed as she looked back at the books she was pouring over. “I haven’t found anything that could help.” She said sadly.

“You won’t. A dead hexenbiest isn’t easy to come by.”

“I’m sorry.” Rosalee told her as the phone rang. Rosalee stood up to answer it. “Spice and Tea –.” She seemed to be cut off. However, Lorelei saw a look of relief cross her face. “Monroe?”

Rosalee looked at Adalind and Lorelei, who both approached her quickly. She returned her attention to Monroe. “Where are you?” There was a moment of silence on their end. “Did you find anything?....She is.” Rosalee looked at Adalind, offering her the phone. “It’s Nick.”

As Adalind spoke to Nick, Lorelei felt a sense of relief was over her. They were ok. After her brief conversation with Nick, the phone was handed back to Rosalee who after a moment speaking with Monroe, hung up the phone. Lorelei could see the relief on their faces but could also tell that Rosalee was wondering why Adalind didn’t tell Nick about her powers returning. Lorelei could understand why, it wasn’t exactly something you told someone over the phone.

“Did they say when they’d be home?” Lorelei asked Rosalee.

Rosalee nodded. “They’re on their way to the airport. Their flight gets in around ten tomorrow morning.”

“Did they say if the found anything?”

Rosalee shook her head. “No.” She said shortly.

Although Adalind seemed to accept that, Lorelei had a feeling that Rosalee was lying. However, Lorelei accepted that the guys may have asked her to do that. They’d be home tomorrow; Lorelei would ask Nick then.

Next Part

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[followerexwrittenstuff]

The Ever-Loyal Monster, Blinding Syrup Cookie

Long ago, in the past when the Beasts were first baked, there were other ‘first Cookies’ outside of the ones that went rogue.

A hatched egg of defiance.

A iridescent butter of creation.

A gleaming oil of innovation.

And then…there was little Sterling Syrup Cookie. He lacked the obviously strong attributes of the others. He did not have great magic or powerful physical might.

What he was, however…was Loyal. He admired the first Heroes and their strength. And he admired the Witches for creating them.

…but when the Beasts went rogue, something in him snapped. And that admiration of the Heroes turned to hatred.

When he heard that the Witches doubted some of their creations after the fall of the Heroes, Sterling Syrup was determined to prove his devotion. He approached the Witches outright, declared his loyalty, and…

What happened next is unknown. But the Witches did not doubt his loyalty anymore.

But they couldn’t have known that the Virtue of Loyalty that Sterling Syrup held, had become Fanaticism.

He was rebaked into a new being - Blinding Syrup Cookie. And his role? One was to hunt down the Beasts, no matter the cost. No matter how far he had to go.

The other was to ensure loyalty and devotion among the Cookies that remained…and punish any dissenters.

While his exact involvement is unknown, he had a hand in the breaking of Gleaming Oil Cookie.

He tracked the Beasts across the world of Earthbread, doing whatever he could to drag them back in chains to the masters they betrayed. Whatever he did during that is also unknown - and the Beasts certainly don’t want to talk about it. Nor should you ask.

Shadow Milk Cookie remembers the burning light.

Mystic Flour Cookie remembers the groans of the suffering.

Eternal Sugar Cookie remembers the chains pulling at her neck.

Burning Spice Cookie remembers the cold gnawing at his dough.

Silent Salt Cookie remembers the screams he couldn’t voice.

In the end, Elder Fairy Cookie sealed them…without Blinding Syrup Cookie’s help. Utterly infuriated, he made a decision.

As it was his duty to forever hunt the Beasts, he would forever wait for their return.

As it was his duty to ensure loyalty and devotion, he founded the Army of the Oven - a titanic faith formed of any and all who served the Witches. Survivors of the Beast’s rampage, who wished to never suffer like that again. Their dedication would be forged to an unbreakable point by Blinding Syrup. He made sure they would never betray the Witches’s law.

And then…he went into dormancy. A slumber that would only break when the Beasts broke free of their seal. And they would break free.

He still needed to punish them, after all.

Eventually, the Army spread out across Earthbread, becoming several separate factions. One of which would eventually become the St. Pastry Order.

And the rest…is history.

Personality: Little is known about Sterling Syrup Cookie prior to his corruption. He seems to have done his level best to cover up any information - what is known is that he used to admire the Beasts. Moreover, he was frustrated at his own weakness compared to the rest of the Heroes- he knew how to make things, but they were…average. No enchantments, no great might - just things. He was dedicated, yes, but he constantly felt like he wasn’t doing enough. Never enough. He had to be more, all for the Witches. In that…a flicker of what he would become could be seen.

…afterward, he changed. He seemed to gain a ‘split side’ of sorts. To those he viewed as allies and loyalists to the Witches, he was kind and almost fatherly - the guardian that would push back the dark and give the dedication to fight back to those who chose to stand with him.

To those he saw as enemies? He was a monster. All affability would fall away to reveal cold hatred, and even that would fall away to reveal a frothing rage if his enemy ‘survived too long’ in his opinion. When he fights, he fights to traumatize. And I’ll let you guess which side is his true personality.