#Your Darling Foe Reads

[darlingfoe]

COVER REVEAL FOR:

AN EDUCATION IN MALICE

Hello (I know, I'm a day late), to the most dark and delicious cover of AN EDUCATION IN MALICE, by the ever amazing S.T. Gibson! ✨️ Get your pre-order fingers ready coz you definitely want this beauty in your hands and on your shelves! Pre-order links and such can be found in the comment section below!

Content info/graphic comes right from Saint!

Add it to your goodreads shelves & read the description!

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/64414866-an-education-in-malice

PRE-ORDER WITH BARNES & NOBLE: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/an-education-in-malice-s-t-gibson/1143598802?ean=9780316501453

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https://www.indiebound.org/indie-store-finder

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[justporo]

Imagine Astarion stays at camp one day for whatever reason. You're out the whole day with the party adventuring.

At first everything is all good, splendid even. Astarion practically makes a show out of how much of a day off he needed. The others staying behind just eye him in that way they do when he's being annoying (which quite frankly is often).

After a while though he notices how his thoughts keep wandering back to you. First it's only brief, he brushes it off as if nothing happened.

But Astarion's thoughts keep circling back to you, until he notices he's been staring at the same page of the book he's reading for half an hour. And it hits him.

Gods above and below, he's actually worried about you. What if something happens to you during the time you're out with the others? Can the others really be trusted with keeping you safe and sound. Probably not. What if everyone else gets wiped and it's you alone and injured somewhere. Unthinkable!

The horror scenarios keep coming and Astarion starts walking circles around camp losing himself in thought spirals of what could happen to you. His anxiety has his hackles raised and he has the skill (issue) to rile everyone else up also with his nervous wandering and mumbling.

Lae’zel is about ready to decapitate him while Gale tries to calm him (thereby only making it worse foe Astarion) as the adventure party returns.

You're startled when the vampire immediately comes over, basically running, and asks about how you're doing while simultaneously conducting a visual inspection of you.

When you answer that you're fine and Astarion hasn't found but a scratch on you he notices that everyone in camp is staring at the two of you. There's a bit of a knowing smile on some of the other's faces while Lae’zel looks like she's about to barf.

"Well," Astarion tries to play over it nonchalantly (and failing) "just making sure my dinner isn't spoiled, darling. I wouldn't want to have to send you back to the chef."

The others turn away while rolling their eyes.

You though feel how warmth floods through you despite the exhaustion of a long day dragging on your limbs.

"We can't have that, can we?" you humour Astarion’s stupid joke with a real smile.

You walk over to where he's standing, arms awkwardly crossed over his chest, and grab one of his hands to squeeze it in thanks.

He squeezes it back, also smiling.

"I'm glad you're okay, darling."

[slowcatsisland]

Trafalgar D. Water Law; Ideal Type Deep Dive

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The first thing that comes to my mind is that audio - “ I need to find my darling husband!” “What do you see in that guy?” “He makes me laugh.”

Law absolutely needs to be with someone who can make him laugh.

Throughout the post time skip arcs, it has been shown that Law -

Has a fear surrounding accepting and giving love

Believes that there must be a reason for earning love/giving love to someone

Law’s character had the most development in Dressrosa and Wano that could propel him towards healing with the defeat of Doflamingo, the revenge of Corazon’s death, and the closure statement that Sengoku says to him: “Don’t try to find a reason for someone’s love.”

Law has to heal first, or have a partner that will help him heal. To me, Law wouldn’t even think of committing to a relationship until the end of Dressrosa/Wano.

Law surrounds himself with goofy people, so it makes sense for him to fall for a goofy person.

This person would probably be on his crew as his trust issues wouldn’t allow for him falling for someone that has other loyalties that could easily be prioritized over him and end up betraying him.

Law is strict about subordinate dynamics, which is why you being on his crew may also hinder him from wanting to pursue something with you because he’s supposed to be your boss essentially.

Law would want someone that is smart, textbook smart like he is, but I also see this not being important if he truly runs into the ‘one’ that brings him the most peace.

I mean by that if you can’t hold and add to a conversation about idk the anatomy of the human body and the effects of a certain ailment, you’re not totally disqualified from his radar.

Someone who could hold emotional conversations with him is good. Even if he probably wouldn’t want the conversation. He’s kinda icky with feelings. Someone that could tell him how he feels, how they feel, and how that changes the context of whatever situation they are in. He needs someone like that.

I used to be opposed to the thought, but I believe Law needs someone truly soft. That means you could still fight if needed, but would rather not yk. It’s okay if you’re not out here swinging a machete trying to bloody the streets with your foes. That aspect of humanity that you have is something Law needs more prevalently in his life.

I remember reading an analysis of Law’s type and the creator said something similar to “Law needs someone who wouldn’t pull the trigger, just like Corazon didn’t.” I don’t know how much I agree with it but I think it’s worth mentioning.

Someone patient, but stubborn. Someone who is willing to wait for him to be ready to accept his feelings and won’t leave him when he makes a mistake (trust me he will make many mistakes in a relationship). Someone who also won’t be an idle figure in situations, you have an opinion and will voice it even if it doesn’t agree with Law’s perspective. You think the crew should help him on something rather than wait on the submarine and him go off alone? Tell him and make him listen, even if he shuts you down.

Law needs someone positive that can look at things with a glass half full mindset. Someone who looks at the rain and thinks about how the plants are getting water, someone who watches the snow fall but are commenting about how Penguin and Sachi are making snow angles and Bepo is really comfortable in the temperature. You even out his pessimism and bring light.

You’d have to get along with the other crew mates, especially Bepo too. Bepo is so important to Law, and if Bepo didn’t like you it already taints Law’s image of you.

After reading some of the Law Novel, preferably someone with a goal in life. It doesn’t have to be a huge driving factor that you live day by day by. It could be something small that fluctuates daily or weekly or wtv. Someone that can strive towards a goal they set for themselves and gets a glint of determination in their eye. But it’s also okay if you’re not like this because this won’t deter him fully if you aren’t a driven person.

You were always kind to him. Even before he invited you onto his crew, he identified your nature and could make a note about how you’re different from the majority of people he’s met.

Preferably, you’d be goofy, but not too loud. I feel like Law gets uncomfortable around those that are crazy extroverted- kinda like Luffy. Sometimes it reminds him too much of the Donquixote Pirates with all their flamboyance. That doesn’t mean if you have this quality you’d be off the list, he would just need it in smaller chunks or around the crew to be acclimated to it.

Grr, someone that ends up reminding him of Rosinante. Someone that Law knows is just a good person, regardless of their past.

If he asked you “why do you love me?” And you couldn’t give him an answer, you’re perfect.

He needs someone to be his safe space. Someone that could sit in his office while he works, content in the shared silence. Someone that he could ramble about his coin collection to without the worry of being judged. Someone that he could let touch his chest and have them run their fingers through his hair without worry that he’ll be harmed. Someone that will soothe him after he has a nightmare or read out loud to him until he falls asleep.

Someone that cares for him- this loops back to the stubbornness. Someone that tries to make him go to sleep, to make him eat, to make him take breaks from working. To make him live happily, something that he’s starved himself of truly ever since he was 10. He prolly won’t act like it, but you showing you care for him makes his heart bleed suffocatingly.

Someone that can show him how to love again and what it feels like to love again omg. The destruction of Flevance and the manipulation of the Donquixote Pirates so cruelly changed his perception of love.

Law wouldn’t want you to be a big shot in canon. If your bounty was rather substantial compared to his crew and him, or you had a crazy ability- it would make him worry awfully. He’d probably try to keep you out of harms way even more than he does with the rest of his crew.

Someone he can tell everything to and trust that they’ll keep it a secret.

Someone that likes the cold, likes the ocean. Living on a submarine as a pirate kinda requires this lol.

Omg imagine you’re from the North Blue too. He picks you up around the same time he does Penguin, Sachi, and Bepo. You’re one of the original members. The connection I feel like he would have with you would make him more willing to fall for you…

I feel like Law would like someone with longer hair. If he could watch them brush it, curl it around his finger, watch them create a hairstyle for the day. Small acts of domesticity in life.

Someone with large, doe eyes. He can see so much emotion through them, they hold so much weight. It reminds him of Bepo. (lol)

Someone aware of their own emotions and are in tune with their wants and needs.

I feel like he would fluster really easily if you had a gummy smile. Yk those big, pure smiles where the gums showed. When your eyes crinkly and your teeth are bared so naturally and without malice. It’s so beautiful to see.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

He’s so broken

Mwah 😽

[yanderes-galore]

Fandom: Demon Slayer

Character: Kokushibo

Intentions:Romantic/Platonic

Notes: With a demon slayer! S/o. Maybe he'd try to “convince” f̶o̶r̶c̶e̶ them to become a demon?

Thank you very much!

Sure! Been a while since I finished the Demon Slayer manga so I hope things are accurate. I did HCs since nothing was specified.

Yandere! Kokushibo with Slayer! Darling

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Forced demon conversion, Violence, Blood, Slight gore, Forced companionship/relationship.

The thought of him with a Demon Slayer obsession is... oddly fitting?

Normally a slayer obsession and a Demon wouldn't work all that well.

However, Kokushibo is known to enjoy a challenge.

His whole life he's been chasing strength, wanting to be stronger and fight foes.

He and his brother created the breathing techniques of demon slayers.

There's a good chance, no matter what one you have, Kokushibo will be able to read it.

All techniques are similar to one another in different ways.

Even if you made your own, Kokushibo would be able to pick up on what you sampled from based on your teachings.

I actually think Kokushibo would find more entertainment in the fact you made your own.

You'd give him a challenge to figure out and a new battle experience.

Battle is something Kokushibo understands.

Kokushibo would enjoy a demon slayer obsession because he can test them.

Kokushibo has always had a strange fixation on legacy.

He feels successors are needed to be properly remembered.

He chose to be a demon for strength, to be stronger... to be remembered.

There's a good chance you would spark the thing he has for legacy.

He would most likely want to see if you're strong enough to learn from him.

He doesn't seem to have an outright hatred for slayers.

He may not like humans, but he still respects a good fighter.

Kokushibo's obsession actually doesn't start until you fight him.

It's then as a slayer, perhaps even a Hashira, you prove to him that you learned well.

Granted, you can't kill him...

Although, you manage to be strong enough to cut him a few times.

All, if not most, are clean cuts.

Unfortunately, you could never get a clean cut on his neck.

Kokushibo's obsession would begin because he's impressed with what you managed to do with breathing techniques.

Now, you could make a fine fighter if you let him help you.

The issue is... most slayers are very prideful.

There's a good chance you aren't going to willingly allow yourself to be made a demon.

You aren't fighting to necessarily get stronger, you're fighting to make life safer for humanity.

How noble... yet it's such a fragile and weak mindset.

I like to imagine Kokushibo allows you to flee a couple times just to fight you again.

It's been a long time since he's felt oddly... excited to fight someone.

He will wait to propose a deal with you.

In fact, he even tells you during some fights he enjoys clashing swords.

You're great entertainment.

Even while he listens to Muzan's words, he finds himself wondering when you'll fight again.

Your style and determination has captivated him...

If only you saw the bigger picture.

One battle you're going to falter.

Each time you think you can read him, he unveils a new Moon Breathing technique.

You'll push yourself too hard... allowing him to get the upper hand...

Then you'll disarm you... probably literally.

It's then Kokushibo forces you into his proposition.

You've proven yourself to him countless times... so...

He offers you immortality and strength, in return for your loyalty to Muzan.

He'll even take you as his apprentice if you accept.

The entire time you're bleeding... arm gone in one swipe as Kokushibo points his bloody blade at your throat.

He acts like this is a decision... That you can choose this...

In reality, his desires have made the choice for you.

Even if you bleed out, tell him no, try to die on him...

He'll force you to take his blood... Muzan's blood.

Truth is, he's quite attached to this slayer.

Even as you grin and tell him to go to Hell... blood gushing from your severed limb and coating the floor...

Kokushibo quietly tilts your head to the side, a clawed hand cutting your skin more... until he cuts his own.

Even if you realize what's happening, you can't fight it.

He's careful on the amount, checking to make sure the transformation goes right.

By the end of it he plans to have another loyal follower to Muzan, and hopefully some form of legacy.

You'll hate him, it may even force fights between you.

Yet Kokushibo doesn't mind, he's always been rather reserved.

Your fights provide more chances to learn your style and break you down.

You'll realize your place soon....

He should have killed you, unfortunately...

He likes you too much to give up his sparring partner.

You're no longer a slayer, you're a demon like him.

Yet you can still be a swordsman.

Kokushibo takes you under his wing once Muzan accepts it.

You are then trained to be his apprentice, to learn your new abilities and hone your old ones.

If he's platonic, it's a bond between teacher and student.

If he's romantic, then he not only treats you as an apprentice... but his lover.

After all, you're strong enough for the title.

Even if you hate it.

Kokushibo is often reserved and cold.

The only time he expresses anything else is with you.

Now, as a demon, you won't ever need to stop battling.

Eventually you'll accept your new life of immortality, maybe even climb the ranks.

Kokushibo feels oddly... prideful once he makes you his.

Through Muzan's blood, you are now connected.

Even if you were fully prepared to accept your death... Kokushibo took that away from you...

Now you two will be able to fight endlessly, skills growing stronger... along with his obsessive tendencies towards you.

[astraerystarr]

Optimus Prime x Megatron fic recs!!

HII AGAIN, I had to delete my old account @numbraerys so I'm reuploading this rec list, sorry about the mess but I'll make the rec a little prettier this time ^^

Homesick For A Memory by Eisengrave, Maelikki [M, 9k w., Bay Movies]

Even Primes can lose their faith. But sometimes, their failed Protectors make good on their word given long ago.(weird little fixit for AoE because we stan a protective Megatron and an Optimus who is finally tired of his human hamsters. Also, homecoming.)

~ugly crying, screaming on my pillow, rolling around on the floor

The Silver Lining by GeminiWishes [Teen and up, 38k w., Transformers Animated 2007]:

After Optimus was expelled from the Autobot Academy, he had no sense of what to do or where to go. Desperate for purpose, he ends up on a mining crew that travels the galaxy. But when their ship is attacked, Optimus' life will change forever.

Whether or not he'll be able to handle those changes is yet to be determined.

~I ran around my room on all fours reading this

Some Kind Of Forever by auri_mynonys (FAVE) [E, 8625 w., TFP]:

A chance meeting in a bar near the Pits brings Orion Pax and Megatronus together.

~I freaking love this fic, I'm so glad it was one of the first I ever read

Adeste Fideles by Legitconcrusher (FAVE) [Teen and up, TFP, 57,632+ w, ongoing]:

“Oh, indulge me, Optimus. How many times have you answered your desire’s calls to walk among these pitiful creatures…in the flesh?”

In which Optimus shares with his greatest foe, and former friend - Megatron, the one time a year he allows himself to feel amid the throes of their War within a Christmas market.

The angsty slow burn Christmas AU no one asked for.

~absolutely wonderful to read and incredible writing♡♡♡♡

Gaining Perspective by Dragonlingdar [Teen and up, BayVerse, 105,732 w., Ongoing]:

Megatron and Optimus are turned into humans by a prototype weapon Starscream uses against them. In order for Megatron to get his revenge and Optimus to free himself of Megatron, they must reclaim their original bodies. However, will they still be Optimus Prime and Megatron by the time they do?

~I hyperfixated on this fic for a whole month after finishing it

Contact by auri_mynonys (FAVE) [E, 98,747 w., TFP]:

Orion Pax knows there's a word for what Megatronus means to him. He just can't quite put his finger on what it is.

Which is probably how he missed the moment where he asked Megatronus to marry him.

~Slow Burn♡♡♡♡♡

Plus One by auri_mynonys [E, 64,631 w., TFP]:

Megatronus has a party to attend. A high-caste date will lend him status in the eyes of his fellow gladiators, and Orion Pax is all too happy to play the part…

~this slow burn was slowly burning, I loved every second of it

Songs Of Metal And Sparks by EbonyAura [Teen and up, 58,741 w., Rock n' Roll AU, TFP]:

Imagine the Transformers Prime universe where war is nonexistent, and instead of the Autobot and Decepticon factions, it's the Autobot and Decepticon rock bands.

Imagine that both bands are nearly world famous, yet have no idea the other exists.

Imagine that Cybertron's festival of music is approaching, and with it, the chance for a lucky upcoming band to go on a world tour.

Imagine that both bands, ecstatic for the chance to finally reach world fame, are going to the festival.

~this cured my teenage heart that didn't get to read nice cute stuff like this

Optimus Prime Is Destined To Die!! by Chuzilllaa (FAVE) [G, 169k+ w, ongoing]:

Orion Pax is your typical archivist from a functionalist free universe and lives a peaceful life, but after dying tragically in a transport incident he’s reincarnated as Optimus Prime of the hit action novel Songs of the Spark, the beautiful but aloof eldest prince of the Prime lineage…who is a pathetic side character doomed to die a tragic death at the hands of the tyrannical Duke Megatron.

Of course his darling little brother Rodimus Prime is the precious hero and puts an end to Megatron’s reign, but Orion has no intention of dying a pathetic death! No! Not again! He wants to live damnit! So begins the attempts of a pax-turned-prime turning over a new leaf in the hope of living another day. Little does he know there’s a bit more to Optimus than a pathetic side character…

~I love this fic so. damn. much.

Lunch Date by Chuzilllaa [Teen and up, 6,000+ w, Earthspark, crack]:

With a new cafe opening at G.H.O.S.T headquarters, Optimus invites Megatron to try something new.

~fluffy and funny♡♡♡

At First Sight by Lyricality (FAVE) [M, 27,000+ w.]:

Optimus is the last of the Primes; Megatron is the greatest of Kaon's gladiatorial warriors. Their shared destiny - Optimus is certain - just needs a push in the correct direction.

~help I got obsessed with this fic and I can't get out

To give (in) by 0 (only_elsewhere) (FAVE) [M, 10,000+ w, Earthspark]:

After the war, Optimus confesses.

~aaashhksdkkklkosljdhjh

Victory Condition by astolat [E, 37,000+ w, TF Gen1]

“Do you want me to tell you a story?” Megatron said mockingly. “You won’t like it, Prime. It’s not a very nice one.”

~cave in fic with poetry and the heart wrenching story of Megatron's origins - my beloved

Cooking Off by zuzeca [E, 2000 w., IDW G1]:

Megatron and Optimus find themselves in an awkward position and learn some extremely personal information about each other.

~ Good reading ;3

[feyascorner]

blurry eyes

summary. Orin takes Astarion as a hostage and you nearly lose your mind trying to get him back. Even when you do, things aren't the way they used to be.

warnings. angst/comfort

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

a/n. fluffier break from TFBU bec it's draining the soul out of me🧍‍♀️ this is kinda messy but for me orin always kidnaps lae’zel and Im glad it’s never astarion but what if;;;

You're not yourself. Everyone knows it. Not since Orin showed up at camp wearing Astarion's face, his own blood smeared on the poor imitation of the cheeks you love so deeply. She taunted you, smiling wickedly in a way that made your stomach churn before you lunged at her with a blade, only for her to vanish into a mist of red.

You usually prefer to use your silver tongue to get out of a dangerous situation. But now, all you want to see is her blood sprayed across a wall.

There are bags under your eyes, going days without sleep. You hadn't realized how accustomed you'd become to his arms cradling you in the dead of night, his cold hands wrapped around your shoulders and your cheek pressed against the crook of his neck. You hadn't realized how attached you'd gotten to him.

The fight is quick. Despite your companion's warnings to get some rest, you charged into Bhaal's temple the moment you had access to it, and rightfully so, because she didn't stand a chance against your wrath.

And now, even with him at your fingertips, laying so peacefully on a stone slab with his eyes shut, all you can feel is the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You gently touch his cheek, and you find that it's cold, as it's always been. There's a slice of a knife, surely to leave a scar if it's not treated well. You smile a bit, the first time in days, thinking of how he'd complain about the blemish a few weeks from now.

He finally stirs, and when his eyes peel open to your face, his face falls.

"Gods above," he whispers. "Stop with the damn tricks, Orin. I'm no fool."

Your heart breaks. And while all you want to do is wrap him in your arms and wipe away his frown, the adrenaline holding you together is long gone. You're exhausted, you realize, only managing to grab the edge of the stone slab before you crumple onto your knees, vision going blurry.

Ah, maybe you should have rested.

No, not when he'd been here to suffer alone, forced to face Orin's blood-thirst. Not when you'd smelled his blood on her blade.

You want to comfort him, but nothing comes through your throat.

The two of you don't speak much. He doesn't speak much to anyone, for that matter, for a few days. You can sense the uneasiness of your other companions, who don't dare ask what Orin did to him while you'd nearly lost yourself trying to get to him. You don't approach him, fearing he might recoil away.

The only thing you can do is watch over him while he writhes in his bed, drenched with sweat and nightmares you cannot take away. You're not even sure if they're about Cazador or Orin anymore, but you can't bring yourself to touch him or the healing scar on his cheek in hopes of soothing him.

It's only two weeks later when most of your companions have gone out, and it's just the two of you on opposite sides of the room. You rub at your blade with a cloth, numbly focused on sharpening it for a bigger foe while he's still reading his book in a silence that should feel comfortable but only makes your mouth dry.

"Hells, I can't do this anymore."

You blink as he strides across the room, and he's suddenly sitting next to you while you continue staring at him like he grew a mushroom from his head. "Do what?"

"We must talk about---well, you know, darling."

Even in this brittle stage of your relationship, the way he says your nickname is loving. It makes your heart squeeze.

You place the blade on the ground. "Okay. We can talk."

There's a silence that hangs in the air before he sighs. "Torture is not a foreign concept to me, my dear. If my years under Cazador's palace did anything for me, it's made my pain tolerance impossibly high."

You frown. This does not make you feel better.

He eyes you from the side, leaning back on both his hands. "What I'm trying to say is, you don't have to worry so much about me. Even if I were to perish, I'm sure there are other vampires willing to help you with your cause to defeat the Elder Brain, though they'd be considerably less charming."

You're immediately on your feet. "Of course, I was worried about you! And I don't care if you've gone through hell and back, pain is still pain, and I don't want to see or think about you even stepping foot into something like that, much less the temple of the Lord of Murder!"

He stands after you. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Other vampires?" you say in disbelief. "Well, I don't want other vampires, I want the one that I can't even sleep without."

Your eyes are glossy now, and you hate yourself for it. You should be consoling him, not becoming emotional over the torture that he experienced. But the words come out like vomit, and you can't stop yourself.

"Love, please don’t ruin your pretty face with tears,” he tries, hands awkwardly hanging in the air as he struggles to find what to do.

“Don't act like getting kidnapped isn't a big deal," you swipe at your eyes. "You won't even talk to us."

He blinks. "Me? Avoid speaking with you?"

"Yes!"

"Well, forgive me for giving you space. You looked positively demented after you were done stabbing that vile woman to the death, I assumed you needed time to recover before I could approach you."

"What? I was giving you space."

"I assure you it was the other way around.”

“You were avoiding me!”

“Because you were avoiding me!”

You're both just staring at each other now, at a loss of words for what turned out to be a miscommunication that should have been resolved days ago. The silence hangs thickly in the air, and a rush of emotions runs between you two, expressions shifting every few moments before they simultaneously become one.

He purses his lips to refrain from smiling. You stifle a laugh.

Then you're both laughing and while the topic of discussion does not warrant as such, you can't help yourself when days of ignoring one another have come down to such a minor bump between you. When both of you calm, you sigh again, this time in utter relief. "This was anticlimactic."

"It was," he confirms. "But this one time, I don't mind."

Wordlessly, you wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face into his chest while he returns the gesture by holding you tighter. You stand there a bit, quietly, until he clears his throat.

"For the record, I don't want you to go around searching for other vampires."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

You decide he can tell you more about what happened when the time comes, but now, you're more than happy the way you are.

[bakuliwrites]

As Astarion regains his autonomy, he learns to love all the things his body can do, both for others and for himself.

His elegant hands work needle and thread with ease. He's embroidered nearly every article of clothing he owns. And maybe if you ask nicely, he'll add some much needed embellishment to yours, too.

Can't open that locked chest? Don't worry, darling, he's on it. His nimble fingers make quick work of it. He plays it off as no big deal, but secretly likes it when you praise him for his efforts. Or, he makes a gigantic deal of your praise in the most obnoxious way possible, but deep down, he truly does appreciate it.

His silver tongue can draw from you the most sumptuous moans and the sweetest blushes, but also the most jubilant of laughter. He prides himself on his quick wit and is delighted when you provide him with the sustenance of banter.

He's lithe and swift. He can dodge volleys of arrows fired at him, deftly roll out of harms way, or dexterously slip from the grasp of his captors. He's a master with a dagger and bow. Watch him take down foes, left and right. He's strong. He can lift boxes, crates, barrels, you name it. Need help lifting something? Astarion can certainly assist (but not without some amount of whining).

His voice can be soft and sultry, like when he's reading poetry to you under flickering candlelight. It can be strong and commanding when he's defending himself or you. Firm when he needs to advocate for himself. You remind him to always advocate for himself, a notion he's only recently started to take to heart.

His eyes are keen. They can see in the shadows with utmost precision. He's observant, something he's had to be in order to survive. His excellent eyesight has come in handy many a time over the course of your journey.

He likes that his nose can pick up the scent of blood from a mile away. He likes how precise his sense of smell is when it comes to differentiating blood. He likes that his ears can pick up the faintest sounds. Centuries of living in darkness, of having to sneak about have helped him hone his senses.

He likes the way he can feel delightful tingles coursing through his veins when you run your fingers through his fine, silver hair. He likes the way the fine strands of snowy white curl over his forehead, tickle his skin when a breeze lifts them.

He likes the way you describe him. It's been so long since he's seen himself in a mirror, but your verbal (or literal) illustrations of him will suffice. He's edges and angles. Paleness, crimson, and silver. Ethereal. He's pretty and he knows it, but sometimes, the reassurance is much appreciated. Much needed.

Astarion likes that he can bring you pleasure. He likes that he can feel pleasure all his own when he's with you. He doesn't have to use his body to ensure his own safety. To guarantee that you won't harm or betray him. He likes that you don't ask him to do anything he doesn't want to.

Astarion loves his body. He loves how strong it is. How swift, how fragile, how durable it is. He loves how hard it works for him. Astarion's body is his and his alone, and he loves this.

[yan-lorkai]

Y!Leona x tiger!reader. [gn]

oh boy. the hatred that fuels them. a tiger and a lion in one room? fatal combat.

[y] can be described as a “hot-headed” person.

anger issues.

always carries a weapon. [usually a sword.]

somewhat a nerd, straight 100% and 90%.

Bad at hiding their emotions.

..actually very blunt about their feelings. why bother hiding them?

Easily provoked.

Extroverted.

Gets carries away easily.

impatient.

Bite first then bark.

knowing how they are; they were assigned the Savanclaw dorm. ohh, how amusing things will be!

Hcs.. scenarios.. do whatever u want :) thank you.

sorry, is this too much? too specific? not much information? my apologies, if so, you may delete this if you don’t feel like doing it due to it.

ty !!

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: This have been sitting on my drafts for awhile now, it was super detailed and I sort of blue screemed the first time I read it but I kind like the result. So hopefully you like as well, darling hehe. I did some hcs btw.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Leona, being the proud and territorial lion he is, initially views you, a tiger, as a threat to his dominance. He has the entire Savanaclaw following his very order and he doesn't like the thought of you messing things up. The very first time you cross paths, there’s an intense standoff where both of you silently try to assert your power over each other, as you are very blunt and doesn't think much about what you're talking. He finds later, when alone in his room, that he kind of likes your honesty, it's a bit endearing, even if it gives him a headache.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ His gaze is sharp, filled with a mix of feelings, overall, curiosity about you. Sometimes he send Ruggie to watch over you so he can learn about your routine, likes and dislikes, and what kind of person you are. And sometimes he come find you himself to annoy you, since you are so reckless and easily provoked, and he think you're funny when you act without thinking about the consequences. Truly, he is fascinated by your strength and beauty, seeing you as a perfect mate, and he’s determined to make you his by any means necessary.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Unexpectedly but he likes how intelligent you are. The two of you, after overcoming your differences, can be found having long conversations that no one else seems to follow - just further proof of how perfect you can be, of how you were made to be his.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Leona’s possessive tendencies manifest in his overly protective behavior. Despite your own strength and independence, being capable of fighting with a sword and with your own powers, he’s constantly shadowing you, ensuring no one else comes near his “territory”. If anyone, friend or foe, tiger or not, dares to approach you, Leona’s wrath is immediate and fierce.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ He justifies his actions by telling you that it’s for your safety, though it’s clear that his possessiveness knows no bounds. He’ll keep you close, often initiating fights just to remind you who the dominant one is - not liking how sociable you can be with other beastmen, yet his gaze softens only for you and his touch is just as soft, his possessive obsession a twisted form of love, since he doesn't know any better, growing up being hated by everyone he knew.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ While Leona’s initial approach is aggressive and domineering, he eventually realizes that to truly claim you, he must respect you, for you too are too similar, too hot headed and stubborn. He allows you some space in his humble abode but always makes it clear that it’s still his domain. However, this submission is a calculated move; he knows that by giving you a semblance of freedom, you’ll let your guard down, making it easier for him to manipulate you into staying by his side permanently.

[taevbears]

Acorns & Thimbles - 01

I met the devil by the window, traded my life Temptation touched my tongue, spread the wings of desire

⤑ pairing: hoseok x reader ⤑ genre: faerie au, yandere, dark fantasy ⤑ rating: 18+ ⤑ word count: 5.7k ⤑ warnings: YANDERE/DARK ROMANCE, manipulation, blackmail, mc is often called "darling", faeries are evil creatures in this world lol. nothing too crazy in this chapter but, uh... it does get pretty crazy lmao. ⤑ note: happy birthday, hobi ♡ if i were to have a coin for every time i'd post a mini-series on a member's bday, i'd have 2 coins. which isn't a lot, but it's still funny that it happened twice💀. anyway, i've been working on this story for literally over a year, and i've finally had the drive to complete it! i'm so glad to share this story with you, and i hope you all enjoy!

Chapters 01 | 02 | 03| 04 | 05 (End)

Your grandmother is an odd, old woman, closed off from the rest of her small, quaint town with her little cottage on a hill.

She’s become skittish and grouchy, raising her gravelly voice and cursing animosities in the air. Weary neighbors whisper their growing concerns, bearing witness to her arguments against invisible foes.

More than once, someone had found her in front of her yard, squinting at the ground beneath her frail hands and feet. Alarmed, they’d cross the iron gate to help her up, only to realize she’s there with purpose. Meticulously, she’d count the number of leaves on clovers out loud, grumbling under her breath as she desperately tries to find one with four.

It seems that with her age, her mind is starting to deteriorate. She’d walk around town with her clothes inside-out, leave fresh milk, butter, or cream out by her front door to rot instead of putting them away, and pocket random things like iron nails, red jaspers, packets of salt, and small bells and chimes.

“It’s a shame to see her like this,” one of your younger brothers confides. It’s been decided that your poor grandmother can't live on her own anymore. That she needs someone to take care of her.

“Yeah,” your other brother agrees with a long sigh. “Nana wasn’t always like that.”

In fact, your grandmother had always been so full of life and joy. Despite her wrinkles and graying hair, she was a child at heart, witty with a silver tongue, and made the long stays at her home fun when you were all children. The nursery, where the three of you slept, had a toy box with wooden swords and costumes, a collection of fairy tales she'd read to you all before bed, and a large window with a thin curtain that was always open.

Growing up, your parents had to work a lot and often left you and your brothers under her care. Your childhood is full of fond memories of make-believe adventures for hidden treasures, running barefoot across her lush garden and pretending to fly, and listening to her wonderful stories about mermaids, pirates, dwarves, elves, and faeries.

Your imagination was so vivid as a child, surely influenced by your grandmother and her long tales. Sometimes, you still see pieces of your time at her cottage and your thrilling expeditions of pretend. Fragments of following the leader through the thickets and foliage of a beast-filled jungle, of playing house in an underground bunker and punishing your unruly sons with vile, sticky-sweet medicine, and meeting the very creatures who inhabit the dream-like island located second to the right of the north star.

One of those inhabitants, if you could recall correctly, was a boy.

A faerie, to be more precise.

His skin was golden like the warm rays of a summer sun. Pointed ears folded over a hat you sewed for him one day, and he refused to take it off since. He always had a bright smile on his heart-shaped lips, and had a contagious laughter that could make flowers bloom.

He was a friend to you. Maybe something more.

He'd tuck wildflowers in your tangled hair when you slept on his lap, teach you how to fly and fight so you’d triumph over your enemies together, and come by the nursery window each night so he could sneak you out and take you on another adventure.

Then, one day, the window to the nursery was closed shut. The curtains were drawn together, and you were no longer waiting for him to take you away somewhere.

Because like all children, eventually, you and your brothers started to grow up.

The visits to your grandmother’s cottage became less and less frequent. The memories of that place and that boy long-forgotten like a distant dream.

School kept you occupied through your youth. Then, you attended college and studied hard to earn your degrees. Then, you applied for jobs and worked through shifts. You made friends over the years – ones who aren’t lost boys or creatures from fairy tales – and spend a lot of your time with them. You’ve even met a couple boys that taught you love when you got together, and taught you heartbreak when it didn’t work out. You became independent of your parents and made a home for yourself, and before you knew it, you realized that you had grown up as well.

Both of your younger brothers are well accomplished with their lives. One is married with their first child on the way. The other is studying abroad in a foreign country. Neither of them, however, would be able to take care of your poor grandmother full-time.

So, rather easily, it was decided that you’d be the one to move in and look after her.

It felt like a blessing in disguise.

You’ve become a writer with the intention of creating novels of fantasy and adventure. Instead, you work in a soul-sucking office job, where the company berates young women like yourself and it feels very much like a boys club among the staff. The friends you made, you hardly keep in touch with now, as all of you have become too busy to meet up with each other more than a few times a year. And after a recent messy breakup, the place you shared with your ex is no longer your home, and you can’t afford to live on your own with your current measly paycheck.

A fresh start at a place that you once grew up in feels like a miracle.

You could start all over. Never having to look back at the burdens and troubles that have been weighing you down and keeping you from flying.

After talking to your family about it, and eagerly insisting that you’d be more than happy to take care of your grandmother, you packed your bags, quit your job at the office, and quietly moved away. Gone with the wind as your next adventure unfolds.

“Good luck, sis. Let us know if you need anything.”

Your brother gives you a hug when he drops you off at your grandmother’s cottage. It’s a big change, and it’s been years since you’ve last been here. But as you grab your bags and turn to face the old cottage, perched up on the hill, with an iron gate around the flourishing garden of vividly-bright flowers and lush greenery, the nostalgia hits you like a wave.

Memories of your childhood, your play-pretend adventures with your brothers, and the wonderful stories your grandmother would tell all flood back to you like arms of an old friend welcoming you home after a long time apart.

Your grandmother greets you and your brother with tight hugs and remarks of how you’ve both grown up. It almost seems like she’s her old self again, quipping at your brother and asking how his wife is doing. You let them catch up and take the opportunity to settle in.

Not much has changed from what you remember. The aromatic notes of herbs and teas your grandmother likes to brew still linger in the house. The antiques she’d collect are still on display, and the furniture she has are a bit worn and outdated. Even the nursery that you stayed in as a child hasn’t changed much: the toy box is still there, your brother’s teddy bear is on the bed he used to sleep in, and the window with the thin curtain is still shut.

The floor creaks as you slowly walk around the nursery, reminiscing on the old furniture and dusty toys. Yet, your gaze keeps drifting toward the window and the little latch that keeps it shut.

How many times have you sat by it and daydreamed about that world of make-believe? How lonely had you been to longingly gaze out of it and wish to meet an imaginary friend that’d keep you company? How often have you used it to look at the stars and wish – and hope – to be taken away and leave all your childish worries behind?

Before you know it, you’re standing right in front of it.

You draw back the dusty curtains and let light flood in.

“Don’t open that window, dear.”

You nearly jump in surprise, quickly turning to see your grandmother had come to the door. “Hi Nana. Why not?”

She doesn’t answer. Rather, she simply stares at you for a long moment, almost as if she’s lost in her own thoughts. But her eyes shift. You realize it wasn’t you that she was staring at, but the window. When you turn to face it, you see nothing there.

“Don’t open the window,” she repeats firmly. “He’s been waiting for you to open it again.”

“Who is?” you ask, thoroughly confused.

You don’t know who she’s talking about, or why it would matter when the window is on the second floor. But when you turn to face your grandmother again, she’s gone. 

Your brother left hours ago, and you’ve finally unpacked the last of your belongings after an exhausting afternoon of cleaning, laundry, rearranging some furniture in the nursery, and cooking dinner for you and your grandmother.

She follows you around all day as you catch her up on how you’ve been doing. It feels nice to connect with her again. She’s still a great storyteller and seems happy to be in your company. But there’s a worried look on her face when she thinks you’re not looking as her eyes drift to something unseeable over your shoulder.

“Are you sure you want to stay there?” she asks as you help her settle in bed. She suddenly looks uncomfortable with the idea of you being in the nursery.

“I’ll be fine, Nana. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t open the window,” she reminds you before you wish her goodnight.

Luckily, you can still fit in your old bed, although it is clearly designed for a child. You grimace a bit at the heart-shaped frame and the faded green paint, and make a note to yourself to start looking for new furniture soon. You send your other brother a picture of his old teddy bear, and he exclaims how he remembers it once he had a chance to see your message. Soon, that led you to face-timing both of your brothers and showing them all the old toys and costumes that are all still in the room.

“I should’ve stayed and helped move some of them to the attic,” your brother remarks with a slight shake of his head. “Maybe I’ll stop by this weekend and do that.”

“I don’t know. I kind of like seeing them here,” you admit with a fond smile, opening a tiny drawer. Inside are stools of thread, loose buttons, pins in cushions, and other sewing tools. You rummage through the drawer and realize you’re missing a silver thimble.

However, in its place, you find something else.

“What’s that?” your brother asks when you pull out what looks like an old necklace. Hanging on the black, leather thread is an acorn with a hole in the middle.

“I don’t know,” you reply, holding it up by the thread. Your pulse quickens, your heart remembering something that you can’t place the memory of. Yet, somehow, you know that it’s yours. “Did either of you give this to me?”

Both of them shake their heads and shrug. If neither of them gifted it to you, then who…?

Outside, you hear a strange sound. Like the whistle of a flute. It sounds close, yet far away at the same time.

“What’s wrong, sis?” your brother asks, seeing your perplexed expression from his phone screen.

“I thought I heard something,” you tell them, standing by the window now. Through the glass pane, you can’t see anything, and your free hand touches the iron lock that keeps it closed. Was it a bird? What was it doing, crowing at this hour of night?

“What did you hear?”

“I thought… I heard…” you slowly answer, pulling on the latch and the lock clicks open. You slide it up, and the wind gathers, seeming to assist you at that moment, letting the window fly open. A chill runs up your spine as a cold breeze pass, but all you hear now is the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of a dog barking. “It’s probably nothing.”

The wind dies down, but you still shiver. Suddenly, you remember your grandmother wanted you to keep it closed. You stand on your toes and pull the window back down, unaware of how the shadows seem to shift around the nursery as it shuts with a soft thud.

“Sis?” your brother calls out to you, and you’ve almost forgotten you were still on the phone with them.

“It’s nothing,” you repeat, more to yourself than to them. Perhaps it’s the paranoia of disobeying your grandmother’s request, but it suddenly feels like someone is watching you. 

When you sleep that night, your dream is vivid. More than it’s ever been in a long time.

You dream of swords clashing and cannons firing amidst a grand battle against a ship of pirates for their buried treasure. You dream of a mermaid’s lullaby in a moonlit lagoon, and how she knows all the secrets of the dark waters. You dream of elven wanderers and their ancient traditions, bearded dwarves and their brave expedition into a skull-shaped cave, and a group of handsome men cloaked in animal skins as they enjoy their meal in a woodsy hideout. You dream of faeries glowing like fireflies as they dance together with the moon and stars above them.

“I missed you.”

The voice that whispers is familiar, but belongs to someone you can’t quite put a face to.

“What is this place?” you find yourself asking, sitting on a pink cloud and looking at the island below. A little world that you strangely feel attached to. It feels nostalgic. It feels like home.

And it feels like it’s beckoning to you. Compelling you to warm its cold, icy seas after so many winters without you. To bring light into the world where it’s been so dark without your presence. To stay forever, and never leave this world again.

Someone is with you. A friend, you think. The person the voice belongs to. The one who rules over this world you dream about.

His skin is golden like the summer sun, body lean and strong as he wears clothing made of leaves and vines. A coy smile curves on his familiar heart-shaped lips.

“You don’t remember, darling? This place is ours.”

You wake before you figure out who it is. Or what he meant.

Sunlight shines through the nursery window, and a breeze gently blows in.

You frown as you stare at it.

You’re certain you had closed it before you went to bed. 

For the first time in a while, you open your laptop, pull up a blank document, and write.

You write about the dream you had: the peculiar island and the strange creatures that inhabit it. You write about their adventures, and the magic that faith, trust, and pixie dust can bring. You write about the feeling of floating and how thinking happy thoughts can lift you in the air.

You write about the boy you saw and what you can remember of him.

Then, you stop. The room is silent without the tapping of your keyboard. For a moment, you stare at what you wrote and frown.

Somehow, trying to remember the boy in your dreams feels strange. You can recall the clothes he wears, the way being around him feels like basking in the sunlight, and the small dimples on his cheeks that look like tiny hidden kisses that reveal themselves when he smiles. But you can’t remember his face. You can’t remember his eyes.

It feels like you’re searching for a memory. Even if you’re certain you just made him up.

Was he based on someone you knew as a child? An old classmate? Someone you wanted to be friends with?

It doesn’t seem like it. Yet, whoever that person is in your dream, he must have been important to you.

“This place is ours.”

You save the draft and close the laptop with a sigh, fiddling with the acorn necklace you decided to wear lately. What did he mean by that? And why did it feel like he was actually in your head?

For the next few nights, you have the same recurring dream. You see glimpses of that island: the mermaid lagoon with crystal clear waters, the dark and damp caverns of the skull-rock cave, the giant trees with deep roots that hide hidden houses for faeries and the lost boys, and the grand ship the pirates use to hunt for treasures. You hear the sound of twinkling bells from the tiny faeries, the sound of laughter in the woods, the song of pirates as they sail the sea. You smell the firewood of a large bonfire the elves made, the strong stench of alcohol the dwarves share with each other, the salty air of the island where water meets shore. Your dreams become so vivid, you could almost swear you’re there.

“This can all be yours if you wish it.”

The next time you see him in your dreams, you’re no longer floating on a pink cloud above the island. You’re on the island now. Your bare feet touch the green grass and dirt. You feel the cool, sea breeze against your hair and skin. You see flowers bloom prettily, drawn to the warmth of the person behind you.

His arms wrap around you, pulling your back to his chest. Being in his embrace doesn’t alarm you. Rather, it feels familiar, like he’s held you like this before. You find yourself melting into his touch.

When he kisses your cheek, warmth lingers on your face. Somehow, that feels familiar too.

“Who are you?” you ask him this time.

His kisses trail down to your neck now. His lips on your neck are something different, but not unwelcome. A soft sigh falls from your own lips and you feel his smirk against your skin.

“A friend,” he tells you. He places a kiss on your shoulder now.

“I meant your name.” 

He laughs. And something stirs inside your heart, like a magic spell has been cast from the sound. “That, you’ll have to work a little harder for, darling.”

And before you could turn and look at his face, you wake up.

When you dream of him, he’s always just out of view. Yet, always with you wherever you go. Like a shadow.

As soon as you open your eyes, you grab your laptop and flip it open. The document is already on the screen as soon as you log in, and while the dream is still fresh in your mind, you write everything you remember: the adventure you went on this time, the part of the island that he showed you, what you guys did there, what was said.

What his name is…

Your fingers type it out. Without thinking about it, without even realizing what you’ve done. And suddenly, the answer is there before you.

Four letters that form one name.

Hope 

“My darling,” your grandmother begins, sitting on her rocking chair by a warm fire. “Do you remember the rules I taught you?”

You pause what you’re doing. The water in a large pot continues to roll into a boil as the red sauce you’re making heats the fresh tomatoes, meatballs, and herbs.

At first, you think it’s about the window at the nursery. The night you arrived here, you only opened it for a minute before you quickly closed it again. Surely, your grandmother was sound asleep then. She couldn’t have known that you opened the window, right?

“What rules, Nana?” you ask her, adding the pasta noodles into the boiling water.

“The rules about the Fae.”

You stop again. “The Fae?”

“The first rule,” she begins as she continues to rock on her chair. “Do not draw the attention of mischievous faeries.”

“But—” You part your lips, almost pointing out to her that faeries aren’t real. But something stops you. Somehow, telling her that feels like a lie.

“The second rule,” she continues. “Do not tell them your name.”

Names hold power to the Fae. You remember that much from your grandmother’s stories.

“Like Rumpelstiltskin,” you mention, recalling the tale of a naïve girl who gets out of a bad contract she later regrets by learning the little spinster’s true name.

She nods her head. “The third rule. Do not lie to them.”

Guilt starts to creep up on you for opening the window at the nursery. Although she hasn’t mentioned it again, a part of you is paranoid that she somehow found out about it anyway.

“Sounds like the moral of a children’s story,” you comment, half-joking as you finish up making the pasta. It’s nearly finished.

“The fourth rule,” she goes on more sternly, a small frown on her thin lips. “Do not accept gifts, food, or favors from the Fae.”

“Right,” you mutter, turning off the heat of the stove and serving the meal.

This rule, you know as well.

Your grandmother has told you stories of how faeries lure lost souls into the woods, trapping them into their world. Of bargains that don’t go as planned, leading to a price to pay with one’s servitude and torture to the tricksters. You’ve seen strange reports of mysterious disappearances and rings of mushrooms and pebbles left behind, of people entranced in a waltz-like dance as they edge toward the end of a cliff and slip to their deaths, and of people who’ve tasted the food and drinks of the Fae and later find themselves poisoned from the sticky, sweet indulgence.

“And the fifth, but most important rule of all,” she finishes, turning to look you in the eye. “Should you find yourself in their debt, you must give something of equal value in return. Only then will your debt be repaid.”

You sense the worry in her voice, and it occurs to you then that she knows. You had opened the window, let something in that you shouldn’t have, and whatever it is now targets you. The dreams, and now the rules about the Fae.

“Nana, why are you telling me this?” you ask her, helping her to her seat on the table.

“So you could learn from my mistakes.” She is quiet for a long moment as you serve her plate. She doesn’t seem to want to eat as she looks at you with guilt in her eyes. “I have a confession, my dear.”

“What is it?” you ask, settling down on your own spot on the table.

“When I was young, there was a place that I went to. A wonderful world full of adventure. I didn’t want to grow up. I still wanted to play and have fun, and not think about grown-up things like work, bills, and raising a family.” She grimaces as she thinks about how foolish she was then. How she loves her children and her grandchildren more than anything now. “I made a deal with the faeries then. I didn’t want things to change. I wanted to stay the same, but once I started to grow up, I realized that this wasn’t what I wanted anymore. So I made a new deal with them.”

Neither of you have touched your plates. You look at your grandmother with a small frown. “What was the deal?”

“I would take back my contract, grow old and allow time to resume normally again, if they leave my children alone,” she admits with a frown. “I fell in love with your grandfather. I knew we’d be married and have a family together, but that wasn’t good enough. A change of contract means nothing to them when the family I was going to have meant everything.”

You feel your chest tighten. “So, what did they want?”

“They wanted you,” she tells you sullenly. “The first-born of my kin from the child they couldn’t have.”

“That’s… quite a story, Nana.” You’re not sure what to say, or how much of it is true. Things like dealings with faeries, contracts, and such are all make-believe. Isn’t it?

“I just want to remind you of those rules, my dear,” she replies with a sad smile. “Before he tries to take you from me again.”

You don’t believe in faeries.

But your grandmother does.

Perhaps, as a child, you once did too. Mischievous by nature, you’d once claim that they’re the reason your hair gets tangled in the morning when you wake up, or why you seem to keep misplacing your things. Your brothers would call you silly and forgetful, but your grandmother, upon when you had first told her about these minor inconveniences, suddenly looked at you with worry.

That day, when you were still a child, she had tightly held your hand and told you the five rules. The five things to always remember when dealing with them.

However, you were just a child. Following rules seemed boring to you when the temptation of adventure came to your window every night.

In the shadows, the one called Hope would silently watch you as you played with your brothers, jumping on the bed and swinging around a wooden sword as you’d re-tell your version of fairy tales – ones that often involved defeating treacherous foes and overcoming difficult obstacles, but always ended with a true love’s kiss.

Embodied as a boy around your age, he slipped through the open window and personally invited you to his world of adventure. He liked your stories, he liked that you could prove you’re just as tough as your brothers and could fit right in with his group of friends, and he liked how you had a sweeter, softer, motherly side of you as well.

Every time he took you to that place, he didn’t want you to leave. Yet, you always had to.

You’d worry about your brothers when they weren’t with you, or you’d be afraid your grandmother would forget about you and shut the window before you could make it back home. You had school, a family, and a home here – you couldn’t stay with him all the time like he wanted you to.

So, Hope brought between worlds with the condition that you’d come back.

And for a while, you kept your word, meeting him again by the window the very next night.

Until one day, you didn’t.

The nursery window had been shut and locked, and you and your brothers had returned to your parents to grow up and forget. Your promise with the faerie had been broken.

You find yourself with your laptop open again, reading through the notes you’ve jotted down every morning after you’d wake up. Tabs are open on your browser on websites about the Fae, and your grandmother’s illness is starting to make sense to you.

It’s not the air she’s scolding and warning to get away from her. There are reasons she’s seeking protection in forms of four-leaf clovers, inverted clothes, and carrying objects of iron with her at all times. That the dairy and sweets she leaves by her door are an offering to appease them so they won’t cause her and her family harm.

Because she can see them.

Wisps of light that float out in her garden at night, lingering hauntingly until the dawn breaks. Forms of small animals like squirrels, mice, and birds that come to her door for old buttons, pretty stones, and shiny objects. Tiny, mischievous winged humans that can spoil food before their expiration or hide keys and coins when no one is looking.

Faeries.

For some reason, they’ve been harassing your grandmother lately. Perhaps, they’ve been bothering her longer than you thought, angry that she had taken you away from them and that world they wanted to keep you in.

And now that you’re here…

“So, you figured it out?”

You gasped, turning to the source. By the open window, as the ends of the curtains float with the wind, the one called Hope stands before you. Only, he isn’t a boy anymore.

Rule #1: Do not draw the attention of mischievous faeries.

The man before you is tall and thin, with a sharp jaw and a perfect nose. The apples of his cheeks rise with his heart-shaped smile. His skin is golden, glowing warmly like rays of the sun. The tips of his ears are a little pointier, and sunlight seems to naturally highlight his hair and brown eyes.

Faeries, as you’ve researched, come in different forms. Sometimes as small animals. Sometimes as nymphs, sprites, wisps, and pixies. Sometimes, however, they appear to you in a strange form. Human. Visible.

Only strong faeries can do that. Like kings and queens of the Fae.

He looks at you curiously, and although it should alarm you that he suddenly appeared in your room, it doesn’t.

You know him. You’ve seen him in your dreams.

Rule #2: Do not tell them your name.

“Hope?”

His smile widens, almost devilish. “Hope? What happened to Hobi?”

“Hobi,” you repeat, and somehow, that name sounds familiar on your tongue as well. “Is that what I called you?”

“You don’t remember?” He feigns hurt, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head a little. “You sure changed a lot since the last time I saw you, darling.”

“Darling,” you echo, feeling your heart stir at the pet name. You remember him calling you that in your dreams as well. Is that what he always called you?

Rule #3: Do not lie to them.

The faerie moves closer to you, frowning as he looks you in the eye. Your heart pounds nervously as you hold his piercing gaze. “You’ve forgotten all about me, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve never—“ you start, but you catch yourself. You have met him. Considered him a friend, even. The dreams, the memories of your childhood. How much of it was real, and how much of it was make-believe?

Rule #4: Do not accept gifts, food, or favors from the Fae.

“Well, it doesn't matter,” he states, finally backing off. “You’re here now. I can show you all the things you’ve forgotten again.”

That paradise island. The one that you’ve been dreaming so often about. A small part of you can’t believe it’s real and not just some figment of your imagination. That this faerie could actually take you there.

“At what cost?” you find yourself asking.

The faerie smirks. “Clever.”

A commotion comes from downstairs. You hear the distinct sound of twinkling, like the chimes of a small bell. Following that, your grandmother’s voice.

“I told you to stay away from me!” she snaps from downstairs. A crash of a shattering plate, flung to a wall. Thuds of other things being knocked over as your grandmother continues to yell at the faeries to leave her alone. Alarmed, you jump to your feet, ready to rush down to help her. But the presence of the faerie intruder makes you stop in the middle of the room.

How long has she been enduring them on her own until they drove her mad? How far will they try to break her until they get what they want? How much longer can she still protect you from them?

Rule #5: Should you find yourself in their debt, you must give something of equal value in return. Only then will your debt be repaid.

You turn to the faerie. “If I go with you, will you leave my family alone?”

“If you wish it,” he simply replies, but his mouth twitches in a small smile. You feel like you’re falling right into his trap.

The commotion downstairs gets louder. Your grandmother is shrieking as she tries to chase the faeries out, her voice desperate and exhausted from their illusions and magic. You want to stop it for her sake.

“If I go with you, will I see my family again?” you ask, thinking about your brothers, your parents, and your grandmother. A sudden wave of déjà vu hits you, as if you’ve asked him this before. You fumble awkwardly with the memory, trying to grasp it.

“What about my brothers?” you ask the boy by your window, looking at their sleeping forms. He doesn’t seem enthusiastic with the idea of bringing them with you. “And Mother, and Father? Nana will surely find out too.”

“There’ll be mermaids,” he tells you, smiling as your eyes light up.

“Mermaids?” you echo, thinking of how amazing it’d be to meet one.

“Pirates.”

“Pirates!” you exclaim, then quickly cover your mouth, nearly rousing your brothers from their sleep. He wants you to tell the ending of your Cinderella story yourself to his friends, and in exchange, he’ll take you to a magical place.

How easy it was for him then, when you didn’t know any better. And how terribly naïve you were, making deals with the devil by your window.

You hear your grandmother shouting your name now, trying to make her way upstairs. The faeries, it seems, have suddenly stopped bothering her. They’ve quieted down, but she knows that something is wrong.

“Forget them, darling. Forget them all,” he whispers, coming up behind you. His lips brushes against your ear as your pulse races, kissing you as lightly as the wings of a faerie. “Come with me, and you’ll never, never have to worry about a thing again.”

Your grandmother’s shouts are getting closer. You can hear her running up the stairs as fast as her frail legs can take her.

You turn to face the faerie behind you. He stands so close to you, you could kiss him. “Never is an awfully long time.”

Your grandmother is an odd, old woman, and there are five rules that she taught you, in hopes that you’d remember them when facing the Fae. Since you were a child, she’s protected you and your brothers from the devilish creatures she sees, from the one in particular that has staked his claim on you.

It would be nice to say she made it to the nursery on time. That all her charms and rituals of protection are enough to repel him and banish him from her home.

But as she opened the door to the nursery, you were gone. Vanished into thin air, just as she feared.

All that’s left is the gentle breeze that blows the thin curtains from the open window.

Thank you for reading ♡ Comments & reviews are greatly appreciated!

Masterlist | Next

[muiitoloko]

Operation Dog Flap

Summary: Frank Benson, once feared on the battlefield, meets his greatest foe yet: the family dog door. Recovery comes with butter, bruised pride, and a bit of tenderness.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader & OC

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: I don't know why, but I like to write about Frank being domestic. 😅 This story is based on "The Barber, the Boy, and the Bloody Disaster," but you don't need to read it to understand this one.

Also read on Ao3

It was 1:56 a.m. when Frank Benson, retired Lieutenant General, former pillar of the British Army, and current drunken idiot, staggered down the quiet street toward his house.

He was overdue. By hours.

He’d told you—promised you—that he’d be home by eleven sharp. “Just a poker night with the lads,” he’d said. “I’ll be back before you know it. No fuss.” And you, being far more generous than he deserved, had even packed him a flask, kissed his cheek, and warned him not to drink too much.

He had, in fact, drunk too much.

He had no bloody idea how much he paid the cab driver. Could’ve been fifty quid. Could’ve been his bank card and the deed to the house. He didn’t care. Not in that moment. Not with the cold air biting at his face and his coat clinging half-open because he’d forgotten how to button it.

He shuffled up the steps of the porch, boots thudding heavily on the wood. The light above the door was off. No lamp in the window. No flickering telly glow from the sitting room. You’d gone to bed. Of course you had.

Frank reached into his pocket, then frowned.

He patted his coat, then his trousers. Then checked his other coat pocket—only to pull out a crumpled receipt from the kebab place near the base and a cigarette lighter he didn’t recognize.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, his baritone roughened by cold and whiskey. “Left the damned key... somewhere.”

He stared at the front door. It stared back, unyielding and proper. Frank rapped on it with more force than necessary, his knuckles thudding against the wood.

“Darling!” he called, slurring just slightly. “Sweetheart! Open the bloody door!”

Silence.

He tried again, louder this time. “Thomas! It’s Daddy! I lost the key—open up for your old man, eh?”

Still nothing.

Frank squinted at the windows, scanning for movement. He spotted none. Not even Max, the scrappy mutt you’d adopted six months ago after he wandered into your garden and promptly stole Frank’s sock.

“Max!” Frank hissed. “Come on, boy! Help your bloody provider!”

Still. No. Answer.

He picked up a few pebbles from the garden and lobbed them at the upstairs window.

Clink.

Clink.

…Thunk.

That last one had missed the window entirely and hit the gutter. Still no lights.

Frank groaned, turning in a slow, dizzy circle on the porch, arms outstretched in confusion. “She’s ignoring me. I’m locked out. In my own sodding house.”

He sat on the steps with a dramatic sigh, grumbling to himself about betrayal and dishonor and how, in his day, the enemy at least announced they were locking you out before leaving you to freeze.

The cold bit deeper.

Frank sniffed, crossed his arms, and stubbornly muttered, “Fine. I’ll sleep right here. I’ve slept in trenches colder than this.” He settled onto the porch like a man preparing for a siege.

Then—

A thought. A wonderful, horrible, drunk idea.

Frank slowly turned his head toward the side of the house. Specifically, to the dog door.

He squinted.

Then stood.

Then waddled—slowly, determinedly—down the side path until he stood over the small flap installed in the back door. It was just big enough for Max, a medium-sized mutt. Not quite a terrier, not quite a shepherd, not quite anything definable.

Frank studied the flap with the sort of tactical precision he had once reserved for military reconnaissance.

“…I’ve fit into tighter spots,” he muttered.

And then, without further thought—because thinking was a young man’s game—Frank dropped to his knees, hiked up his coat, and began to shimmy his way through the dog door.

It went poorly. His head passed through easily enough. So did his shoulders, just barely. But once his chest and soft belly followed suit? He got stuck.

Firmly. Utterly. Stuck.

Frank groaned, trying to push himself forward. The flap creaked. The frame protested. His hips did not budge. Half in and half out, his arse stuck outside and his chest mashed against the kitchen tiles, Frank let his forehead drop to the floor.

“Well done, Benson,” he muttered, his voice echoing in the dark. “Broke into your own home. Through a dog flap. Like a common burglar.”

A soft noise drew his attention. Pawsteps.

Then—

Lick.

Max appeared from the shadows, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He gave Frank’s face a long, wet lick, tail thudding against the cabinets.

“Oh, sure,” Frank grumbled, flinching slightly as the dog cheerfully assaulted him with kisses. “Now you show up.”

Max barked, clearly delighted by this midnight intrusion. Frank sighed again, long and dramatic, like a man who had fought valiantly and lost to his own foolishness.

“Fetch Mummy, would you?” he murmured into the floorboards. “Tell her her bloody husband’s stuck in the dog door.”

Max gave another bark, trotted in a circle… and then curled up beside Frank like it was all perfectly normal.

“…Traitor.”

He lay there for what felt like a small eternity. Long enough for the whiskey to fade into a dull headache. Long enough for the shame to settle properly.

It was going to be a long night.

It was just after eight o'clock when you padded barefoot down the stairs, a warm robe wrapped around you, your hair still tousled from sleep, when you caught sight of something strange in the kitchen doorway. You stopped. Squinted. Then blinked.

There, half-inside the house and half-outside, was your husband—Lieutenant General Frank Benson, retired, decorated, terrifying to half the military world—wedged firmly in the dog door, arms flat on the tiles, arse up to the heavens, coat rumpled, and muttering to himself.

You stared for a beat.

Then burst out laughing.

Frank groaned without lifting his head. “Go on, then. Get it out of your system.”

You staggered into the kitchen, one hand clutching your stomach, the other bracing against the wall as you gasped through your laughter. “Frank! What—what the bloody hell happened to you?”

“I got locked out,” he grumbled, his baritone muffled against the floor. “Forgot my key.”

“And naturally, the dog flap seemed the logical solution,” you said, wiping tears from your eyes.

Frank scowled sideways. “Didn’t exactly have options, woman. I knocked. Repeatedly.”

“Oh, I bet you did.” You leaned closer, hands still trembling with the effort not to fall into another fit of giggles. “You could’ve used the spare key.”

Frank went still. Slowly, his hazel eyes lifted to meet yours. “What spare key?”

You stared at him. “The one in the ceramic vase beside the door. The one I told you about when we moved in.”

A beat. Silence.

“…We have a spare key?”

You blinked again. “Of course we have a spare key. I told you about it three years ago, Frank!”

“No, you bloody didn’t!”

“I absolutely did! When we moved in—”

“I thought that was a metaphor!”

You blinked. “…What the hell kind of metaphor would ‘the spare key is in the vase’ be?!”

Frank huffed, his white hair sticking up wildly in every direction, his hazel eyes peeking up from inside like a guilty dog caught chewing a slipper. “Well, how was I supposed to know it was literal? You say a lot of things, woman.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching down and trying not to laugh outright. “You absolute idiot,” you muttered fondly, tugging at his coat. “Alright, come on. Let’s try and get you out of this mess.”

You grabbed his arms and began to pull gently. Frank groaned dramatically. “Ow. Ow. That’s my shoulder. Woman, if you rip something, I’ll haunt you.”

“Stop complaining,” you muttered through clenched teeth, tugging harder. “If you weren’t shaped like a stubborn badger, you’d be free by now.”

He grunted as his chest scraped against the threshold. “I knew I heard the postman laughing earlier. I’m sure of it. You’ll have to kill him, darling. No witnesses.”

You groaned, laughing breathlessly. “You’re not even sorry, are you?”

“Deeply humiliated,” he said solemnly, “and completely wedged.”

You sat back on your heels, frowning. “Right. We’re not getting you out this way.”

“I’m beginning to gather that, yes.”

You stood and wiped your hands on your dressing gown. “Alright, two options.”

“Do I want to hear them?”

“Too late. Option one: I call the fire department.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Option two,” you continued, ignoring him, “we butter you.”

There was a long silence. Then Frank let out a sound of pure, aged despair and pressed his forehead to the floor again.

“Oh, for the love of—please don’t make me choose between public humiliation and being basted like a Christmas turkey.”

You smirked, reaching for the butter dish. “Your call, love.”

And that was precisely the moment Thomas decided to wake up. He padded into the kitchen in his little dinosaur pajamas, rubbing one eye with a tiny fist. “Mummy? Why’s Daddy lying on the floor?”

You froze. Frank groaned louder.

Thomas blinked, then stepped closer—slowly, cautiously—until he got a better view of the scene. The dog door. The butter in your hand. His father’s large, undignified form halfway through the wall.

And then he laughed. Loud and free and delighted. “Daddy got stuck in the doggy hole!” he sang at full volume. “’Cause he’s too fa-at, he’s too fa-at!”

You burst out laughing again, unable to help yourself. Thomas was now dancing in little circles, chanting, “Fat Daddy! Fat Daddy!” like it was the best song he’d ever invented.

Frank lay very still, expression unreadable. “This is the end,” he muttered. “This is how I go.”

“Thomas,” you gasped through your laughter, placing the butter down before you dropped it. “Thomas, darling—stop that, it’s not kind.”

Your son paused, frowning. “But it’s true…”

Frank groaned. “Tell him I fought in five conflicts and received three commendations for valor. Tell him I once negotiated a ceasefire with six armed insurgents.”

You grinned down at him. “Sweetheart, right now you couldn’t negotiate your way past a house pet flap.”

Frank closed his eyes. “I’m divorcing you.”

You bent down and kissed the top of his white hair, your smile soft despite the tears of laughter still in your eyes. “You can try. But you’ll need to get inside the house first.”

From beside you, Thomas giggled again, now lying on the floor with Max, gently poking his father’s arm. “Can we still butter him?”

Frank groaned. Loudly. “For the love of all that is holy—someone get the bloody olive oil. We’re out of butter.”

It took the better part of fifteen minutes, two kitchen towels, half a bottle of olive oil, and one exhausted child for the operation to succeed.

You had circled around the back of the house, armed with determination and a level of amusement you tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress. There was your husband, Lieutenant General Frank Benson, half-wedged in the dog door like some ridiculous caricature of himself. His arms were limp on the kitchen tiles, face mashed against the floor in resignation, while Max lay beside him like this was the most entertaining morning of his life.

"Alright," you said, crouching down behind Frank's generously proportioned backside. "On three, I push. Thomas, darling, pull Daddy’s arms, gently. Not his ears this time, please."

Thomas, cheeks flushed with excitement, nodded solemnly from inside. “Yes, Mummy. I promise. Not the ears.”

Frank muttered something unrepeatable into the floor, but you ignored it. Instead, you slicked your palms with the olive oil and gave his hips a firm pat. "Ready, soldier?"

"No," Frank growled. "This is undignified. This is a bloody war crime."

"One," you said cheerfully.

“Christ alive—”

"Two—"

“You’re enjoying this far too much—”

"Three!"

You shoved. Thomas pulled.

Frank let out a noise that could only be described as a strangled honk, limbs flailing as his hips finally gave way. There was a slick, sudden pop, and Frank Benson—former high-ranking military officer, chub-hipped and olive-oiled—slid through the dog door like a greasy sack of potatoes, collapsing unceremoniously on the kitchen floor in a tangle of limbs and wounded pride.

You stumbled inside after him, barely able to contain your laughter, while Thomas cheered as if he’d just watched his father complete an Olympic feat.

"Mission accomplished!" the boy squealed, throwing his arms in the air.

Frank lay sprawled on the cold tiles, arms to the side, eyes closed as though contemplating his entire existence. You leaned over him, brushing back the mess of white hair that clung to his damp forehead. "Are you alright, love?"

He opened one eye. It burned with quiet betrayal. "I’m fine."

You didn’t believe him for a second, but you stepped back anyway, giving him space. He sat up slowly, wincing as he twisted his shoulders, his face tightening into a grimace that made your amusement falter.

“I’m going upstairs,” he muttered, getting to his feet with effort. “Just… give me a moment.”

You nodded softly, watching as he trudged up the stairs, the back of his coat still faintly stained with olive oil. Thomas tugged on your sleeve. "Can I have a sandwich?"

"Of course, sweetheart." You rustled his hair gently and moved to the fridge, pulling together a quick peanut butter sandwich, cutting the crusts off the way he liked. You handed it to him with a kiss to the crown of his head and a soft “go watch cartoons, darling,” before following Frank up the stairs.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. You pushed it open quietly, peeking inside.

Frank stood near the bed, shirtless, his back turned to you. He was applying cream to the angry red marks on his sides, the skin slightly raw where the dog door had left its indelible insult. The lamplight painted a soft glow across the white of his hair and the slope of his shoulders, now broader with age but still strong. His skin, thinner than it used to be, bruised more easily these days, and as your eyes traveled over his frame—sturdy but weathered—you felt the swell of something tender rise in your chest.

You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. “You missed a spot,” you said softly.

Frank didn’t turn. His baritone, rough with fatigue, responded quietly. “Let me have a little dignity, woman.”

You crossed the room, taking the jar from his hand. “You’re allowed to feel humiliated. That was… a lot.”

He huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “It was a bloody disaster. I used to lead troops across warzones. And today, I got stuck in a door meant for a dog.”

You gently smoothed cream over the red marks at his side, your fingers light but firm. He flinched at first, then relaxed under your touch. “You’re not twenty-five anymore, Frank,” you said, your voice soft, soothing. “Your body’s earned the right to protest a bit. You’ve spent most of your life putting it through hell.”

He was quiet for a moment, eyes cast downward. Then he muttered, “I used to be a soldier. Now I’m just… old. Soft around the edges. Getting wedged in bloody furniture.”

You stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at you. His hazel eyes met yours, tinged with frustration, with shame.

“You’re not just anything,” you said, firm now. “You’re Frank Benson. My husband. Our son’s hero. The only man I’ve ever met who could negotiate an international crisis one day and get stuck in a dog flap the next.”

That earned a ghost of a smile.

You cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the hooked bridge of his nose, the one you always teased him about. “You’re still handsome. Still strong. Still sharp. You just need to be a little kinder to yourself. This body of yours has done more than most. It’s earned a few quirks.”

Frank let out a slow breath, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “I look ridiculous.”

“You look like a man who lived.” You leaned up, brushing your lips against his. “And a man I still find unbearably attractive, by the way.”

He gave you a pointed look. “Even half-basted in olive oil?”

You grinned. “Especially then.”

Frank chuckled—really chuckled—and pulled you into his arms, his body still warm and solid despite the stiffness, the soreness. “I’ll never live this down, will I?”

“Not a chance.”

He sighed against your hair, holding you close. “At least the boy’s happy.”

You nodded, your voice muffled against his chest. “He thinks you’re a superhero.”

Frank kissed the top of your head, his voice low and fond. “Let’s hope he never finds out how much it hurts to be one.”

[rottenpumpkin13]

Thoughts on Genesis being a parent?

So many!! I don't think Genesis would initially think of himself as the paternal type. Children would seem too mundane or confining for someone like him, who craves beauty, art, and innovation. He'd claim that his legacy is in his achievements, the pages of Loveless, or his invention, not through something as "ordinary" as parenthood. But the moment he becomes a father, his entire perspective shifts.

Genesis would treat his child like an extension of himself, like a blank canvas for greatness. He's indulgent, loving, playful, always engaging them in creative ways—reading them his favorite passages from Loveless, narrating stories in a dramatized way that makes them laugh. He'd play pretend games with so much commitment that his child might think he's actually a wandering knight or sorcerer.

When it comes to discipline Genesis would be firm but fair. He'd explain his reasons earnestly, but nag and tease for fun (this poor child would have to endure his wit)

Genesis: "My dear, must you sully your appearance with such mismatched socks? Have I taught you nothing about the art of presentation?"

He'd be an aesthete through and through, ensuring his kid's wardrobe is flawless, even if it means micromanaging their outfits—although he'd be big on self-expression. He'd spoil them with carefully chosen gifts: a handcrafted wooden sword for training, rare books with gilded pages....fire materia they definitely shouldn't have.

But at the same time, Genesis would have a nurturing side. He'd fuss endlessly over scraped knees or colds, wrapping them in the softest blankets and brewing warm drinks while reciting poetry.

Genesis: "Oh, my little one, a scratch such as this requires the utmost care. We wouldn't want you to be unable to wield your blade tomorrow, would we?"

*the kid says it's just a scrape*

Genesis: "Just a scrape? Do not diminish your trials, for even the smallest wounds tell a tale of valor."

When teaching swordplay + materia casting, Genesis would be both patient and demanding. He'd push them to surpass their limits while ensuring they mastered the elegance of the craft.

Genesis: "Your stance, darling. What did I say about balance? You cannot hope to strike down your foes if you look like a fledgling bird."

In conclusion, give this man a child.

[writinginatree]

John Wick x reader - The Hunt

Summary: Professional killer vs. mosquito — who would win?

John walked into the bedroom, expecting you to already be asleep, or at least lying in bed, and instead found you standing on your pillow, head craned back to look to the ceiling, a hand with a folded newspaper in it raised ready to strike.

"What are you doing, darling?" he asked, amusement and confusion mixing in his voice. Despite your aggressive pose, there was no threat he could make out, and he doubted you would have picked a newspaper as your weapon of choice if the situation was serious.

"There's a mosquito in here somewhere," you explained, glaring around the room. "It's already bitten me three fucking times, and I'm not going to sleep until that fucker is dead. If I did I probably wouldn't have any blood left in me at all in the morning."

"Must be a very skillful mosquito if it managed to bite a legendary killer such as yourself three whole times," John teased.

"I was reading! With headphones on! Now could you stop laughing at me and actually help? Because if I can't kill this thing, I'll leave you here alone at it's mercy and sleep on the couch while you get your blood sucked out."

"Well, we can't have that," John chuckled, taking the improvised weapon from your hands, and scanned the room for your bloodsucking foe with the same deadly focus that he was so infamous for among your colleagues.

Even he couldn't immediately spot the mosquito. It had to be somewhere in here, but there were simply too many places for an insect to hide in the room. It would be near invisible against the dark bookshelf, or the curtains, could be sitting atop a picture frame where you wouldn't be able to look. If it were that easy, you wouldn't have spent the last fifteen minutes hunting the beast.

John prowled from one side of the room to the other, searching. Just when you were about to make a comment about how he wasn't any more successful than you, despite his earlier teasing, he went still. He'd spotted his prey.

The mosquito didn't stand a chance. John nudged the curtain it sat on, scaring the insect into flight so he could kill it without leaving bloodstains on the fabric. His hands clapped together, and just like that, your problem was solved. There was no escaping the Baba Yaga, not even for a mosquito.

John held up his palm to show you the bloody smudge proving his victory, and went to wash his hands. You followed him, handing him the towel to dry his hands before rewarding his efforts with a kiss.

"Thanks for avenging me," you grinned as you reached for the ointment to stop the itching of your mosquito bites.

"Anything for you, love."

[thebadgerclan]

Protect You

Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x reader

Summary: Even the demon will protect you...

A/N: not requested, but I love this idea lol

He was drenched in sweat, trembling in your arms.  You dabbed at his forehead with a cool cloth, gently rocking him back and forth.  This was arguably the worst part of when the demon came out: coming back to himself.  The demon took such a large toll on Nikolai’s mind and body, and he was exhausted when he came back.

He stirred, moaning softly.  “Kolya?” you said, cupping his cheek.  “Darling, are you back with me?”  The King slowly blinked his eyes open, only calming when he saw you.  “Y/N?”  “Yes, love, it’s me.  How are you feeling?”  You helped him to sit up, pressing a glass of water into his hand.  “Oh, you know…like a demon clawed its way out of my soul.  Nothing new.”

You rolled your eyes, but pressed a kiss to his forehead.  “So,” Nikolai said once he’d finished his water.  “What’s the damage this time around?”  You were silent for a moment, which raised Nikolai’s suspicion.  “Another goose farm?  A herd of cattle?  What, Y/N?”  “There…actually wasn’t any damage.”

Now the King was confused.  Every time the demon came out, he hunted.  Never humans, but livestock, birds, and the like.  “What do you mean, Y/N?  Where did I go?”  “You stayed here, Nikolai.  With me.”  “With you?”  Nikolai sat up, shocked, but he moved too quickly, causing a wave of nausea and dizziness to wash over him.  “Why was I with you?  Why didn’t Tamar get you out?”

Nikolai was frantic now, fear filling him.  The demon was unpredictable, it didn’t have his logic or reasoning, it could not differentiate friend from foe.  And if you were with him when he transformed…  “Hey, Nikolai, look at me,” you said, taking his face in your hands.  “Sweetheart, I am fine.  You didn’t hurt me, you didn’t hurt anyone.”  “I…I didn’t?”  “No, my love.”

Unbidden, a terrified scream left your mouth.  One moment, it was your husband next to you in bed, nodding off as he read.  The next, it was the demon; beady black eyes, black talons and claws, inky scars on his skin, and wings made of shadow.  Tolya and Tamar entered not even a minute later, weapons drawn, prepared to protect their King and Queen.

“Y/N, come on!” Tamar called.  But the moment you stepped away, Nikolai snarled, digging his claws into the bedsheets.  And when Tamar took a step towards you, he gnashed his teeth at her.  “Tamar?” you called, and the Heartrender took another cautious step forward.  This proved to be the wrong decision, as Nikolai leapt from his perch on the bed and went face-to-face with Tamar and growled.

Then, surprising everyone in the room, Nikolai turned to you.  With as much gentleness as the demon was capable of, he draped a wing over you, sheltering you against his body.  He looked at you, his black eyes somehow tender, and purred.  You had no idea that the demon could purr.  Whenever Tolya, Tamar, or even Genya tried to approach, Nikolai would snap and snarl at them, tucking you in tighter to his body, sheltering you with his wing.

“Are you…protecting me?” you asked, and while the demon could not speak, he huffed a breath at you as if to say “Of course I am”.  Nikolai remained in his demon form for several hours, content to sit with you tucked beneath his wing.  And when the demon retreated, Nikolai remembered nothing.

You recounted the evening’s events to your husband, who looked at you like you’d grown a second head.  “I…protected you?  How?”  You shook your head, cupping Nikolai’s cheek and drawing him in for a soft, gentle kiss.  “You did.  I don’t know how, or why, but it seems the demon knows how much you love me and want to protect me.”

Your husband nodded, snuggling into your embrace.  “I do love you, Y/N.  I love you so much, more than I ever thought I could love someone else.  Were you afraid, love?”  Guilt filled you as you nodded.  “I was, yeah.  Not of you, Nikolai, never of you.  But when the demon comes out, it’s not you, and we don’t know what it will do.  But then you protected me, you snapped at Tolya and Tamar and sheltered me.  I don’t know why it happened, but I think the demon knows me.”

Nikolai hummed, sleep pulling him under.  “I love you,” he repeated, words slurring a little.  “I love you, Y/N.  I love you so much.”  You laughed, kissing his forehead and wrapping your arms around him.  “I love you too, Nikolai.  Now get some rest, my love.”  You reached to extinguish the lamp on the bedside table, immediately returning your hand to its place on your husband’s back.  You could dissect what the demon protecting you meant tomorrow, but you knew one thing it meant for certain: Nikolai’s love for you ran so deep that not even the demon could ignore it.

[hesmystarlet]

𝐃𝐨 𝐈 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐫?

Summary:

Bruce Wayne has been spending a significant amount of time with a feline foe and former lover of his. Clark Kent, feeling the absence of his partner attempts to make himself what he believes Bruce is craving. A dark, feline esque lover, instead of his usual sunshine self.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

A/N: I tried my best to stick to character but I haven’t written any sort of fic since like 2022 so please bear with me. I truly hope you enjoy! Also note that the spacings might be off slightly because I did type this all out on my notes app # trooper

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

Any irrational Tuesday could pass by and Clark would still freak out, especially if he made it to the manor to see Bruce and he wasn’t yet back from patrol, even though his usual patrolling hours were well over. Maybe he’d just gotten the clock wrong, maybe he entered the wrong side of the manor. He knew neither of these were true yet he couldn’t help but wish they were. He couldn’t just barge into Alfred’s room to figure out where Bruce was and why he wasn’t back yet, and he had no intentions to break Bruce’s trust but sneaking into the batcave to find out. He sat around, waiting for his return for another forty minutes before grabbing a pen and paper from his office and writing a note on it. “Missed you tonight, I’ve got work in the morning so I couldn’t stay. Love C.” That should suffice, he’d see Bruce the next day. Eventually, hopefully.

The next day came and he hadn’t slept a wink. He had a feeling Bruce might not have felt bothered to read his note. He knew he shouldn’t think like that, he was thinking of his boyfriend after all, but he couldn’t shake the feeling Bruce had bigger fish to fry, and that he wasn’t even on the menu. When he walked into the Daily Planet he felt something grim hanging in the air, Lois must’ve noticed it cause she was walking towards him but turned around and came back with a macaroon in her hand as well as a Manila folder. “Wish I could tell you to cheer up but this article they want you to write is going to make you rather upset, so please don’t use your laser vision on me, I’m just the messenger.” She joked a little, hoping Clark wouldn’t be too mad at the folder she gave him, it was filled with photos of Batman and Cat Woman. “The Gotham Press read some of your work about Superman and was hoping you could write something up about these two meandering together after Batman’s typical hours,” she took a deep breath placing her hand on Clark’s shoulder and taking another macaroon out of her pocket and setting it on his desk before whisking away to a meeting.

He opened his desk drawer, it was a drawer reminiscent of one from a filing cabinet, and saw a bright red envelope sealed with blue wax and the Wayne family emblem. He recognized the handwriting the moment he saw it, the envelope said his name in the most fine script in Gotham. He wasn’t sure whether his face heated up from embarrassment or annoyance, but he opened up the letter anyway. “Clark, I apologize for not making it in before you left last night. I had some business to attend with Ms Kyle last night, I hope you can forgive me. I’d be delighted to have your presence grace me at that little hole in the wall diner you love so deeply, I’ll be there regardless waiting for you. Sanguinely, I shall see you for lunch. Keep that illustrious chin of yours up darling. Yours always, B”

Clark couldn’t help but break a smile and tuck the envelope into the inner pocket of his oversized work suit. Bruce had tried to get him to allow him to purchase him something a little more grand than what he owned, or at least a little more fitted, but Clark denied saying it wasn’t necessary no matter how hard Bruce tried to get him to budge. The moment he started writing he felt sick to his stomach, he looked over the header he’d written feeling himself get queasy so he ate one of the macaroons Lois had given him. The headline read “The Bat and the Cat, are we seeing the return of this perfect coupling of an alliance?” It was the only time in history he’d wished that he wasn’t noticed as a journalist, but at least he was making a few extra penny’s at the expense of his own agony. Why couldn’t they get some journalist in Gotham to write it, why’d they have to pick him. Writing about a public sighting of his boyfriend and said boyfriend’s ex in their vigilante getups felt like some sick joke.

By the time lunch came around he’d finished the article, he was one green eyed monster as he made his way to the diner. He saw Bruce through the window before he walked in, stopping to fix his hair then beginning to feel like a fool as he shoves his phone into his pocket, hastily walking through the restaurant and sitting across from Bruce. “Mr Sunshine, it’s kind of you to join me.” Bruce studies Clark’s nervous hands, fidgeting and picking at his nails above the table. He’s hesitant as he reaches out and grabs Clark’s hands, a look of reluctance in his face. It wasn’t a surprise to find reluctance or hesitancy in his eyes every time he showed affection, he tried a little every day to show some sort of affection, even if he felt as though he was coded to be opposed to it. Bruce was no stranger to detecting emotion, it didn’t mean he understood why Clark was so uneasy, and the man had no intention of letting him know. He just had a plan. A plan that caused him to send a message to Diana asking her to cover Metropolis for one night so he could take care of some business. “I know I’m no sponge of emotion and no saint to understanding, but if you need a shoulder I’m always here for you. What’s that thing you tell me, some midwestern sweetheart thing about only being able to hold what you know.” Bruce was so utterly off about the saying that it made Clark crack a smile, his teeth shining in the dim lighting of the diner. It was exactly what Bruce was hoping to see. The beautiful apparatus of the man sitting across from him. Besides his many heathen children, the best thing Batman had ever given him was Clark Kent. Though he had a tendency to struggle expressing his emotions to more than just him and the angry persona of Batman that he carried within, he loved his partner deeply. It occasionally became a problem when he got a tad too handsy after not seeing him for an extended period of time due to missions and Wayne Enterprises taking their time together away from each other. But typically Bruce kept himself in check. Like he was right now, even though he had a burning urge to kiss the man before him and hold him till he told him what was wrong. This was an apology lunch, it wasn’t the appropriate time to do what he wished he was doing. This was an apology for fraternizing with Selina Kyle instead of spending time with him, that’s why he ordered his food before he arrived. An American cheeseburger and a slice of apple pie to remind him of home. Martha Clark made the best apple pies, maybe it was that midwestern farmer love.

Clark ate in silence, stealing glances at Bruce wondering how a man like that could love him. A man with so much depth could love someone like him, someone who many considered shallow and ignorant. Several also tagged him with the gold digger title. Bruce stood to pay the check, walking back over to Clark with a pang of guilt in his eyes. He’d been spending a decent amount of time with Selina, but a part of him couldn’t help himself. When Clark finished he gave him a hand to help him out the booth, even though it wasn’t necessary. Bruce pulled him into a sweet kiss tasting the whipped cream and pie on his tongue. Clark craved more but he knew he needed to get back to work or someone, most likely Lois Lane his cherished best friend, would have his head. Clark denied Bruce’s offer for a ride, stating that if he was going to spend the weekend in Gotham he wanted to soak up some sunshine while still possible. Bruce excepts the excuse and gives him a peck on the forehead, sliding into his car but waiting as he watched Clark walk towards the Daily Planet.

The moment Clark tripped into that building he went over his article a minimum of seven times before submitting it for review. He told Lois he had some personal business to handle and that he’d work overtime next week to make up for any shortcomings before he bounded out of the building with a plan. He found himself sulking around the more lavish part of Metropolis, standing out like a sore thumb. He walked into a men’s lingerie shop, silently swearing he’d pay Bruce back. He’d been given a card, Bruce encouraged he used it but he never did. He felt his heart beating in his stomach and ears, this wasn’t something he ever planned to do. Yet here he was, trying on black bodysuit style lingerie in hopes that Bruce would find whatever he was missing in that outfit. He tossed a catlike masquerade mask into the purchase and paid for it without much of a word. He felt odd to be perceived, it felt wrong for people to be able to see him shopping for such an intimate thing. He shook his shoulders and headed to his place, waiting for midnight to hit so he could fly over to Gotham without worry of being caught. The back door was unlocked, he’d asked Alfred to leave it as such so he could enter more humanly than normal. He walked through the manor, taking in the state of everything, it was such an ostentatious display of a home. He couldn’t help but wonder how many times Bruce made love in a specific spot to Selina each time he passed any remotely flat space. Selina behaved like an exhabitionist in the workspace, so it would make sense for the two to have had fantasy inspired adventures on different surfaces of the house.

There was this pang in his heart, what if he could never make up what he lacked, whatever Selina had that he didn’t. He wished for nothing more than to have everything Bruce desired, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t enough. As it grew closer to two he finally made his way to Bruce’s room, he undressed in the connected bathroom. Bruce arrived home an hour earlier than normal, he must’ve gotten one of his older kids to finish patrol for him. It was a Friday night, there was no way crime was dead in Gotham at only three in the morning. He heard Bruce stripping off the suit belonging to the dark knight down in the batcave, slowly ascending towards his room. Clark quickly finished decorating himself in his gloomy attire, gloomy compared to how he normally dressed.

When Bruce sat on his bed in his boxers and his robe Clark exited the bathroom, trying to have this faux confidence about himself. He had the entire lace black bodysuit on, he didn’t look nor feel like himself. The feline like mask adorned his face and Bruce heard his footsteps, his heart picking up its pace a bit till he turned to see someone foreign to the man he loved. While he was aware how utterly handsome Clark looked, as much as he’d love to love him in this dressing, this was a show. And he was picking up the same off feeling from their lunch. His eyes raked over his partners distinguished muscles and dashing eyes, his wonderful build and breath taking lips. He stood up, reaching to grab that mask off Clark’s face but Clark dodged him. “Darling, let me play the role of who you wish I was. Just for the night.” Bruce was shellshocked, he pulled the hurt man before him back towards him. He’d hurt him, and it didn’t take more than another quick scan over Clark’s outfit to see why.

“Sunshine, Clark, you’re exactly who I want you to be. I frequently end up overwhelmed by how much I, Clark I often end up overwhelmed by how much I love you. No I won’t repeat that, not till later.” He reached around to Clark’s back, carefully untying the bodysuit style lingerie with one hand, the other hand moving to slide the mask off Clark’s face, crushing it in his hands before tossing it well out of his way. “You don’t need to be Selina, there’s a reason I’m not together with her anymore. There was no trust, she did not trust me. I lost the minuscule amount of trust I had for her. Now you’re making me talk an awful lot, come here.” He carelessly tore the lingerie off of Clark, he hated how the darkness of it captured his light. Even though that could be contributed to himself, he’d spent a decent amount of time with Gothams greatest thief. There was a reason behind it, he didn’t even look at himself in the mirror without a reason. The moment Clark was left standing bare, in nothing but his boxers, Bruce pulled him into bed, wrapping his arms around his lover and stroking his hair. Every so often he’d plant kisses on his forehead, keeping him in reality as he felt him silently cry. Bruce wasn’t a man of many words, and he’d used almost every word he’d had that night, but he had enough in him to say another sentence. “Never change yourself, I’ll be right here…” He didn’t frequent this word, but he knew more than anything his man of steel wasn’t completely steel, he was a sweet farm boy with a heart of honey. “I’ll be right here cause I love you.”

Those were never his words of choice, but he knew they were Clark’s. And as much as he was reluctant to say them, for every time Bruce said them something tragic seemed to happen, he could face the tragedy if it meant that the man he loved was a slight more comfortable in his arms.

As for Selina, Bruce would just have to text her about the best rings in Gotham instead of meeting up with her in person. And he’d just have to pray that Clark never needed to open his phone, not until he had the chance to ask his mother for permission to propose to her son. Bruce found himself grossly optimistic, Clark typically left that effect on his usual grouch, he found himself oddly optimistic that they had all the time in the world to waste.

As Clark fell asleep against him, Bruce found himself almost amused that this man had earned the title “Man of Steel” when anyone who knew him was more than aware he was made of the most delicate, sculpted porcelain the earth had ever seen.

[yanderes-galore]

I don't if you are this far in One Piece but. Platonic Yandere! Zoro from One Piece with weak darling that cannot fight at all?

I feel for this one how far I'm in doesn't matter. So here you go :)

Yandere! Platonic! Zoro with Weak! Darling

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Violence, Blood, Murder, Stalking, Forced companionship.

Zoro is a very stern, serious, and distant swordsman.

He isn't very emotive and tries not to let emotions control his judgment.

Despite this, he is still quite temperamental, reckless, and ruthless in battle.

He may try to hide it, but Zoro is protective of his crewmates.

Honestly, when thinking about it, Zoro would be terrifying due to what he's willing to go through for his fellow crew.

Now, the Straw Hat Pirates usually have strong members who can hold their own in physical strength.

However, while you weren't brought on the crew for physical strength... you have a strong mind.

You don't participate in fights, yet were brought on to help the ones who can.

You have medical knowledge and often offer input on plans.

So while you can't fight...

You're still quite the asset.

Unfortunately, being unable to fend for yourself often means relying on crewmates.

In this case, Zoro often ends up taking the role of your protector.

I like to think of Zoro as a subtle yandere.

He's often quiet and hard to read, not showing his true emotions often... unless it's anger.

Your interactions with Zoro are positive, the swordsman finds your company nice.

Considering what you do for the group... he protects you like any other member.

If not more.

A platonic Zoro would normally be quite protective.

Yet due to you being weaker than the others? He finds himself... more attached.

He worries about enemies... yet he also worries for Luffy's tendency to pull others into problems and Sanji's tendency to cling.

Unlike other crew members, he gives you your distance.

But distance doesn't mean he's not obsessed.

He is, He just values your personal space.

You're always in his sight, though...

Even if you don't know it.

He's definitely someone in the background most of the time

He's subtle... yet so dangerous.

He takes your safety very seriously.

How could he not? Most pirates would crush you.

Admittedly he's also quite attached to the smile you give him when he talks to you.

That and even your scolding when you patch him up is endearing.

Zoro is so used to being around the strong that he's unsettled by your weakness at times.

He's worried one day other pirates or the marines will hurt you to hurt him.

But... that won't happen.

No, Zoro vows to prevent that.

He's cut many down before.

Any threat that comes to hurt you will also fall by his hands.

Zoro's used to blood being on his skin when fighting.

It just feel more... relieving if he knows he did it for you?

Cutting a foe down... being covered in their blood... he does it for you.

The faster they die, the longer you stay safe.

You scold him about the blood, but you don't know the real reason behind it.

He doesn't show much emotion on his face... leaving you clueless to what he's thinking.

He tries to remind himself to be wary of his emotions.

His thoughts on you are affecting him.

Yet he continues on, still sent into a rage at the thought of you being hurt.

While he usually stays quiet on the boat and out of the way, he ends up stepping in occasionally.

He shuts down Sanji's flirting with a glare and rough shove.

He hovers around you when Luffy or Usopp try to drag you into shenanigans....

Zoro just assigns himself as your bodyguard and friend, no one has much of a say in that.

It's a role he took himself due to your mutual care.

Others can not convince him otherwise.

The most unnerving thing about him is the distant stares he gives.

He will silently watch you, yet his gaze quickly becomes seething if he feels you're threatened in some way.

Which, to him, that could mean anything.

It's intimidating for those speaking with you.

You could be in deep conversation, only for said conversation partner to look away...

Only to be met with a glaring swordsman in the distance.

One wrong move and he could gut them.

Despite Zoro being one of the more dangerous yanderes... he's controlled if not pushed.

Would he be affectionate with you? In private, yes.

You are a dear friend to him....

He feels comfortable when you're close to him.

He gives quick casual hugs, yet loves feeling you be there against him.

It reassures him you're safe, he's protecting you, he's doing his job well.

Zoro would take on the strongest foes if it meant he could be a barrier to prevent you from harm.

Some other downsides could be him being too stern or condescending.

Sometimes he gets so caught up in protecting you he makes you feel like a child because you can't fight.

Zoro would open old scars if it meant the blood he spilled would keep you out of harm's way.

Of course... there will always be hardship and danger as a pirate.

Which means... Zoro won't be leaving your side anytime soon... if ever.

He's not clingy like most of the crew, but he lurks.

Zoro would sacrifice anything to protect you.

After all, who will fight for you if you can't?

[istoleyoursk1n]

Hello, I saw your requests are open after I read some of your stuff and wanted to give an idea. One thing I don’t see too often in fantasy is anti-magic types so I’d like to request a Tav that is magically blank. What I mean by that is where everyone else either has magic or is effected by it, Tav can be neither of these. Try to hit them with a lightning bolt? Doesn’t work. Illusions? Doesn’t work. Enchantments? Nah. This makes them a terrifying mage hunter that can go toe to toe with many magic creatures and users. Of course they need to work around not being healed by magic as well. (Choose whoever for the characters!)

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How would the boys react to a Tav who’s incapable of being harmed by or creating magic?

(If any of you won't see one for the girls, just ask <3)

.

.

: ̗̀➛ ASTARION

“I know I’ve already got the delightfully excellent privilege of looks to me, darling, but damn it all! You’d think those lazing Gods would grant me more than just a dashing face to get me through my troubles too!”

Immediately comes asking how the hell you gained such an ability and if so, how could he get some of that for himself.

He's envious of the fact that nearly all magic seems to have little to zero effects on you. He's far too consumed by the amount of advantages it gives you that he doesn't exactly see the downsides.

I mean, he’s seen you take a fireball to your face and shake it off as if it was nothing. However, the sight of you bleeding out as every magical healing potion and spell does absolutely nothing to aid you ends up being the very thing that makes him wonder if it would be worth it.

But hey! It's rather entertaining for him to watch every foe you encounter gasp in shock when they realize all the magic spells they throw at you do nothing to hinder your each attack.

The funniest thing he saw was someone trying to manipulate you with a charm spell only for you to humiliate them for their obvious attempt.

: ̗̀➛ WYLL

“By the hells, you’re immune to magic? That’s one darn good of an advantage to have, especially on a journey such as ours. Though, it's a shame that you’ll never get to see the delights that come with it, you would have loved it, I’m sure!”

He wasn't all too bothered by the fact you couldn't create magic. Some people lived all their lives without using them and they still made fine warriors, why should he judge you?

However, he was completely shocked when he first watched a lightning bolt strike your body only for you to shrug it off. You didn't even have the burn marks that would have came from it.

After figuring out your little situation, he was both deeply fascinated and impressed. There's no way anything is stopping either of you now, not when you are immune to nearly all types of magic.

Be prepared because this man does start to give you ridiculous titles over your unique ability. “The anti-magician”, “The impenetrable magic consumer”, it gets worse and worse but it's making you both laugh.

Yet, what he does find quite concerning is the number of times he's witnessed your other companions use you as a personal test dummy in terms of magic-based attacks. He’s always quick to grab you out of those situations even though you were mostly okay with it.

: ̗̀➛ GALE

“Immune to magic? Truly? Are you telling me a particularly powerful sorcerer could cast a tremendously potent necrotic spell on you and you’d just... Stand there… with not so much as a bruise? Are you certain you’re from this plane of existence-”

What in the fuck <— His initial reaction lmao

He’s never even seen anything that could resist most if not all magic, even worse that you can't even seem to make it yourslf.

He’s spent the majority of his life so heavily involved with magic and the weave that he could hardly see himself without it, better yet, he doesn't even understand how you live so mundanely.

Heck! Even lower-class citizens could learn magic if not already know how to cast a basic spell or two. Now he has a hundred different questions running through his head and you could probably only answer half of them.

Perhaps he even suspected that you may have just used a multitude of potions of resistance on yourself to turn out this way but if so, the effects should have worn off by now.

Either way, he’s bewildered by you. Intensely interested in how this situation of yours came to be and if there is truly a limit to what magic you can resist. Though, trust that he won't try to experiment on you for himself.

: ̗̀➛ HALSIN

“Ah, though I understand the loss of seizing the art of magic for oneself is rather unfortunate, this only means that perhaps a far more naturalistic path awaits you. One I hope brings nothing but joy and aid in our journey ahead.”

Pleasantly surprised but also curious about it all. When you say all magic do you truly mean all? And if he were to bring a magical flame near your skin, would you feel it's warmth?

Though, he doesn't press on the matter too much. However, there are occasions when he has forgotten about your immunity and ends up shielding you from a magical blast you could have easily taken yourself.

Reflexes perhaps. He’s fairly used to jumping in to protect those he cares for and he does get a tad bit embarrassed over the fact that your magic immunity slipped his mind once or twice due to his own impulses.

Though worry not if magical healing spells or potions don't work on you! He knows plenty of natural ways to heal your wounds. Though it will take significantly longer.

Regardless, he's happy to be of service to you, even teaching you some ways to use herbs and the fauna around you to make a quick remedy to all sorts of wounds so you won't have to ever struggle as much as you did before.

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