#and about the same for the sixth string

[hisfavegirl]

The Serpent’s Flame - Draco Malfoy x Reader.

Summary : Being in your sixth year at Hogwarts meant you were nearly at the top of the food chain, and with your bloodline—the legacy of Salazar Slytherin on your father’s side and the dark, mysterious Gaunt lineage from your mother—you carried a reputation that both intimidated and intrigued. Students whispered about you in the halls. Some feared you, thinking your bloodline gave you a dark edge. Others envied your beauty—long, silver-blonde waves that cascaded past your waist, your tiny frame accentuated by curves most girls only dreamed of. And your emerald green eyes? Hypnotic. Dangerous. Just like a Slytherin should be.

Warning : Smut, Reader is described of having Silver blonde hair and green eyes, Reader is the last bloodline of salazar slytherin after voldemort, Nudity, Semi Public Sexs (Bathroom), Rough Sexs, Fingering, Edging, P in V sexs, Unprotected Sexs.

Draco Malfoy Masterlist.

Wizarding World Masterlist.

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws and @arcielee

The soft echo of your heels against the ancient stone floors of Hogwarts followed you as you strolled alongside Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson, the air crisp with that early-winter sharpness that filled the castle in November. Pansy had just delivered a biting remark about a Hufflepuff girl who nearly incinerated the entire left wing of the Potions dungeon, and you let out a low, velvety laugh that lingered in the corridor like perfume.

“Honestly, how do you almost blow up the class with a Calming Draught?” Pansy drawled dramatically.

“Talent,” you mused, your voice as sweet as honey, but threaded with the same venom all Slytherin girls were taught to perfect.

Daphne smirked. “Jealous, Pans? I think you just hate not being the most talked-about disaster in the school.”

You rolled your eyes, lips curved in amusement, fingers grazing your wand tucked discreetly in your thigh holster beneath your skirt. Today, you left your hair down—a rare, silken curtain of long, silver-blonde waves cascading down your back. It shimmered like moonlight with each step. Only Slytherin students ever saw it like this. But today, everyone would.

The towering doors of the Great Hall groaned open under the weight of centuries, and a hush fell over your group as you stepped inside. Your presence pulled heads as if drawn by invisible string—Hufflepuff girls pausing mid-bite, Ravenclaws stealing glances over books, even a few daring Gryffindor boys locking eyes before quickly looking away.

But none of them mattered.

Your gaze found him instantly.

Draco Malfoy.

He sat languidly at the Slytherin table beside Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, his fingers playing idly with the edge of his goblet, but his eyes—those piercing, storm-grey eyes—were already on you. The moment your gaze met his, everything else dulled. Sound, light, movement—it all bled into background.

He was smiling.

Not the cold, calculated smirk he gave to the rest of the world. No, this was different—private, intimate, soft only for you. Like the rare sun behind grey clouds in a storm-wrecked sky. His eyes devoured you slowly, undressing you in a way that made your skin burn beneath your uniform.

You walked toward him, slow and graceful, every sway of your hips deliberate. You were aware of the way his eyes darkened the closer you got. By the time you reached him, the tension crackled like electricity.

Draco stood up before you even reached your seat, pulling out the bench beside him. His hand brushed the small of your back as you slid in, lingering there longer than necessary, thumb tracing slow, subtle circles against your blouse. He leaned in close, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“You know what that hair does to me,” he murmured, voice low and sinfully smooth.

You turned to him, your full lips parted just slightly, heart beating like wings in your chest. “That’s why I wore it down today. For you.”

He inhaled, sharp and shallow, his hand now resting fully on your thigh beneath the table, hidden from everyone. The warmth of it spread like fire.

“You’re cruel,” he whispered, voice raw with need, “walking in like that. All sweet and untouched on the outside, but I know better.”

Your eyes glinted with mischief, lashes fluttering as you leaned in, your lips brushing his. Not kissing—almost.

“You like cruel,” you whispered. “You like knowing I’m yours and everyone else just wants.”

He groaned softly under his breath, thumb now pressing into your inner thigh. “I want you now.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, voice breathy. “Then come find me after dinner… if you can wait that long.”

His jaw clenched, his desire so tangible you could feel it hum through him. From across the table, Blaise and Theo exchanged knowing looks, smirks playing at their lips.

“I give him ten minutes,” Theo muttered.

“Five, if she keeps playing like that,” Blaise replied. But Draco didn’t even hear them. His entire world was you and he was burning.

The golden light of the enchanted ceiling bathed the Great Hall in a twilight glow, but none of it touched the storm brewing in Draco Malfoy’s eyes.

His hand was still on your thigh, fingers tracing patterns with a possessiveness that was becoming more desperate by the second. You were whispering something soft against his jaw, your voice silk-wrapped seduction, when a voice cut through the magic between you.

The sound of it—Harry Potter’s voice—was a blade through silk.

Your head turned, thick silver-blonde hair catching the light like starlight, cascading over your shoulder as you looked up. Harry stood a few feet away, awkward, tense, holding a folded parchment in his hand. His eyes flicked from your face to Draco’s hand beneath the table.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice unusually soft, and that’s when Draco’s body turned rigid beside you.

Like a predator sensing a threat.

You blinked, curiosity creasing your brow as you tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “What is it?”

Before Harry could answer, Draco voice cut him like a thunder.

“That’s enough, Potter,” he said coldly, his voice a low snarl of threat and warning. “You’ve got five seconds to turn around before I forget we’re in the Great Hall.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. He looked at you once more—something unreadable in his eyes—then turned and walked away, his shoulders tight, fists clenched at his sides.

You exhaled slowly, letting your body relax as you turned back to Draco.

“Was that necessary?” you murmured, more amused than annoyed.

Draco’s eyes stayed fixed on where Harry had walked off, his breath sharp, his jaw locked so tightly you thought it might crack.

“He said your name like he owned it,” he growled.

You shifted closer, the air between you thick, heavy with unspoken emotion and lust that simmered right beneath the surface. One of your hands slid up his thigh under the table, resting on the spot where his hand still gripped you.

“And do you?” you asked softly, tilting your face up to him, lips parted, eyes teasing.

That got his attention.

His gaze snapped to yours, dark and full of fire. “You know I do.”

You smiled, slow and sinful. “Then show me.”

And before he could say another word, you leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t a shy kiss. It wasn’t sweet or soft.

It was claiming.

Your lips molded to his, full and warm, your mouth opening slightly to invite him deeper. His hand slid up your thigh, squeezing possessively, while his other hand tangled in the back of your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss until the entire world dropped away.

He tasted like mint and heat, the kind that burned into you and left you gasping. Your body pressed into his beneath the table, your chest brushing his as his tongue slid against yours in slow, unhurried strokes that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

You kissed him like he was oxygen.

He kissed you like you were fire.

When you finally pulled back—lips swollen, breath caught—his eyes searched yours with something fierce, something raw.

“Mine,” he said, so quietly only you could hear it. “Don’t let him near you again.”

You smiled, brushing your lips over his jaw, down to his neck, lingering just long enough to make him shiver. “I won’t. He doesn’t get to touch what belongs to you.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like he was trying to center himself. When they opened again, they were full of promise—and something darker.

“You’re not going to class after dinner.”

You raised a brow, teasing. “Oh? And where will I be?”

He leaned in, his voice brushing against your lips like a spell. “Bent over the sink in the Prefects’ bathroom with my hands on your hips, making sure you remember who you belong to.”

Your breath caught in your throat, pupils blown wide, heart pounding so loud you were sure the entire table could hear it.

“Then finish your dinner,” you whispered, voice trembling with anticipation, “because I’m not going anywhere.”

The door to the Prefects’ bathroom shut behind you with a resonant click, echoing against the marble and tile like a warning bell. Before the sound even faded, Draco’s wand was in hand, lips curled in a snarl of desire as he cast a nonverbal spell—locking the door and sealing it with silence.

The room was warm with steam, candlelight flickering against the white and gold decor, casting dancing shadows over the water that shimmered in the massive tub like liquid stars.

But Draco didn’t look at any of it.

He was already on you.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave—furious, hungry, a man lost in the storm of everything he’d held back all day. You gasped into the kiss, fingers flying into the front of his robes, clutching him as if you were trying to steady yourself on something that was already pulling you under.

“Fuck, I waited all day,” he growled against your lips, his hands gripping your waist with bruising heat.

You whimpered into his mouth as he walked you backward, and you knew exactly where he was taking you. One swift tug and your leg was lifted—his fingers digging into your thigh as he wrapped it around his waist, his hips grinding into yours through layers of fabric, teasing just enough to drive you mad.

“Draco,” you breathed, voice already wrecked, and the sound made him growl low in his throat like an animal barely restrained.

He kissed you harder.

There was no gentleness. No softness. Just raw, desperate need.

His tongue parted your lips again, claiming, deep, overwhelming. The kiss tasted like every ounce of possessiveness and frustration he’d bottled all day—watching Harry say your name, watching you smile at someone who wasn’t him.

He pressed you to the edge of the sink, lifting you up with ease, both hands gripping your thighs as he forced them wider around him. His palms slid to your ass, squeezing firmly, pulling you against him. The moan that left your lips was so helpless, so breathless, it made his jaw clench.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he rasped against your neck, dragging his lips down to taste your skin. “Walking in with your hair down… like you didn’t know exactly what that would do to me.”

You gasped as his teeth grazed your throat, your fingers twisting in his soft platinum hair. “I did,” you whispered, wicked and breathless. “I wanted you desperate.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, and what you saw in his gaze made your whole body ache.

“Then congratulations,” he said, voice dark and low, “because I am. I’ve never wanted anything like I want you.”

Your breath caught, lips trembling.

“Prove it.”

And just like that, he was on you again—kissing you with reckless intensity. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to kiss you harder. The other stayed firm on your hip, grounding you as he pressed forward between your thighs, grinding slow, hard, making your whole body tremble with every movement.

You were gasping into his mouth now, dizzy with it, with him, and the way his dominance poured into every kiss, every touch. He was everywhere—hands, mouth, body—owning you completely.

“I hate when anyone else says your name,” he muttered against your lips. “Hate when they look at you.”

“Then claim me,” you whispered, your voice low, ruined with want.

He growled, deep and primal, and for a second he just stared at you—chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes burning with a mix of love, obsession, and something far darker.

“I already have,” he said. “But I’ll do it again. And again. Until there’s no part of you that doesn’t know you belong to me.”

Your whole body pulsed with that promise. You didn’t need candles or silk sheets or whispered poetry. You needed him—here, now, and exactly like this.

And as he leaned in again, dragging your lips back to his with bruising, breathless need, you surrendered to every dark, delicious piece of him.

The mirrors fogged with every breath you took, the scent of heated skin and candle wax curling in the air like a spell. The cool marble sink pressed against the back of your thighs, your skirt bunched up carelessly around your waist. Draco stood between your legs like a storm in human form—his breath uneven, his lips swollen from kissing you senseless, and his gaze… ravenous.

His hand slipped under your skirt again, and this time he stilled.

His breath hitched.

You saw the shift in his eyes immediately—like a fuse had been lit.

“You’re not wearing panties,” he muttered, voice rough, low, and shaking with restraint.

Your lips parted, a whisper of a smirk forming on your kiss-bruised mouth. “Not since breakfast.”

His groan was guttural—frustrated, hungry, and sinful all at once.

“Fuck,” he breathed, like the word had been dragged from the deepest part of him.

You were about to tease him again, when he suddenly gripped your hips hard, and before you could gasp, two long fingers thrust into you—deep, hard, with no warning.

Your moan tore from your throat as your head fell back against the mirror behind you. His fingers didn’t hesitate. They curled inside you just right, pressing against that devastating spot he’d memorized like a spell, and your thighs instinctively squeezed around his wrist.

“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he whispered against your throat, kissing just below your jaw, voice dark and possessive. “Walking around all day like that. Letting the whole damn castle wonder what you’ve got on under that little Slytherin skirt.”

You whimpered, biting your lip, fingers gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles turned white.

“Do you even know what that does to me?” he growled, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder. “Knowing no one else knows how wet you are for me—but I do. I always do.”

You cried out, your body arching off the sink as he curled his fingers again, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his thumb brushing against your clit with maddening slowness. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted me desperate. Wanted me angry.”

His voice dropped lower, turning darker.

“Little tease. You’re so fucking filthy, aren’t you? Sitting in class, legs crossed like a good girl, while you drip onto the seat under you. No panties. No shame.”

“Draco,” you gasped, your voice wrecked, body trembling.

He leaned in, mouth right by your ear. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you moaned, your walls clenching around his fingers, every nerve set ablaze.

“Say you did it for me.”

Your lips parted, a breath catching on your tongue. “I didn’t wear them… because I wanted you to lose control.”

And Merlin, did he.

He cursed under his breath, his fingers thrusting even faster, harder, relentless. His body pressed against you, trapping you in his arms, overwhelming you with the smell of him—cologne, sweat, lust.

You couldn’t hold back the sounds now—not when he was unraveling you with every curl of his fingers, every word dripping filth into your ear.

“You’re mine,” he snarled softly. “Every inch of you. And you’ll never go without them again unless I tell you to. Understood?”

Your body arched, overwhelmed by the wave building inside you.

“Yes—yes, Draco—please—”

“Not yet,” he hissed, pulling his hand away suddenly, leaving you aching, gasping, trembling.

You whimpered from the loss, your body shaking in need.

But Draco’s eyes were molten, burning with possession, and his mouth pressed against yours in a kiss that promised you hadn’t even seen the worst of him yet.

“You want to be my filthy little thing?” he murmured against your lips. “Then beg.”

Your breath came in sharp gasps, skin flushed and damp, as you reached out with desperate fingers and took Draco’s hand—still wet from where it had just been inside you. You guided it back between your legs, aching for the pressure, the rhythm, him.

But before you could get it where you needed, he growled—a deep, territorial sound—and yanked his hand back with a firm grip that made your whole body jolt.

“No,” he said roughly, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. “That’s not how this works.”

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the sink as your thighs trembled, frustration and need burning hot through you.

“Draco, please,” you gasped, but he only raised an eyebrow, watching you with a slow, smug tilt of his head.

“Look at you,” he whispered, dragging the backs of his fingers down the inside of your thigh, never quite where you needed. “So needy… shaking for me already. And you really thought you could take control?”

His hand hovered there—close, so close—but never touching. You reached down with your own fingers this time, slipping between your slick folds and thrusting into yourself with a pace that tried to match what he had done before. Your moan echoed through the bathroom, high and aching.

But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t him.

Draco watched, gaze darkening, jaw clenched, as you tried to pleasure yourself in front of him—hips rolling, body straining, breath ragged. But there was no satisfaction in it. It only made the emptiness sharper. It made your body ache even more.

Your lip trembled. “It’s not the same,” you whispered.

His chuckle was low and wicked. “Of course it’s not,” he said, stepping closer, gripping your wrist and stopping your hand. “Because these—” he guided your fingers out and held your hand between you, slick and trembling— “aren’t mine.”

You whimpered, your knees threatening to give out.

“Say it,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “Say no one can make you feel the way I do.”

Your chest heaved, green eyes wide and glassy as you looked at him.

“No one,” you whispered. “No one, Draco. Please, I need—”

“You need what?” he murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek, then your jaw. “Say it. Properly.”

“I need you,” you choked out. “I need your fingers. Your mouth. Your cock. All of it. I need you. Please, Draco, I can’t—”

That was all it took.

The sharp edge of his restraint cracked in half. His eyes blazed as he growled into your mouth, crashing his lips to yours in a brutal kiss. His hand slid between your legs again, and this time, there was no teasing. No slow build.

His fingers thrust back inside you with the same devastating rhythm as before, curling just right, dragging helpless sobs from your throat as your nails raked down his shoulders. The pleasure exploded in white-hot flashes, your body melting and tightening all at once under his dominance.

“Mine,” he growled again and again, breath ragged against your neck. “You don’t touch yourself unless I say. You don’t come unless it’s by me.”

Your fingers clutched at his robes, holding on for dear life as he pushed you to the edge, again and again, the tension between you snapping like a whip in the air.

And you would’ve fallen—shattered and ruined in the best possible way—but his lips brushed your ear as he slowed, pulling back just enough to make you cry out again.

“I’m not done teaching you what happens,” he whispered, “when you forget who owns every inch of you.”

Your moan cracked into a sob of pleasure, your body trembling as Draco’s fingers refused mercy. Each thrust was precise, cruel in how perfectly they curled, making your thighs shake and your breath hitch.

“Draco,” you gasped, your head falling back against the mirror. “I—can’t—I’m—”

But he didn’t slow. He didn’t let up.

He was watching you, eyes dark and locked on your face as though trying to burn every sound and expression into his memory. And then—just when you thought you were going to tip into bliss—he groaned low in his throat, the sound thick with want.

You blinked through your haze just in time to see his free hand move. He tugged at his belt with rough fingers, popped the button, and dragged the zipper down. The sound alone sent a fresh wave of need through you.

“Draco?” you whispered, breathless and trembling.

His eyes never left yours.

He withdrew his fingers from you slowly—cruelly slow—and your body cried out at the loss. A high, helpless sound escaped your lips, your hips shifting toward him in pure instinct.

But he only smirked, gripping his now-freed length in his hand, the tip flushed and aching.

“You think I’m going to let you come without me?” he rasped, voice thick with dominance and need. “After the way you teased me all day—after you begged me like that?”

He stepped in closer, the head of his cock brushing your slick folds. You whimpered, your fingers clutching at his arms, nails digging in.

“You’re mine,” he said again, and then—

He thrust into you in one sharp, punishing stroke.

Your cry echoed through the tiled room, body arching hard against the sink, back bowed from the sudden stretch and heat and overwhelming fullness. It was too much—and not enough.

He was buried deep, deeper than his fingers ever reached, and you felt every inch of him. The thick, throbbing pulse of his cock inside you, the way he fit so perfectly, like you’d been made for him.

Draco groaned against your neck, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he held you in place. “So tight,” he breathed. “So fucking perfect around me.”

You couldn’t even form words—your hands flew up to his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he started to move. His pace was ruthless from the start, every thrust rocking you back into the mirror, each one followed by a hiss of pleasure from his lips.

The tension in the air was unbearable. The scent of sex, the heat of your bodies, the way you both breathed each other in like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

“You wanted this,” Draco snarled softly, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “Walking around without your panties… so cocky… so filthy.”

“Draco—” you moaned, your voice wrecked.

“You thought you could drive me insane and not pay for it?” he growled, his thrusts slamming harder, faster. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, you won’t be able to think about anyone but me.”

Tears welled in your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming force of it all. The way he filled you, possessed you, ruined you so thoroughly that nothing existed outside of this moment.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he said between clenched teeth, his rhythm unrelenting.

“I’m yours,” you cried, sobbing against his shoulder. “I’m yours—I’ve always been—”

He kissed you hard, a messy, claiming kiss that was all tongue and teeth and desperation.

He pulled back just far enough to press his forehead against yours, his pace never faltering, his breath hot on your lips.

“You feel that?” he whispered, low and dangerous. “That’s me. Only me.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, moaning into his mouth as your body started to break apart beneath his.

The bathroom was filled with the symphony of slick skin, ragged breathing, and your broken cries of his name. The sound of Draco’s hips meeting yours echoed off the stone walls, relentless and sharp, a perfect rhythm that made your entire body tremble with every slam of his hips.

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, your thighs shaking around his waist, and your head lolled back helplessly as his cock kept hitting that perfect spot inside you—over and over again. Your eyes rolled, jaw slack, breath catching in short sobs of pleasure.

“Right there,” you gasped, voice high and broken. “Draco—oh, my god—there—”

He growled deep in his chest, watching the way your body responded—how your breasts bounced wildly with every brutal thrust, how your legs twitched around him. His eyes darkened with hunger, possession, adoration.

“You’re a fucking vision,” he rasped, one hand sliding to your waist, the other coming up to grope at your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you whimper. “Look at you. You can’t even think, can you?”

You shook your head desperately, but no words would come. Just moans. Just his name tumbling over and over off your lips like it was the only thing left in your mind.

“Completely cockdrunk for me,” he growled with a twisted smirk, slamming into you harder, faster—each thrust stealing the breath from your lungs. “You love this. Love when I take you like this. When I ruin you.”

Your eyes fluttered, your body arching like a bow, caught between the searing edge of too much and not enough. You tried to respond, to say yes, please, always, but all you could manage was a loud, wrecked cry of his name.

“Say it,” Draco demanded, panting hard against your neck. “Tell me who does this to you. Who you belong to.”

“You—Draco!” you sobbed, lost in the haze of it all. “Only you. Always you. Please—don’t stop—”

His hands gripped you harder, fingers sinking into your hips, dragging your body onto him even deeper. He was in complete control—every move calculated to push you further, to watch you fall apart.

“I could watch you fall apart like this every damn day,” he whispered against your ear, voice thick with dark affection. “So perfect. So desperate. So mine.”

Your vision blurred as the knot inside you tightened, twisting hotter and hotter with every brutal thrust, every filthy word from his lips, every stroke of his body against yours.

And he felt it—felt you spiraling, clenching tighter around him, dragging him closer to his own edge.

“Come for me,” he commanded, slowing just enough to grind deep, right against that spot again. “Show me how much you need me.”

When you shattered, it was silent for a second—like the whole world held its breath. And then you sobbed his name so loud it echoed, your entire body shaking as you convulsed around him.

Draco didn’t stop—he rode it out, watching your face, the way your lips trembled, the tears on your cheeks, your blissed-out, cockdrunk expression like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

You trembled in his arms, your body still quaking from the intensity of your climax, your breath short and gasping—but Draco didn’t stop.

Not even close.

He was still moving inside you with an unforgiving rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, cock dragging through your oversensitive walls like he was determined to leave his mark. The pleasure had tipped over into something almost unbearable, a wildfire dancing along every nerve ending—but still, you took it. Because it was him.

“Draco—” you whimpered, voice broken, hands scrambling for purchase against his back. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled into your ear, biting lightly at your lobe. “You will. You’re gonna take everything I give you.”

The hand on your waist gripped tighter, and the other slid up, fingers curling beneath your chin until he was forcing your head back, making you look into his eyes. They were wild, half-lidded, pupils blown wide with dark lust and something far deeper.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice low and rough. “The way you’re still clenching around me, sucking me back in like you don’t want to let go?”

You cried out as he angled his hips differently—deeper, harder, making your walls flutter helplessly again, dragging you toward a second peak far too soon.

“You love this,” he whispered. “Love how I don’t let you go. How I fuck you like you’re mine.”

“Draco—please—” your words dissolved into a whimper, your body betraying you, tightening around him again like it was begging for more.

He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder for a moment as your body pulsed around him again. His control was fraying—he could feel it—but it only made him rougher, more desperate.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind.”

And then he pulled back enough to look at you, his hand still firm on your jaw, holding you in place so you couldn’t look away.

“When we get back to our dorm,” he said darkly, his voice like gravel, “I’m going to bend you over our bed and do it all over again.”

You whimpered—loud, involuntary—and your body clenched around him so hard he nearly dropped to his knees.

He smirked. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to ruin you again. Have you screaming into our sheets.”

Your nails raked down his back as you nodded, nearly delirious from the overstimulation, from how deep he was inside you, from the possessive fire in his voice. “Yes—yes—please, Draco…”

“You’re gonna fall asleep with my come still dripping out of you,” he snarled, snapping his hips harder now, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the chamber like something sacred, something obscene.

“And when you wake up,” he panted, “I’ll still be inside you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from how intensely you felt him, how much he overwhelmed every part of you. You felt him getting close, his rhythm growing erratic, the edge in his voice raw now, ragged.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you sobbed. “You, Draco. I’m yours—always.”

And with one final, punishing thrust, he groaned your name like it burned him, burying himself to the hilt, his whole body trembling as he emptied inside you.

He didn’t move for a long moment—just held you against the sink, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling, bodies still connected, still pulsing together like one. His hand slid down your cheek, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered. “And I’ll never stop wanting you.”

You leaned into him, eyes fluttering closed as your fingers found his hair, soft now, comforting despite the ache in your limbs.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered back.

He smiled—dark and soft all at once.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Draco’s arms were firm around you, his stride purposeful as he carried you through the dimly lit corridors of the Slytherin common room. Your head rested weakly against his chest, breath still shallow, limbs boneless from what he’d done to you in the prefects’ bathroom—twice.

The soft crackle of the fire flickered across emerald stone walls, casting shadows as the room buzzed with low conversation. But it all came to a halt the moment the door swung open and Draco stepped inside, your limp, well-fucked form in his arms.

Pansy’s eyes widened. Daphne covered her mouth. Blaise arched a brow and let out a low whistle.

Theodore groaned, tossing his quill on the table. “Again?”

Draco didn’t even slow. His smirk was slow, arrogant, smug in the way only he could be. “She’s exhausted,” he drawled without glancing at them. “Can’t even walk. Thought I’d carry what’s mine.”

Your face flushed against his chest, but you didn’t protest. You couldn’t. You were still trembling, your thighs sticky, your throat raw from moaning his name into stone and silk. Your fingers curled weakly into the collar of his robes as he carried you past your staring friends.

Blaise gave a low chuckle, muttering something about “needing soundproofing spells.”

Draco’s smirk only deepened as he approached the stairs. “Don’t wait up.��

The door to your shared dorm clicked shut behind you, sealing you away from the world. The moment it did, the air shifted. Still thick with the heat between you, with possession and passion that hadn’t yet burned out.

He set you down on the bed gently, the first sign of softness since he had taken you hours ago. But the glint in his storm-grey eyes told you he wasn’t done—not by a long shot.

You tried to sit up, but your muscles ached. Your body trembled with exhaustion, overstimulated and aching in the most delicious way.

Draco leaned over you, brushing your hair back from your face, his thumb gliding softly across your cheek. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Good.”

“Draco…” your voice was hoarse, breathless, pleading—but even now, even broken open like this, you were still looking at him like he hung the stars.

He kissed you slowly this time. No rush. Just a claiming, a reminder.

“Think anyone else would ever see you like this?” he whispered against your lips. “Laid out. Weak. Trembling just from me?”

You shook your head, and he smiled—sharp, wicked, proud.

“Didn’t think so.”

He trailed kisses down your jaw, your throat, his fingers slowly undoing the rest of your clothes. But this time wasn’t about urgency. It was about ownership. Worship.

“You were made for me,” he breathed, eyes scanning every inch of you like he still couldn’t believe you were real. “And I’ll spend every night reminding you.”

Your hand found his hair, fingers sinking into those soft, pale strands. “You already have,” you whispered.

Draco hovered above you, his forehead pressed against yours, and for a brief moment, his eyes weren’t clouded by lust—but something deeper. Fiercer.

“I’ll never let you go,” he said softly. “Never.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered.

And in that quiet, tangled space, surrounded by soft sheets and flickering candlelight, he kissed you again—not to dominate, not to conquer—but to claim.

The moonlight spilled through the tall windows of your shared dorm, casting pale silver onto your skin like liquid stardust. The fire burned low in the hearth, its soft crackle the only sound besides your breathless moans and the rustle of the sheets as Draco moved over you like a shadow possessed.

His hands framed your waist, fingers possessive, reverent—like he was reminding himself this wasn’t a dream. That you were real. His.

He hovered above you, his eyes hooded with need as they raked over your body. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Every inch of you is perfect. You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were swallowed by a gasp as his lips wrapped around your nipple, hot and soft and overwhelming. Your back arched off the bed, a breathless moan escaping you as you instinctively threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging tightly.

Draco groaned low against your skin, the vibration sending tingles straight through your chest. He didn’t stop—he sucked harder, his tongue swirling deliberately, almost cruelly, around the sensitive bud. His other hand slid over the curve of your breast, fingers squeezing and massaging to match the rhythm of his mouth.

“Draco,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the twin sensations—his mouth, his hand, his heat pressing you down into the mattress.

He chuckled darkly against your skin, pulling off with a soft, wet pop. “You’re so sensitive tonight,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin as he spoke. “You like when I touch you like this, don’t you?”

You nodded, dazed and breathless, your voice barely a whisper. “Yes… always.”

That answer made his eyes flare. He lowered his mouth again, trailing his tongue across your other breast, flicking teasingly before his lips closed around your nipple once more. Your moans turned desperate, thighs shifting beneath him, seeking friction, seeking more.

He grinned against your chest. “So eager,” he breathed. “I haven’t even started yet.”

His voice was like velvet and fire, and you whimpered as he gently bit down—just enough to make you shiver—before sucking again, deeper this time, more possessive.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “Every part of you.”

Your hands trembled in his hair, and when he finally pulled away, your chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. He looked up at you, hair tousled from your grip, lips glistening, and that wicked gleam in his eyes.

He kissed your sternum, slow and lingering, then moved up to hover over you. His hand cupped your face gently, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip.

“You drive me mad, you know that?” he whispered. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You reached up, caressing his jaw, your voice soft and shaken. “Then show me.”

His smirk returned, full of promise and wicked heat.

“Oh, I intend to.”

Your fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white, as Draco finally pushed inside you—one hard, deep thrust that stole the breath from your lungs. The stretch was immediate, the fullness intense, and your back arched off the bed with a cry that he swallowed in a kiss.

“Merlin,” he growled into your mouth, voice ragged, “you feel like you were made for me.”

His hips didn’t hesitate. His pace was brutal from the start—rhythmic, punishing, like he had no intention of going slow. The bed creaked under the force of his movements, protesting each thrust as he drove himself deeper into you, again and again, without mercy.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, trying to hold onto something, anything, as the pressure inside you built quickly, dizzyingly. His cock hit that spot inside you with precision, every time, like he knew—and of course he did. He knew your body better than anyone ever could. He studied it like a sacred text and mastered it like a spell.

You cried out his name, over and over, your voice shaking with each slam of his hips, and he loved it—every sound, every tremble, every time you clenched tighter around him like you couldn’t help it.

“Louder,” Draco snarled against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Let them all hear how good I fuck you.”

You whimpered, half from his words, half from the way your body was unraveling beneath him. He gripped your hips tighter, pulling you into each thrust with force, his nails digging into your skin, marking you.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze—stormy grey, dark with hunger, fierce with something deeper. His expression twisted with pleasure as he watched your face, saw you lose yourself completely under him.

“You’re mine,” he said, like a vow. “No one else will ever have you like this. No one can.”

You nodded through the haze, your voice breaking. “Yours… always.”

The words made him snarl with satisfaction. He leaned down and kissed you fiercely, his pace never slowing, never faltering. He poured all of it into you—every ounce of control, of possession, of worship twisted with desire.

You didn’t know how long he kept going—minutes? Hours? Time didn’t exist in that room. There was only the sound of your gasps, his groans, the sharp slap of skin against skin, and the bed that shook beneath you.

When your body finally gave out—shaking, aching, overwhelmed—Draco still didn’t stop. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as he buried his face in your neck.

“You take me so well,” he whispered. “You always do.”

And in that raw, breathless space between madness and devotion, you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because he was.The room was thick with heat, the air heavy with every moan, every gasp, every echo of skin meeting skin. Your body trembled beneath Draco’s, completely spent, completely his—but he didn’t stop.

He hadn’t slowed since your release—if anything, his thrusts had grown more relentless. Your limbs had gone limp, boneless from pleasure, eyes glazed in the haze of overwhelming sensation. Yet Draco, with that unyielding fire in his eyes, wasn’t finished.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat when he suddenly shifted, his strong hands curling under your thighs. He lifted them with ease, placing your legs over his shoulders. The angle shifted everything—deeper, fuller, blinding.

You cried out, head rolling back against the pillow, hands clutching the sheets as his cock slammed into that spot inside you over and over again with ruthless precision.

“Oh god—Draco—” you choked out, voice wrecked from pleasure.

His pace didn’t falter. If anything, your reaction only spurred him on. He looked down at you, chest heaving, golden hair clinging to his temples with sweat. And then he saw it.

A low, guttural moan left his throat as his hand moved to your lower belly, fingers brushing the slight bulge with awe and wicked satisfaction.

“Look at that,” he growled, voice rough with arousal. “You’re so full of me… I can see myself inside you.”

You sobbed from the overwhelming pleasure, your body twitching with each brutal thrust. The pressure, the stretch, the weight of his words—it all tangled together until your senses blurred.

Draco leaned down, your thighs pushed tighter against your chest, his pace never letting up. His lips brushed your ear, voice low and possessive.

“This is how I want you,” he whispered, breath warm. “Laid out, ruined, trembling—so full of me you can’t think straight.”

You whimpered, barely able to nod, and he kissed your jaw with unexpected tenderness despite the roughness of his movements.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice gentling for just a moment. “Let go, baby. I’ll hold you together.”

And with those words, your body shattered again, a wave of bliss crashing through you so hard it left you gasping for breath, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth.

Draco moaned loudly as you clenched around him, and he drove in deeper, grinding against that spot until your vision blurred. He was wild, wrecked, lost in the feel of you, in the way your body molded to his like it was made for him alone.

When he finally stilled inside you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck, he didn’t pull away. He stayed wrapped around you, as if grounding himself in your warmth, in your surrender.

His lips pressed softly against your cheek, then your collarbone.

“I’m never letting you go,” he murmured.

And in your dazed, blissful silence—you believed him.

Tag List : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @hayleythecannibal @ceoofglytchell @ashblooddragons @laedeviour @venusbyline

[surdino]

Steve Harrington, who learned to play guitar at a young age. His parents needed him out of the house and he'd been whining about learning an instrument just like his older cousin who plays the violin professionally. Guitar was the easiest, and there were plenty of kids willing to teach little Steve Harrington for whatever insane sum of money the Harrington's paid them.

Eddie Munson, who's been learning to play guitar for ages, on his own because there's no one there to teach him. He sits on his bed and carefully listens to recorded tapes of his favorite songs, fingers stumbling until he's tired and frustrated and still hasn't managed to learn it, really.

Eddie Munson, now seventeen years old and wanting to start a band. He still doesn't know how to play the guitar, but he's gotten good at playing a couple songs and he can sing, so he thinks he can manage.

Steve Harrington, now sixteen years old, who's seeing Munson post flyers on school bulletin boards. He's seen the guitar pick on his necklace, the patches on his vest.

Steve Harrington, who comes to Eddie's first "show". A band of misfits playing at some bar, Steve blended in the background and eyes on the lead singer as he spouts all kinds of lyrics he's never heard before, because let's face it, he's kind of sheltered.

Steve Harrington, who sees Eddie's fingers stumble over the strings every week, where he's managed to score a fixed spot as a local band at the same bar.

Steve Harrington, who realizes after a couple times seeing him play that Eddie doesn't know how to play guitar. That Eddie knows the chords, know where to place his fingers, but doesn't know the basics making up those chords.

Eddie Munson, who's approached by someone after his sixth time playing at the bar in town. The boy takes off his hood and it's Steve Harrington standing in front of him.

Steve Harrington, who tilts his head, saying, in a tone that's more kind than he's ever heard from a jock before, pure curiosity lacing his voice: "you don't know how to play, do you?"

Eddie Munson, who finds himself sitting in the Harrington's living room the next day, Steve's arms wrapped around him as he shows him how to play.

Small continuation in this post

[cherrixpie]

HOW NOT TO DATE A SLYTHERIN

part three of five

↬ being harry potter's sister wouldn't make dating theodore nott any easier - which was why you tried to hide it. only, theo was starting to get reckless with your secret.

↬ sfw; angst + hurt/comfort; wc: 3.0k; cw: none; secret relationship trope, potter!reader, griffindor! reader

thank you for all the supportive comments! wait for part four for the big showdown...

( masterlist )

The streets of Hogsmeade were blanketed in a soft layer of snow, the air filled with the mingling scents of spiced cider and chocolate wafting from the shops. You tugged your scarf tighter against the biting wind, walking beside Harry while Ron and Hermoine trailed just behind, arguing about the practicality of enchanted earmuffs. The (way too) early christmas decorations hung from every storefront, casting warm, golden light onto the snow-covered cobblestones, and the faint sounds of caroling witches and wizards drifted down from somewhere near the Three Broomsticks.

“Can we stop at Honeydukes before we head back?” Ron asked, cutting off a string of heated reasons for her argument by Hermoine who glared at him darkly. “Honestly, Ron, that is your biggest concern? Buying chocolate frogs?”

Sharing a glance, both you and Harry rolled your eyes at their bickering. You chose to defend Ron, partly because if he hadn't proposed the trip to Honeydukes, you’d have. “It’s a valid concern. Not everyone can survive on determination and revision schedules, Hermione.”

The only response you received was a long sigh, audible even over the whistling wind. When a particularly strong squall almost knocked him against a house front, Harry cursed, glowering at the restless sky. “If the weather stays the same ‘til tomorrow's game, we’ll be knocked off our brooms before we can make Malfoy lose.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes at him. “Don't you mean, before we can win? Honestly, Harry, I think you’re approaching this very unproductively.” Ruffling a hand through his unruly hair, you smiled at his grim huff. “On the other hand, if petty hostility makes you fly better-”

“You’ve done this a lot lately,” Ron cut you off, earning another pissed look by Hermoine. “Defending them snakes.”

You had? Not that you had noticed, but yes, you may have subconsciously been a little defensive when your friends had badmouthed the Slytherins, seeing as you were dating one of the most sensitive and thoughtful people you knew, who happened to also be a Slytherin. “I am merely advocating for proportionality,” you mumbled, but your voice was picked up by a gust of wind, carried to the wrong ears.

You heard them before you saw them- a drawled out voice from behind, having the four of you turn on your heels. “Advocating for proportionality, are you, Potter? How very noble. I’m sure the world is thrilled to hear another Potter lecture.” A large group of Slytherins had been approaching from behind, unnoticed by all of you. Though shielded by green-bronze scarfs, you could make out the faces of your Slytherin classmates, as well as some sixth years. Flickering over the group, your eyes found Theo's and they locked in silent understanding. If you weren't mistaken, he gave you a little wink, but that might just as well have been a product of your imagination.

“That's rich,” Harry snarled back, ignoring your tugging at his robes to keep going. “Coming from you, Malfoy, who loves to hear himself talk so much he gets himself friends as silent listeners that applaud everything he says!”

Sensing an approaching conflict, you quickly counted the heads of the Slytherin group- you were looking at a four to ten ratio.

Red shot up into Malfoy’s cheeks and you caught a movement of his hand, sliding towards his wand. “Better be careful talking like that, Potter, didn't your parents ever reach you not to pick fights when you’re outmatched? Oh, wait,” he laughed gloatingly and you buried your hands in your brother’s robe in a preventive manner. “Guess they didn't have the chance before they were blown to bits!”

But your warning glare didn't only fix Harry, you had caught a dangerous look in Theo’s eyes as well. As if he had felt his eyes on you, he returned your gaze and his expression softened slightly. You breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

“LISTEN HERE, YOU TWAT!” Ron bellowed from next to you, shaking his clenched fists. Both you and Hermoine shot forward to hold him back, but you made the fatal mistake of letting go of your livid brother, who barged at Malfoy, not even bothering to pull out his wand. His fist collided with his face the moment Ron followed hot on his heels, tackling a surprised Zabini.

“Merlin,” Hermoine muttered and pulled out her wand. Neither of you got to join in the brawl, though, because a very exasperated Theo had strode forward, separated Blaise and Ron and jinxed both Drace and Harry in one move, making both of them jump back and stumble. Some of his friends groaned at him, deprived of the easy victory, but his infamous death glare brought upon them silence in an instant.

Before they could cause any more trouble, you ushered Ron and Harry back on their feet with Hermoine's help, hastily steering them away from the group.

“Hey, Potter!”

Both you and Harry turned around, but the Slytherin sixth year that had spoken was looking at you. “Spare us the moral superiority in the future. You’re as self-absorbed as your little Gryffindor gang. The way you talk, it’s no wonder you don’t have many friends outside Gryffindor. Who could stand you?”

Ouch.

The hurt must have been visible in your features for a second, because his friends howled and patted his shoulder in appreciation. Harry tensed under your grip, but you tightened it and pulled him along as you walked away, Hermoine and Ron hot on your heels.

The whistles and cackles of the group followed you all the way to Honeydukes. Neither of you spoke, Harry seemed to be fuming and you didn't dare say anything to set him off.

“Are you even listening to me?”

You weren't, and you looked at Hermoine apologetically. Instead of listening to whatever your friend had to say, your gaze had gotten lost somewhere at the Slytherin table. Particularly fixed on the dark haired boy in between Riddle and Malfoy, with the face of a brooding storm. Even from the far end of the great hall, you knew the expression as not simply his moodiness but simmering anger, meticulously controlled.

“I’m sorry,” you said sincerely and fixed your attention on Hermoine. “What were you saying?”

Sighing, Hermoine flipped open the evening edition of the daily prophet. Some snowflakes were still caught up in her hair, relics of your visit to Hogsmeade. “You’re awfully distracted. Is it because of what that idiot Langley said?”

“Who?” you asked, even though you knew exactly who she meant. His comment had hurt you, but it was nothing you wouldn't get over. No, what held your attention in a vice-like grip that felt oh so gentle was your dear secret boyfriend who, at this exact moment, rose from his seat at the Slytherin table, undoubtedly going for a smoke to the astronomy tower.

Hermoine passed your question over, opting to pretend to read the newspaper as you could feel her careful eyes on you. “He’s in the hospital wing, you know? Langley, I mean.”

“Did he choke on his spite?” You asked absentmindedly, swirling your fork through your soup as your eyes followed Theo leaving the Great Hall. The elegance of his long strides, his upright posture, the bounce of his dark curls. It was probably as good a time as ever to realize that you were utterly and irreversibly in love with that man.

“He got hexed, nobody knows by whom. But they contemplated sending him to St. Mungos, seems like he was hexed within an inch of his life,” Hermoine explained and a realization dawned on you. An image flashed before your waking eye- Theo's expression when you had shoved Harry away. You did believe him capable of hexing Langley into St. Mungos. But you also believed him capable of a high level of intelligence that was missing from this situation.

“Was he?” you asked in a neutral voice and Hermoine nodded, no longer pretending to be interested in the newspaper. “Rumor has it that Nott hexed him, but no eye witnesses have confirmed it to the teachers. Too scared of him and his friends, probably.”

You gave up on your fruitless attempts to transport the soup to your mouth. Abruptly, you stood up and shouldered your bag with a little more force than necessary. “I think I’m going to head to the astronomy tower, I still need to finish some star charts for Professor Sinistra.”

The heavy wooden door of the astronomy tower slammed open when you marched through forcefully, the sound echoing through the chilly, starlit space. Theo didn't flinch as you slammed your bag onto the ground. He was, of course, already there, leaning against the stone wall, cigarette perched between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dark. It illuminated his face that was calm, almost indifferent. But the sharp line of his jaw gave him away. He’d been waiting for this.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” you snapped, marching toward him with a heaving chest, partly from your run up the stairs, partly of fury. “What were you thinking, hexing Langley in broad daylight, in front of half the school if you can believe the rumors? Are you trying to get us caught?”

Theo exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his face like a shield. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly composed. “That guy deserved worse for what he said to you.”

You’d be lying if his dangerous dark eyes and the gravely tone of his voice didn't do something for you, paired with the fact that he had sent someone to the Hospital wing for you. But that wasn't the point right now. “You were reckless, Theo. What will your friends think? That you just snapped on a whim and decided to hospitalize the guy you hung out with?”

“They’ll trust that I have my reasons,” Theo said smoothly, making not attempts to step closer to your heaving form or meet your eye.

“And what if they believe that reason is me?” you challenged him. When he looked up, your eyes locked and the intensity of his gaze knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

“Then they do,” he simply said, making you gasp in protest. With a flick of his wrist, golden embers rained from his cigarette. “It would not be the end of the world. You wouldn't care, would you?” His gaze grew sharper and you felt utterly disarmed. “You only care that your brother and your Griffindor friends don't find out you’re dating a Slytherin.”

“I know where you’re going with this,” you pressed through pursed lips. “And it's not fair. If you were ready to admit to everyone you’re seeing the Chosen One’s sister, you’d already have.”

The force with which Theo stepped forward caught you off guard. Stopping in front of you, he leaned down and a cloud of smoke pulled you in. “I’ll do it,” he whispered to you, watching your reaction closely. “I’ll go right now and shout it from the fucking rooftops.” Crooking his head, he took a step back. “But you wouldn't want that, would you?”

You didn't answer, because you knew he was right. It was you who was trying to keep this relationship quiet, but it wasn't like you didn't have your reasons. One of them being how your friends would react, sure, but since Theo’s father was a death eater, the Order could see you as a liability as well.

Theo called your name and as if on command, you looked up at him. The cigarette lay glowing on the floor, he hadn't even bothered to smother the embers with his boot. “Are you ashamed of me?” There was a guarded vulnerability in his voice. So rare that you could do nothing but stare at him for a few seconds. Theo waited patiently, but he watched every little change of expression.

“I’m not,” you finally managed to say after you found your voice. You took a pleading step towards him, but he took one back as if on chance. “Are you sure?” he asked and a hint of bitterness laced his composed voice. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re fine with me being your dirty little secret.”

“You’re- you’re not-,” you stammered, your insides were squeezing painfully with the look he gave you. “Theo, you have to understand my situation here! I mean, you didn't even attempt to! You don’t understand what it’s like, Theo. I can’t just… parade this around. Harry, Ron, Hermione-they’d never let it go. And don’t get me started on the rest of Gryffindor!”

A humorless laugh escaped his throat. “You’re an idiot.” Flinching at his tone, you took a step back, but he stalked towards you predatorily. “Do you think you’re the only one who is under pressure here? Last time I checked, the people you answer to aren't ruthless murderers.”

He was right, you knew he was right. But there was a small, defiant part of you that just didn't want to accept it. “Just because you’re ready to tell them doesn't mean I am. They all see me as this perfect girl. I don’t get to make mistakes.”

This goddamn raised eyebrow that managed to stun anyone to silence appeared on his beautiful face. “And I’m the mistake, is that it? Great to know where I stand, Potter.”

“I didn't say that!” you protested, running your hands through your hair in frustration. Theo smiled bitterly. “You didn’t have to. You’d rather keep this quiet, pretend it’s not happening, because being with me doesn’t fit your perfect Gryffindor image.”

Anger started to bubble up in your chest once more and you clenched your fists, infuriated by his seemingly indifferent calm. “You think this is easy for me? Sneaking around, lying to my friends? If they found out about us, they’d never trust me again!” Your breath got caught in your throat as your voice grew quiet. “You don’t get it, Theo. I can’t afford to mess this up. People expect me to be perfect, and being with you… it’s not the safe choice. But it’s my choice, okay? Doesn’t that mean something?”

With an abrupt turn, Theo walked towards the railing and turned his back to you. A ruffle, a click, a soft golden glow and finally, a cloud of smoke rising from his figure as if he was burning from the inside. His voice was so hushed you had trouble understanding it, drawing closer but still keeping your distance. “You know, for someone so stubborn, you’re really bad at fighting with me.”

“That’s because I don’t want to fight with you.” you said imploringly, taking tentative steps toward him. Though he most certainly noticed even the most quiet of sounds, he didn't turn around. A long sigh left Theo’s lips and a large puff of smoke rose up to the stars. “Neither do I.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” you asked, fiddling with your fingers. “I know I’m not handling this the way you deserve.”

Finally, Theo turned around to you and you were taken aback by the sudden vulnerability in his expression. Theo’s features were often closed off, hard to read, unmovable. But now, his eyes were heavy with emotion- a mix of regret and sadness, though a light smile played along his lips. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m just asking for you to … trust me.”

You closed the distance between you and Theo exhaled the last puff of smoke into the chilly night air before he stepped on his cigarette. His arms reached for you and you almost threw yourself into them. You hated fighting. Once around you, his hold tightened and you felt your face pressed up against his warm chest. The tremble of an exhale left your lips as you closed your eyes and relaxed in his hold. “I do, Theo. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I wouldn’t be doing this- any of this- if I didn’t think you were worth it.”

You only got a soft rumble of his chest in response. His smell surrounded you, clouded you, and you thought to yourself you might get addicted to cigarettes if he kept smelling like them. “This might be a bad time for stuff like that, but… I've never felt like this about anyone.”

When you lifted your head from his chest, you found him already looking at you. And you had to appreciate how he must have turned down every wall he had so carefully constructed around himself to look at you with such a raw expression. “Me neither,” he almost breathed, locking your fingers. He shook his head disapprovingly. “Tesoro, your hands are ice bricks.”

“Why don't you kiss them better, then?” you asked hopefully, relieved to see a smile appear on his face. Theo brought your locked hands up to his lips and pressed slow, gentle kisses to the back of your hand. The soft tingle that followed his touch warmed your whole body.

“We’re going to have to actually talk about this, you know.” he said and you nodded slightly.

“I know. Just… not tonight.”

tag list: @annaisabookworm @empath-bunny @k0z3me @slutfordpr @aespaslut @kiarst @the-oracle-at-delphinitely-not @fakem0net @sammyreid @tulipsc @yasmin-oviedo @lazycrazyme

[bellaxgiornata]

A Favor from the Devil |Chapter One|

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Mom!Reader Word Count: 2.2k [Series Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; Domestic abuse, depictions/mentions of sexual assault, struggles with past trauma, canon-typical violence, angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut (possibly more warnings to come)

Summary: Between working cases at Nelson, Murdock, and Page and combating crime as Daredevil in Hell’s Kitchen at night, Matt had little time for much else. Until a new neighbor moves in across the hall and you attract his attention with your odd behavior. But when your quiet four year old doesn't just befriend the Devil–she unravels his biggest secret–Matt only grows closer and more protective of the both of you. Inevitably he learns the truth of your past, but that's not what surprises him most. It's a favor you ask of the Devil–a favor that initially leaves Matt conflicted.

a/n: This is a story I've had in my head for quite a few months now and have steadily been working on for a bit for myself, but now I've decided to share it. I've spent quite a bit of time outlining and fleshing out the story--more than I usually do. As always, feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Tag list: @kee-0-kee @dethspllz @a-half-empty-g1rl @senjoritanana

“And that's the end,” you said. 

Closing the book in your lap, you glanced up from the brightly colored illustrations of animals on the back cover to your daughter who sat clutching Barnabas, the stuffed teddy bear that she never went to bed without. Her eyes had grown wide and hopeful as they held your gaze–a look you'd long since become familiar with. It was the same one she always gave you when she was about to stall in an attempt to avoid her inevitable bedtime. And it often worked on you, whether she realized it or not.

“Again?” Evelyn asked softly, a little hand reaching out towards the book. “Please, mama?”

“Cricket,” you replied gently, glad to hear she was stringing more words together tonight despite the excitement of this evening's move. “I've already read it five times now. I think it's time we put it away for tonight and you get to sleep.” 

Evelyn's face fell at your answer and the sight pained you. It didn’t help that you knew just how anxious she'd been the entire weekend with all the big changes you both had going on yet again. She'd spent the past week barely saying more than a single word because of it.

“The book will still be here tomorrow,” you promised her. “We can read it again then.”

“Helps me sleep,” she whispered.

The growing frown curving her lips downwards and the little crease forming between her furrowed brows tugged at your heart. Especially with how she looked so small tucked inside the too-large sleeping bag you'd recently purchased at a thrift store. It looked as if she was being swallowed up by the giant purple thing considering she didn't even take up half the length of it. 

Sighing, you felt your resolve fading the longer she stared up at you with her pleading eyes. With everything that you'd both been through over the past few months, and how you'd already felt guilty for all of the things you'd done wrong and hadn't been able to give her–which included an actual bed to sleep in once you'd gotten this apartment–you knew you wouldn't be able to resist that look. The very least you could do was read the book to her for a sixth time.

Leaning back once more against the bedroom wall behind you, you settled in for another few minutes on the uncomfortable floor. “Alright,” you relented. “I can read it just one more time for you, cricket. But then you've got to promise me something. Can you do that?”

The expression on her face changed, her small nose slightly scrunching up as her head turned to the side. “What?” she asked.

“Promise me that you'll actually go to sleep when I'm done,” you said, reaching a hand out to lightly ruffle her hair. “Because it's late and you've got your first day of preschool in the morning. Remember?”

“Oh,” she whispered, visibly sinking lower into the sleeping bag. 

You frowned. She'd been nervous for that, too.

“Hey,” you said, your hand smoothing her hair before coming to gently rest along her shoulder. “You'll have fun there, I promise. I know it can seem scary going somewhere new, but you've been doing a great job adjusting to all the new things we've been through already. And you'll make friends, Evie. It'll be alright, I promise.”

The doleful look on her face didn't waver despite your attempt to comfort her. You hoped that beginning preschool tomorrow in conjunction with yet another move didn't set her back to nonverbal responses again. Guilt burned inside of you at the thought of how much your previous situation had led her to become so timid and quiet, afraid to use her own voice. It didn't matter that everyone at Hope Haven had tried to reassure you that none of what you'd been through was your fault, that you had done everything you could when you could. That didn't stop you from still feeling wholly responsible.

You should have seen it coming. Should have done something sooner.

But that was in the past now.

“And after work I'll pick you up and bring you back home with me,” you told her, trying to lighten her mood. “We can eat tonight's leftover pizza for dinner. And maybe I can get us some ice cream on the way home. How does that sound, cricket?”

Evelyn's hands began fidgeting with the edge of her sleeping bag, rolling it up between her small fingers. Her eyes remained downcast, avoiding yours. You knew she often fidgeted when she was anxious, a habit that just seemed wrong for a four year old to have acquired.

“Is this home?” she asked. 

The ever present guilt in your stomach burned, your chest tightening at the unexpected and loaded question. You hated that she worried about things that no four year old should be worrying about, too. Another thing that was all your fault.

Expression softening, you nodded. “Yeah, Evie,” you answered, your hand dropping down to wrap around her little one that was still fidgeting with the edge of her sleeping bag. “This is home. We're staying here. Hopefully for a long, long time.”

Glancing up at you from beneath her lashes, you could see the expression on her face had yet again changed. This time she was staring up at you with a look that you absolutely hated seeing on her little face. One full of fear and uncertainty. A particular memory flashed through your mind at the sight of it and the acid in your stomach had a wave of nausea hitting you. Eyes briefly dropping down to the scar across the back of your right hand, you tried to fight back the tremble that had begun in it.

“We're safe?” Evie asked.

Attempting to swallow down the lump that had formed in the back of your throat, you nodded. You gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, though it felt like your heart was shattering in that moment. Because after all, it had also been your fault that it had taken so long to get the pair of you somewhere safe.

“Yes,” you stated, your trembling hand gripping the book in your lap tighter in an attempt to calm the quivering. “We're safe here. Don't ever worry about that, alright? That's for me to worry about. And I will always make sure you're safe. You hear me? Always .”

There was a long pause before she very slowly nodded her head just once. Your left hand patted hers tenderly, sending her what was meant to be a reassuring smile. You hoped it had been, because you'd been doing your best to appear more put together than you actually felt lately. You didn't need Evie to be worrying about anything else.

“So,” you said, trying to change the topic, “I guess we should get back to finishing our bedtime story, huh?”

Evie nodded vigorously, pushing herself more upright in her sleeping bag, her expectant eyes on you. You sent her another smile before clearing your throat and focusing back down on the book in your lap. Opening it once more with your still quivering hand, you tried to push the bad memories from your mind as you began to read in an animated voice. 

It wasn't until four pages later that you'd glanced up at Evie. She had leaned over to see the pictures in the book while you read, all traces of fear gone from her face. Instead, she looked enraptured in the story that you knew she had completely memorized by now with how often you'd read it to her. There was a ghost of a smile on her face as she cuddled Barnabas tightly to her chest. And in that moment your heart felt full of hope.

Running a hand across your forehead, you paced your way around the mostly unfurnished apartment you'd just moved into this evening. The sparseness of the place was truthfully embarrassing. Currently all you had was Evie's sleeping bag, a blanket and lumpy pillow set aside by Evie’s bedroom door which would be your bed for the foreseeable future, and the empty boxes tossed around what would someday hopefully be a living room. For now it was just a large, empty room beside the small, empty kitchen.

As you paced around another overturned, half-broken down cardboard box, your shoulders dropped. You'd managed to pack all of Evelyn's and yours’ belongings in those boxes now lying discarded on the floor. Just six boxes fit your entire life. You certainly hadn't had much when you'd grabbed Evelyn and ran those couple of months ago. Just one garbage bag filled with mostly her clothes and things with a few of yours mixed in. Though even if you'd had time to pack more, there wouldn't have been much else to bring with you because neither of you’d ever had much to begin with. 

And now here you were struggling to afford the very little you had as it was, no matter how desperately you were trying to stretch your measly new salary. It pained you to not be able to provide properly for you and your daughter. You remembered how you’d felt that very last night you'd stayed at Hope Haven, the women's shelter that you’d be forever grateful for taking the pair of you in and helping you start your new life. 

Long after Evelyn had gone to sleep on your last night there, you'd laid awake in bed crying quietly to yourself as you stared at that damn purple sleeping bag mocking you from across the room. You’d felt like a terrible mother–for more than one reason. As tears ran down your cheeks, you’d vowed to save up to buy Evie a bed, doing whatever you needed to until you could. You'd give her that at least, even if it meant skipping meals whenever you could to save the extra cash. But honestly, you found yourself already often having to skip meals just so you could afford to keep Evie fed.

Pausing in your aimless pacing, you came to a stop beside one of the large windows in the living room. Placing a hand against the cool glass, you looked outside at the city. Your eyes inevitably found their way to the massive billboard positioned on the building across the street which hung at precisely your apartment's height. But fortunately for you the eyesore was more directly across from the apartment next door to yours, making it less noticeable and disruptive from your view. Though you had no choice but to feel grateful for the hideous thing because it had been the sole reason you'd gotten such a reduced rent in the first place. Otherwise you'd never have been able to afford a place in a relatively safe area of Hell’s Kitchen.

As you blankly stared outside at the billboard, watching the advertisements change from one to the next, you hoped things would be different here. Better. Because both you and Evie needed that. Your daughter needed a stable place to live, one she felt safe coming home to for once, and you desperately wanted to provide that for her. With every fiber of your being you hoped that this place would finally become the home you'd been struggling to create since the day she was born.

Pushing away from the glass, you rubbed at your tired eyes. It was late and you knew you should probably get some sleep yourself now that Evie had finally fallen asleep a little while ago. But the prospect of sleeping on the cold, hard floor with nothing but a singular blanket and pillow didn't sound that appealing. You certainly weren't rushing to get to sleep yourself. 

Making your way back across the apartment, you reluctantly picked up the blanket and pillow from the ground. Carrying both of them over towards the closed door of Evelyn's bedroom, you set the pillow down. With both hands you tossed the blanket out, splaying it wide across the floor. You realized it was probably ridiculous sleeping in front of her bedroom door like this, especially because there was another bedroom, but it made you feel better. Because laying here, you knew that you were between your daughter and anyone who might come through the front door–namely one person in particular. 

Not that he even knew where you were.

Beginning to lower yourself to the floor, preparing to get some rest, movement caught your attention out of the kitchen window across the room. You stopped instantly, head spinning fully towards the window as you sat half-crouched like a startled animal. Adrenaline and fear spiked through you as your eyes caught a shadow darting across the neighboring rooftop. For a moment you could have sworn the shadow had been shaped like a person, but as you scanned the rooftop now, you didn't see anything at all.

Shaking your head, you blinked hard a couple of times as you finally sunk to the floor. You had to have been seeing things because you were overtired and on edge. That's all it was. There was no reason for someone to be running along a rooftop late at night.

[ceilidho]

prompt: IKEA soap/reader fic. PART 2. (read part 1 here) tags: dubcon

-

There’s a photo of you taped up on the inside of his locker. 

The glimpse you catch of it is quick. Not like you aren’t meant to see it, but more like Johnny’s so unconcerned with whether you see it or not that he doesn’t bother to make a show of it. Just reaches into his locker to grab his lunch and shuts it while you’re still gaping at the polaroid of someone that looks suspiciously like you in your store uniform. You hear someone clear their throat and you glance up, flinching when you meet Johnny’s eyes.

“Missing me already?” he teases, winking. “I’ll be back on the floor as soon as possible. ‘Promise, hen.”

“It’s not—” 

He’s already out the door and on the way to the lunchroom before you’re able to get the rest of your sentence out. 

Johnny seems to have a sixth sense for when you’re about to spurn his advances. Any other day he would have stuck around to listen to the rest of your sentence, but when he has an inkling that those words will be tinged by the flavour of rejection, he’s quick to book it. You privately have to admit it’s not a terrible strategy. It’s not often that you’re able to get the words out. 

It’s one of those rare shifts where you’re clocking in later than Johnny, missing his lunch break. Small mercies. It doesn’t mean much because your schedules still overlap a significant amount, but it does mean that you won’t be forced to choke down your lunch while Johnny sits opposite you at the lunch table and stares you down the entire half hour. 

“Wait, that was so fucking cute,” someone says from behind you. You turn on your heel to find a coworker staring at Johnny’s locker, properly enchanted by whatever she saw. Practically swooning. 

“What is?”

“Didn’t you see the picture he has of you? In his locker?” She says it with emphasis, giving you a significant look. 

“Yeah…I…don’t you think it’s a bit…like, weird?” you ask her, making sure to keep your voice low in case Johnny is still around the corner. You can’t help the way you glance down the hallway.

She frowns. “It’s cute. He’s like, smitten with you. I’ve never seen him with a crush on anyone before and I’ve worked with him for over a year. I think it’s kind of nice. Do you not like him or something?”

“Well, I just…we aren’t even dating and I think…I think he even has a photo of me as his lock screen—”

“Because if you aren’t interested in him, you should let him down now. It’s not fair of you to just string him along, you know. He’s a really good guy.”

You’re not sure about the whole good guy thing. Johnny acts like a nice guy most of the time, but you’ve had the unfortunate luck in getting to experience the other side of him.

The problem lies in the fact that Johnny is, you think, a genuinely likeable guy to everyone else. It’s not like your coworkers are all collectively wrong in their opinion of him—he really is an excellent coworker. A good sport, a funny guy; he lends a hand whenever someone needs help. He helped Jeff move two weeks ago, drove Daryl to the airport last Saturday, and looked after Sonya’s cat while she was away on vacation that one time. 

It’s with you that his good-time nature evaporates; his lazy, drawled predilection for joking around and indulging himself and others in a good ribbing replaced by a weird, manufactured kindness. Almost sickly sweet. He lays it on so thick around others that they think you experience the same friendship with Johnny that the rest of them get to enjoy. 

Not so.

None of them catch the way he’s always hovering, always staring at you. Eyes half-lidded; bedroom eyes in the middle of your shift, in the middle of the workplace. 

None of your coworkers are around when you’re at the register one day and Johnny takes his break to make a couple purchases, coming to your cash with a basket full of chocolate, wine, condoms, body butter, and batteries. No one except him notices the way you pause at the last item.

“Dinnae ken if your vibrator was rechargeable or not,” he says when you look at him funny, a big grin stretched across his face. Blue eyes gleaming almost feverishly. “Thought I’d be prepared either way.”

You scan his items in silence. When you hand him his bag, you try not to shudder when he purposefully glances his hand over yours. 

Worse are the days when Johnny comes in as a customer, the days when he’s off the schedule. When he shouldn’t even be at the store at all. No one notices the way he pesters you the entire time he’s in the store, insisting on you helping him with his purchases. If a coworker does happen to notice his presence (and how could they not when he’s such a formidable presence in any room, when he almost glows from the energy stockpiled in his body with nowhere else to go), he’ll make polite conversation, just long enough to not seem rude, before shifting his attention back to you. 

His conversation borders on interrogation. He asks you about your childhood and your friends and whether you have a partner or any previous partners. He makes you follow him to the bed section where he tries out all the mattresses and then asks you increasingly inappropriate questions like what mattress you have, what it feels like, how you sleep at night, what you wear to bed. 

When you rebuff him one too many times, he’s not shy about telling you off. 

“Ye just need a good fuck ta sort ye out,” Johnny snarls when you brush off another invite out to lunch one day. It’s not often that he loses his temper with you, so his anger makes your eyes widen, your pulse pick up. During morning shift assignments, he’d corralled your manager into pairing the two of you up on curbside pick-up orders, meaning that you’ve been stuck with him for hours, nowhere else to go. 

“Excuse me?” you say, voice going up a decibel. 

He leans across the front of the cart loaded with flowerpots and gardening tools. “I get it, hen. No one at home ta play with your pussy, huh? No choice but ta come into work all pent up and frustrated—”

“This is in like, the outer Hebrides of ‘none of your business’—”

“—clit’s probably all swollen too. Fuck.” He breathes out heavily through his nose, eyes darkening. “No wonder you’re always pissed off. I’d be too if I dinnae have a little replacement pussy at home.”

“You’re the reason I’m upset in the first place, Johnny.”

“Aw, I ken, bonnie,” he says with a pout, eyebrows slanting down like he really, truly pities you, the gesture immediately contradicted by his next words. “Promise I’ll make it better. Wanna meet outside my truck in a half hour?” 

You storm off before it comes to blows. Not that it’d ever be a fair fight. Johnny would probably hold you away with his palm against your head while you swung at him uselessly. You try not to think of that too often. Of him toying with you. Most of your interactions feel like that these days. Like he’s a big cat holding your tail down when you try to scramble away. 

When you beg your manager to switch shift assignments, the look you get could wilt flowers. It’s not completely your fault, even if your request is a bit inconveniencing. Johnny has your coworkers and management so wrapped around his finger that no one can even hazard a guess as to why you might be uncomfortable around him. 

It’s the only reason you haven’t complained to HR yet. There are channels and protocols for dealing with his behaviour, but watching people practically trip over themselves to please him reminds you that the likeliest outcome would be them transferring you to another store. It just doesn’t seem worth it.

You don’t think about how frazzled his words leave you for the rest of your shift. You don’t think about it because there’s nothing to think about. 

You know from the second that your manager reassigns you to women’s apparel that you’ve probably made a mistake. Customers buzz around you like gnats, like swarms of flies, and it’s only natural that you’d be compelled to swat a few. You hold on to the fraying edges of your patience with little finesse. About halfway through your shift, you get a stern talking to from your floor supervisor and put on an extra long break. You’re no less irritated when you get back though, somehow still agitated and snappy. 

Big hands clamp over your shoulders and squeeze like he’s giving you a massage, thumbs digging into the grooves of your upper back. He ignores the way you tense up.

“Hen, you’re making the customers uncomfortable with all your huffin’ and puffin’,” he whispers into your ear, a light chuckle falling out with his words. Amused by your attitude this time instead of ticked off. “If ye want, I could take ye ta the back room ta loosen ye up a bit. Make your day a little better. Dinnae think anybody will even notice if we dip away for a bit—’sides management will probably send me a gift basket if ye come back perky after a good shag.”

You shrug him off to go clock out, ignoring the way he chuckles as you storm off. No one knows if you go home and wear out the battery in your vibrator while thinking about Johnny’s words. Thinking about Johnny guiding you to his truck with a palm flat on your low back, pinkie teasing just under the waistband of your pants, before laying you out across the backseat and climbing on top of you.

You come when you think about how he’d have to keep the door open to fuck you in his car.

Unfortunately, you’re more than familiar with his sweet side as well. 

On your birthday, he comes in early with a sheet cake and organizes the employees so that the breakroom is dark when you come in. The entire staff is there when you switch on the lights, shouting your name and happy birthday, decked out in party hats and blowing into noisemakers.

It catches you off guard. Hits you right in the solar plexus and leaves you winded. You stand in the middle of the room like you’re under a spotlight and that spotlight is Johnny’s stare burning a hole in your head. For once, it doesn’t rankle. It leaves you feeling light, feathery, like floating down to earth. A coworker hands you a noisemaker and you smile until your eyes crinkle when you blow into it. 

You’re in a good enough mood that you don’t argue when he insists on sitting beside you. He got you the cake after all. Maybe it’s the least he deserves. Your goodwill lasts until Johnny tries to feed you a piece of cake with his fork; he winds up getting cake smushed all over your cheek when you turn your head away. 

“Johnny, ‘m not a baby,” you complain, wrinkling your nose when cake and icing slide down your face. “I can feed myself. This is so gross.”

“Shucks, hen, lemme get that. Shouldnae have turned your head,” Johnny curses, leaning over to scoop it off with his fingers. He holds them out to you, an offering. “Here ye go, kitty.”

You stare, horrified, until he shrugs like ‘suit yourself’ and pops them into his own mouth. Then drags the same spit covered fingers over your cheek again to keep cleaning you up. 

You can tell that it’s hopeless to complain by the way your coworkers giggle and gossip, eyes drawn to the two of you. Maybe it would be better if you were transferred. You only have so many ‘I’m not his work wife’s left in you. Something’s bound to give. You have a sneaking suspicion that it’s going to be you. 

On the walk to your car after your shift, which Johnny insists on doing like he does every time the two of you work a closing shift together, he jokingly asks if you’ve gotten your birthday spanks. He says it in that same awkward joking tone, just a bit too excited, staring at you too eagerly. Unblinking. Tuts his tongue when you tell him you’ve never heard of that before. 

You jolt and squeak at the pop on your ass when he insists on opening the door to your car and helping you in. The betrayed look you shoot him hardly penetrates through his shit-eating grin. 

“See ye tomorrow, kitty,” Johnny calls out, walking backwards away from you to where his truck is parked just a few spots away from yours. You think he would’ve parked right next to you if you hadn’t chosen a spot conveniently between two other cars. “More where that came from.”

Your hands shake against the steering wheel your whole drive home. Dreading tomorrow’s shift.

[emchant3d]

siren steve and pirate eddie, part 2 pt 1

Steve heals slowly.

He’s irritable and restless, bedridden, and he doesn’t have the strength in his injured tail to support himself if he were to be tossed back into the ocean.

The crew helps him to the deck for a change of scenery and some sunshine - he seems more settled when he can hear the waves and feel the sun on his skin. He’s less snappish, at least, those sharp teeth tucked away behind his pink lips instead of bared in Eddie’s direction.

Eddie had panicked briefly about how much saltwater Steve needs, and he’d rolled his eyes at him. “Keep it near and I’ll be fine,” he tells him. “Half human remember?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “but the fish part is looking a little dry, sweetheart.” 

Steve slaps him with a tail fin.

He finds himself spending most days with the Mer. Part of it is pure fascination - it’s difficult to not want to spend time around a story come to life. And if he neglects his duties as Captain a little, well - that’s what his crew is for.

Slowly, he pulls more from Steve. He finds out what caused his injuries - “the deep holds a lot of creatures that like the taste of Mer,” he tells him. “I swam right into a nest. By the time I realized, they already had me by the throat and were dragging me to the seabed.”

“Gods,” Eddie murmurs, and Steve hums in agreement. “Evil little things. Razor sharp claws and teeth, and their tails are like whips. They move in schools, so if there’s one, there’s dozens others.”

He speaks of these kinds of creatures so casually, monsters that have worked their way into human lore and others that are unknown to them, but the idea of them still makes Eddie’s skin crawl.

It’s like Steve has a sixth sense for his discomfort. He’s lounging in a long basin Freak and Jeff put together, a shallow amount of salt water in it to keep him comfortable, and he rolls his head to the side, peering up at Eddie.

“They probably wouldn’t turn down a human, either,” he muses, dragging those unnervingly deep eyes up and down him, “but your little lungs wouldn’t survive that deep down, so you’re probably fine.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie snorts, and Steve breaks into a laugh.

As friendly as they’re becoming, Eddie knows Steve still doesn’t fully trust him. He’s excellent at reading people - he knows when someone is keeping secrets, and Steve is locked tight.

He doesn’t blame him. He knows it’s difficult to believe Eddie’s help doesn’t come with strings, and he catches Steve watching him and his crew sometimes, tense and on edge as if he’s waiting for someone to lash out at him.

Eddie hates it. But he doesn’t know how to settle him, not fully, and so maybe the solution is to craft those strings he’s looking so hard to find. Let him find what he’s looking for, but show him that they aren’t as bad as he’s built them up to be in that pretty head of his.

“So what other gifts are you blessed with, Highness?” he asks one cloudy day, the sky gloomy and overcast. A little rain won’t hurt them, but he’s hoping the darker clouds on the horizon will dissipate before they reach them and upend a true storm.

“Divination,” Steve says like he’s bored, and Eddie’s head whips around to stare at him. Steve holds his gaze, his own a little hooded, and he yawns softly.

“What,” Eddie asks flatly. Steve waves a hand dismissively. 

“Just about the ocean,” he says, like that isn’t still one of the most incredible things Eddie’s ever heard. “I can tell when danger’s near. When something isn’t quite right. Whole lot of good it did me,” he snorts, glancing down at his scarred torso.

The bandages have been removed, and pink skin is healing slowly where there used to be gaping wounds. His tail is faring much the same, scales missing from where he’d been bitten and ripped at, but the new flesh is beginning to blend in with the bright shades of his lower half.

“Everything was dangerous down there, I just tried to pick the safest option. I’m still pretty sure I chose right.” Eddie frowns. “You were almost eaten alive,” he says, can’t help it, and Steve cuts him a lazy smile.

“Almost,” he repeats, and Eddie supposes that’s an answer.

He takes a breath, calms his heart, and tries to act like the Captain he is. “So, if you stuck around, you’d be able to tell me what I’m heading towards.” Steve closes his eyes and lets his head hang back, arms resting on the sides of the basin. 

“Yes.” A cloud sweeps over them, blocking the sun from shining on Steve’s face, casting him in shadows. “I could tell you if you were sailing into an ambush, or if the waters were acting up, or any number of other useful little tips that could keep you and your crew alive.”

“You’ve thought about this,” he says, and Steve snorts.

“Of course I have. I have no home. No family. Going alone almost got me killed. I’m pretty but I’m not dumb, Eddie.” He opens his eyes, fixing his gaze onto Eddie’s. “So how about we make a deal?” he offers, and Eddie grins.

It’s an easy negotiation. Steve wants freedom. He wants to see the world. And he wants safety while he does it. Eddie wants an advantage, wants to keep his crew safe, wants them to thrive in this difficult life they’ve chosen.

They shake on it. Steve moves lightning fast as their hands meet, a sharp claw nicking his own palm and then Eddie’s, making him hiss.

“Fuck–” he grunts. A burning sensation shoots through him from hand to chest, fire hot and searing. He gasps, fingers locked around Steve’s, who stares at him impassively. “What…?”

“You’ve made an oath with a Mer,” Steve says simply. “You’ll be held to your word, Captain Munson.”

Eddie pulls his hand away and looks at his palm. 

A black mark surrounds the cut from Steve’s claw, a swirling spiral that snakes from the center of his palm in three little loops. Steve holds his hand out without being asked, showing the matching mark on his own skin.

Eddie’s no stranger to ink and tattoos, but this is decidedly different. It hums with an ancient kind of magic, a connection that he doesn’t - can’t - understand. Something unnameable settles into his bones.

This is a test, he realizes. Or maybe it’s insurance. Either way, it’s something Steve felt necessary to take Eddie at his word, and so he won’t ask questions - not yet, at least.

“Well, I’ve had worse deals, I guess,” he says, and when he meets Steve’s eyes again, some of the caution has seeped out of them. 

Eddie’s sure there’s more to be found out about this creature in front of him, but contrary to popular belief, he can be patient when it counts. 

For now he’ll take what he’s offered - a wary friendship. A slow-growing understanding. And a certain type of care, of gentleness, that curls warm within him and grows with every smile and soft look that Steve throws his way.

part 3 coming soon 💕 no tag lists, sorry!

[empress-simps]

Line That Leads To You

Pairing: Sirius Black x Fem! Reader AU: Soulmate AU CW: Language, Genre: Angst with a happy ending (don't worry guys) Summary: You make Sirius realize that having a soulmate isn’t all that bad— that he too, will have his happily ever after.

Note: One of my favorite tropes to write, soulmate AUs! Sirius just needs love and affirmation. I love writing for this! Enjoy! Picture is from pinterest, credits to the owner!

You know, Sirius never really believed in those pesky soulmates stuff. It irks him to no end, and makes his head hurt.

The topic makes him snappy, bitter, and it leaves him feeling angry. To whom? The world— the one who’s responsible for everything that has to do with soulmates. He thinks it is a bunch of bollocks. It’s a pathetic little concept that everyone seems to be too invested in.

Sirius would be very much happy to tell you it doesn’t really end with a happily-ever-after.

“I’m telling you, Prongs. It’s just a bunch of crap.” Sirius tells James one time at the drawing room in the Potter Manor. James shakes his head, disagreeing with his best mate.

“It isn’t always like Walburga and Orion, Pads.” James gently tells him, eyes swimming with empathy for Sirius. “Just look at me, Lily and I are together, finally.” Sirius can’t help but scoff, shaking his head in a disagreeing manner.

“That’s because you were already pathetically in love with her before you even knew she was the one, Prongs. Same thing for Lily, but she was quite stubborn trying to deny what she felt about you. You guys are actually made for each other.” James lets out a laugh, the memories resurfacing making a love-struck smile appear on his face (Sirius gave him a disgusted look)

“That’s what soulmates are, Pads. You’re supposed to complete each other, balance the other person out” He pursed his lips and sighed, there’s no way Prongs could understand his opinion on the matter.

Complete each other, huh?

Then can someone give him a reasonable excuse on why his parents broke each other? One descended into madness; the other doesn’t really seem to care as long as the noble house of Black lineage will continue.

Sirius bites his bottom lip, deep in thought as he stares at his pinky, willing the connection to be seen; a red string that was tied into a bow that leads to Merlin-knows-where. It serves as a connection; the string that he and only his soulmate can see whenever they want. He tugs on it curiously, awaiting any reaction with bated breath. He almost scrambled away when he felt the other end also tug it. Sirius was utterly terrified, a shiver crawled up to his system, it’s foreign feeling for the Black’s eldest son. It made everything feel too real. A fact that he desperately tries to deny.

That night, before they returned to Hogwarts as sixth year students was the last time he ever willed to see the annoying little string in his pinky, not caring if his supposed other half was finding him or already found him.

Maybe it had to do with his twisted upbringing. He saw how his father cut the string tying him to their mother, the purple string that bound them together turning gray and withering away.

He saw how Regulus flinched, no one should’ve seen a scene like that, but they did. Someone severing their connection to someone who should’ve been with them through better or for worse, the one that fate intended for them. Their life got worse just after that, forcing him to flee and leave his younger brother behind at the deranged hands of Walburga Black.

“You should eat more, Reggie.” You turned towards the quiet and reserved Slytherin, pushing his plate closer to him, which made him wince. “I am quite full.” You raised a brow “None sense, all you did was sip pumpkin juice so you better do as I say or I’ll tell Evan and Junior.”

“Do you know that you boss people around quite well?” He grumbles, shoving a few spoonsful of dinner in his mouth as you hummed in approval, cracking a small smile. “I was told.” Your eyes flickered to the Gryffindor table, it seemed to gravitate you, pulling you in.

Looking down at your pinky, you willed the string to be visible to you. Seeing the red string attached to Sirius Black made your stomach churn; was it butterflies? Unease? You don’t particularly know, having mixed reactions to the string that leads to your other half.

You’ve known for over a year now, keeping it to yourself as you quickly figured out that he wants nothing to do with his soulmate.

“Reggie! Reggie!”

You exclaimed, slapping the poor boy’s arm as he was currently staying in the L/n Manor. He looked in your direction, quite annoyed, he was interrupted reading his book. “I’m reading, Y/n. You know, you should too. It’ll do you some good.” He sassed, trying to find which part he stopped reading. “My soulmate! They tugged the string!” You gushed, “They must be looking for me too, right?” You asked no one in particular, you can still feel the tingles you felt, how your heartbeat picked up, and how you felt like you were in could nine.

Quite the opposite from what Sirius felt, huh?

You never told him, never planned to. It was quite clear what his views are on the concept of soulmates when you saw him snogging different girls every week. It wrecked you; you swore you felt your heart stop beating every time you see him loving a girl other than you even just for a week. It sounds stupid and all, but you would give up everything just to know what it feels like; how he will look at you with love and adoration in his eyes, how his touch and kisses would linger on your body, and how his voice would sound like as his breath fans in your ear, whispering promises of love.

You looked at him from the Slytherin table; so close yet so far.

Regulus noticed, the all too familiar broken look in your face. His heart hurts for you, even if you do not tell him, he already knows. Seeing his brother’s indifference, Regulus’s gaze hardened. How could he have the guts to do this to his soulmate?

The memory of their mother's despair, the way she withered away after their father severed the bond, was etched into his mind. Regulus does not wish for anyone to feel that way, he does not wish upon it even in his worst enemies.

It was a pain no one should endure, a lesson that should have been learned.

Yet there sat his brother, laughing with his friends and willfully ignoring the pulls of his heart. The person who held the other end of this unseen tether, was beside Regulus. Your soul ached as you watched your soulmate. It was a betrayal of the heart's deepest connection, and it stirred a tempest of fury within Regulus that he struggled to contain.

“My brother is foolish. Eat.” He states, pushing your food and placing the cornbread on his plate to yours. She cracks a smile, chuckling. “Alright, Reggie. You’re lucky I love you.” You pat his curls, proceeding to eat the bread, smiling a little. Reggie never really shares his food with anyone, except for you. You’re the only exception.

“Padfoot.” Remus starts, looking out of the window as Sirius lays down lazily in his bed, looking at nothing.

“What, Moons?”

“If I say that I have an inkling on who your soulmate is, would you… look for them?” Remus asked cautiously. Peter and James perked up, eyes wide with shock. How could Remus possibly guess who his soulmate is? Unless… They’re also in Hogwarts?

“Don’t start with that crap, Moony.” Sirius sat up; a scowl displayed in his features as his grey eyes turned stormy.

“Don’t you even feel the slightest amount of guilt in your system as you snog other girls?” Remus frowned.

Sirius’s scowl deepened, his hands clenching into fists. “Guilt? For what, Moony? For not wanting to be chained down by some ancient magic?” His voice was a low growl, barely containing the emotions that surged within him. “I won’t be dictated by fate. I make my own choices, and I refuse to be bound by a bond I never asked for.”

Remus’s expression softened, the lines of concern etching deeper into his face. “It’s not about being chained, Pads. It’s about finding someone who complements you, who understands you in ways no one else can.” He paused, his gaze steady and piercing. “You’ve seen what happens when that bond is severed. You’ve seen the pain it causes. Is that what you want for yourself? For your soulmate who’s probably hurting somewhere?”

Sirius looks down, biting his lip and playing with the rings on his fingers. “I don’t plan on severing our bond, Moons- “

“Then what the fuck are you doing?” Remus spat, Sirius flinched, looking at anything but them. He knew deep down that Remus was right. He can’t deny he also wants to look for his soulmate. The only thing that was holding him back is that he’s scared. What if your story would end similarly like how Walburga and Orion’s did? Dread fills his system as he reflects on how he slowly realized he’s becoming like his father. Peter and James exchanged a glance, the weight of the conversation settling heavily upon them.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Scared of finding her… Scared of repeating the same mistakes.” He paused, his gaze lifting to meet Remus’s. “But you’re right. I can’t keep running from this. It’s not fair to them, and it’s not fair to me.”

James offered a supportive smile, feeling happy for his friend. Sirius stood up, his posture straightening as if shedding the weight of his fears. “I’ll do it. I’ll find her,” he declared, his voice steady. “I owe it to both of us to at least try.”

“That’s our Padfoot.” Remus breathes a sigh of relief as Peter nods encouragingly at Sirius.

The next daylight soon came. Sirius gulps, looking around the great hall, feeling quite overwhelmed at the number of students entering for breakfast, eating, or chatting amongst themselves. For the first time in a long time, he willed the red string of fate to reappear within his vision.

Ah, there it was. The red string connected to someone from the Slytherin table. Sirius felt his heart drop, seeing the end of the string connected to your pinky. “Y/n?” The name left his lips in a hushed awe, his heart skipping a beat as he saw the string connected to your pinky. You, who laughed with such ease beside Regulus, were the missing piece.

Whether it was some brotherly instinct, Regulus looked at him, shooting him a warning stare as if to say: ‘If you hurt her, you’ll never see the light of day ever again.’

Remus raised his eyebrows in surprise, knowing eyes set on his friend. “Found her, Pads?”

“Yeah. Found her, Moony.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” James chimed in, a grin spreading across his face as Peter silently cheers him on. “Go on, before you lose your nerve.”

Sirius took a deep breath, trying to shake off the weight of Regulus’s protective stare. It was a silent challenge, a vow to keep your heart safe from his brother. With a nod of acknowledgment, Sirius stepped forward, crossing the small distance between the Gryffindor table and Slytherin.

“Y/n,” he said, standing before you, the red string pulsing with a life of its own.

You stilled, slowly looking in his direction. Eyes wide with surprise, searched his for a moment before softening. “I was wondering when you’d come around,” you teared up, making Sirius’ heart ache.

Sirius extended his hand, the red string wrapping around both your destinies. “Let’s talk, yeah?”

And in that moment, as your fingers intertwined, Sirius knew that whatever the future held, he had made the right choice. For in finding you, he had found a new path that began to unravel, one filled with hope and courage. The buzz of Great Hall continued, but both of them felt time still, feeling the bond weave into their souls deeper.

Sirius’s and Y/n’s story had its flaws, but it was theirs, uniquely woven by the red strings of fate.

[thesassypadawan]

Home For Life Day (Knight Obi-Wan x WifeReader)

Summary: It’s the night before Life Day and all through the house.  Not a creature was stirring, except you…whose waiting on that hopeful arrival.  (Inspired by and pairs well with *NSYNC’s Home For Christmas)

Warnings: Contains fluff, fluff, and more fluff!

Notes: Happy Life Day, lovelies! ❤️💚

riduur = wife/husband/spouse; cyar’ika = darling, sweetheart; ba’vodu = uncle; kar’tayl gar darasuum = love you

- “You can light the fire for me, darling…  I’ll be home, promise…”

- Sighing softly to yourself, you turned off the comlink.  You’d received the message in the early hours of the morning, listening to it over and over.  Feeling yourself fill with hope and excitement…anticipation.  However, as the hours ever so slowly crept by and the sunny rays of day faded into the purple hues of twilight…quietly extinguishing into the dark blanket of night.  So too did your faith that he would make it in time.

- But perhaps…maybe so…

- Shedding the snug fitting dress, you shrug on the tunic left behind from his last extended stay.  Surrounding yourself with his familiar, comforting scent; inhaling and exhaling in delight.  A gentle smile forming at the corners of your mouth, noticing the way it settles and stretches over your ample bump.  Knowing that soon enough…

- “Come on, little one,” you whisper.  Running a hand over, chasing after the tiny flutters with your fingers.  “There’s still some baking to be done…you can be my taste tester.”

- Carefully you maneuvered down the few steps in your cozy house.  Smile growing while you pause in the doorway of the now silent, tranquil living room.  Watching for a moment or two at how snow falls outside the window…how the flakes catch and glimmer in the glow globes’ warm light, the orange cast from the blazing hearth.  Then finally waddling towards the small kitchen, where a pot of something sweet and cinnamony simmers.

- Buzzing, flittering all about.  Diligently gathering up the last remaining ingredients, you eventually come to hover over the rickety stove.  Swaying back and forth slightly, humming a tune your mother sung during this special time of year. 

- So swept, caught up in your own thoughts; blissfully stirring away.  You don't even hear the front door creak open, let alone the two (then one) set of footsteps thumping loudly down the cramped hallway.  Until…

- Strong arms wind around your waist; settling beneath, cradling the swell of your stomach.  Rich, silken voice fills the aromic air; muttering lovingly from above.  “Whatever you're making smells absolutely delicious.”

- A string of giggles bubbles up from your throat as he leans down to nuzzle the side of your neck.  The scruff of his not so neatly trimmed beard tickling, sending sparks through you.  That smile of yours widening even further still.  “You’re favorite…what else did you expect?”

- “How did I get so lucky?”  Chuckling against; lavishing your skin with tender kisses, nipping occasionally at that one spot.  His palm glides, follows the curve of your belly.  Rubs soothing circles along the way, series of weak kicks trailing behind in its’ wake.  “I truly don’t deserve such a wonderful riduur.”

- Abandoning the spoon, your hand reaches up and behind.  Fingers tangling and burying in his shaggy, auburn locks; nails scratching lightly.  “Hush, cyar’ika.  You do; everything good in this galaxy, the next.  Including me and-”

- “Master, help…I’m out numbered!”  A certain lanky teen comes abruptly stumbling in.  Expression of mischief and joy plastered on his face; despite a grinning child hanging from each of his limbs, a fifth riding on his back…and, lastly, a sixth speedily crawling after.  “I stopped to admire the glow orbs and…they ambushed me!”

- “Play with us, ba’vodu!”  They chorus and laugh, holding tightly to his baggy clothes.  “Yeah, play with us, Uncle Ani!”

- Tilting your head, you exchange a knowing look with one another.  The very same as always…as that faithful day you two first met, when you started this amazing journey together.  The one that speaks volumes, silently says…kar’tayl gar darasuum.

- Before turning both your attentions back to your beautiful, incredible family.  “Happy Life Day…  It’s good to have everyone home…”

Tag List: @cacti5539, @espinathena-17

[mahowaga]

THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT FOR THE BEAU IDÉAL OF IDIOCY | N.K. — TASK #1

SUMMARY: you're supposed to be in the stands, eating snacks and talking strategy with your friends, enjoying watching the three champions battle for the triwizard cup. you're not supposed to be entangled in what seems to be your own personal (hell) triwizard tournament.

PAIRING: ravenclaw!nanami kento x hufflepuff!fem!reader | mc’s best friend yu haibara CONTAINS: hp x jjk au, (friends who are) idiots to lovers, romance, fluff, crack, profanity PLAYLIST: the course of true love never did run smooth WC: 4.1k WARNINGS: none, just reader fumbling, but it somehow works idk

series masterlist | previous | next

— TASK #1: HOW TO LEARN TO DANCE WHILE MAINTAINING THE FACADE THAT YOU CAN

Let’s have a rundown: there’s the Toji incident, the Forbidden Step incident, and then Sukuna basically telling you to go with the flow and stop being over the top with everything.

If you are ever able to get your hands on some kind of memory erasing spell, you already know what you’re removing from your brain.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have access to such magic, so you have to make do with the options at your disposal: dealing with your problems head on. (Disgusting. Yuck. 0/10.)

Alchemy is an elective you selected during your sixth year at Hogwarts. You’re lucky enough to be able to take it, since the school only holds the class if there are enough students who want to study it. Currently, the class has a total of ten students, but you’ll take what you can get. It’s one of the few subjects that actually interest you, being something of a composite subject of three other core classes. Plus, you sometimes get to blow things up, which is a win in your book.

Due to the limited number of students, the class is held with everyone regardless of their house.

It’s mostly Ravenclaws, a couple of Slytherins and then you from Hufflepuff. No Gryffindors, sadly. (You don’t know why you instantly think of Utahime from Gryffindor and wonder why she doesn’t take Alchemy. Actually, you know exactly why you think of her - it’s because Kento is in the same class with you and your brain, for some reason that eludes you yet again, has somehow decided that he is as close as ever to Utahime and therefore they must be taking all of their classes together. Flawed logic is a pain.)

Yeah, that’s right. Nanami Kento takes Alchemy with you. (With you is an overstatement. He’s never noticed you in class before and he most definitely won’t start now. The Yule Ball is no excuse for him to lose focus.)

To be completely honest, you expect it to be way more awkward when returning to classes after the Toji incident, but the buzz and excitement that comes with the Yule Ball is enough to overpower that of your humiliation. (Thank you, Yule Ball, even though it’s the reason you almost landed a couple of hits on Toji’s pristine face.)

The only person whose opinion you really care about right now is Kento. There’s no way he hasn’t forgotten about everything that happened, and now even more so because he’s your date to the Ball.

The whole thing makes your head ache. This boy had basically turned himself into your date without you asking, blaming that cursed tie as the reason why.

Having class with him is going to be the worst thing that has ever happened to you, which is saying something, considering your recent string of misfortunes.

You walk into the classroom with your textbooks in your hands, braced against your chest. You’re slightly out of breath, having gotten lost deep in the dungeons before you’d found your way to the room.

There’s an unclaimed spot in the corner that you make a beeline for. It’s a bench for two, but no one ever sits next to you unless they’re late to class and it’s the only seat they have access to, so you place your textbooks on the empty seat and sit down.

The pair of Slytherins behind you are talking about the professor. You hate to admit it, but you eavesdrop, and it turns out they’re saying something about the professor not being able to make it to the class today - allegedly.

“Is that true?” you ask, turning around in your seat.

One of them, a girl with blonde hair whose name escapes you, nods. “I heard it from one of the prefects earlier.” She shrugs. “He might still make it, though, you know how he is.”

Yes, you do. Your Alchemy professor would show up to class even if he’d just lost an arm and a leg. (Anything for that paycheck, right?)

You turn back around and scan the room. Most of the students are already there, seated and talking to each other about the Triwizard Tournament and the Yule Ball. None of them seem to care about you being rejected by Toji in public, and you exhale with relief. At least you have this, some semblance of peace.

There’s fifteen minutes before the class starts. Everyone’s there except for Kento. You assume he’s out doing Head Boy things. Handling some aspects of the Yule Ball and the second task has to be a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. His and Utahime’s and the other prefects’.

He’s never late, though, and when there’s ten minutes left, he walks in, looking as prim and proper as always, his textbooks hanging at his side. He surveys the room, searching for a seat.

You avert your eyes, opening one of your hefty books and pretending to read. You’re not worried about him sitting next to you, he never does, but rather making eye contact with him. You’re just not mentally prepared for that just yet. You also don’t know how to break it to him that you don’t know how to dance. You’re going to end up doing an awful shuffle at the Ball and he’s going to stand to the side pinching the bridge of his nose.

Oh, right. You need to find someone to teach you how to dance. You don’t dare to ask Haibara, because knowing him, he’ll probably rope Kento into it. You can’t exactly ask Sukuna, either.

You’re just going to have to do this on your own - a solo endeavor. (You’re also going to have to lie to Kento, which will prove to be a feat of its own seeing how well he can see through you. That’s a problem for you in the future.)

There’s a shuffle of feet and when you look up, Kento’s picking up your textbook from the seat next to you and placing it on the table.

What’s going on?

He’s doing it like it’s a normal thing, like this isn’t completely out of left field. He’s focused on placing his books on the table and doesn’t look at you until he’s comfortable in his spot.

Your elbows are brushing. You pull your hands down to your lap, the back of your neck prickling with heat.

He turns to you after fussing about his textbooks and quill and ink. “Good morning.”

It’s like your tongue is tied. Your linguistic skills are failing you exponentially.

No. You refuse to embarrass yourself in front of him for the umpteenth time. You don’t want him thinking his date to the Ball is a total clown who specializes in buffoonery.

“Good morning,” you say, and your voice shakes a bit with the effort. You hope he doesn’t notice, but the corner of his lip quirks up ever so slightly and you’re gone. You’re done for.

Usually, this would be the end of your conversation with him. That’s how you have been speaking to him for the past year, ever since Haibara had introduced you to each other. Just a simple greeting and then you both draw the line. A thick line.

The staircase had been a situation that had the both of you playing jump rope with said line. It was nerve-wracking and exhilarating at the same time, with a splash of stress (what if you say something idiotic and he just stares at you?). A part of you, the masochist, likes the stress that comes with conquering the unknown. The logical part of you hates it and wants to stay in your little bubble of comfort.

It’s silent for a while, the hum of the rest of the class taking up the space that has grown between the two of you.

You let your mind run wild. You want to dwell on the fact that he’s willingly sitting next to you despite having never done so before, but right now your focus is elsewhere: your number one enemy. Dancing. 

You just don’t want to bring him any shame. He’s your date for reasons that are beyond you, but it’s clearly a choice he’s made, and you’d hate to ruin everything by being inept.

Maybe you should ask him for help.

No. That’s an intrusive thought. It’s a really bad idea. (Obviously.)

You shoot him a glance. He’s looking down at his textbook, reading through today’s chapter before the professor comes in - if he’s even showing up today. A few strands of his light hair escape his neat part and fall over his forehead. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do, because he looks so effortlessly amazing. Sometimes you wonder why it always seems like there’s someone in the background holding a bright light over him to make him look even more ethereal.

(It’s probably your own delusions painting him to be some kind of angel with light shining down upon him every hour of every day. That’s what he looks like through your eyes, but then again, you’re totally biased.)

You look away before he notices you staring.

Back to the problem at hand - finding someone to help you get better at dancing. The obvious answer is Kento, right? He’s your partner (watch yourself), you mean, date, and you’re going to be the one dancing with him so logically you need to know how he moves to be able to co-ordinate yourself.

You make up your mind. You’re going to ask him.

You take a deep breath and brace yourself. You’re going to ask him.

Another glance at him. You hate to disturb him while he’s clearly studying during the only free time he has, but this is important (it’s not that serious).

You’re going to ask him.

You’re going to ask him.

You’re going to-

He turns to you, catching your gaze like a deer in headlights. “Do you think we should practice the waltz?”

Shit. 

“What? No,” you say quickly. (You wish the gallows were a thing again because that’s where you want to be right now.)

You chide yourself for lying, but you couldn’t do it. You had to save your dignity.

He nods. “You’re right,” he says, almost sheepishly. “You probably don’t need to practice.”

You try to search for any jabs in his words, but it seems like he’s being sincere, which makes you feel even worse, because now you’re wondering if he asked because he wanted to practice himself.

You can make it right. (By lying. Great idea. Kids, lying is bad.)

“Um, actually,” you start, clearing your throat to get his attention back, since he’d turned to his book again, “you’re right, I think we should practice. I haven’t, um, done a waltz in a while, so I’m a bit rusty.”

He smiles. “Sounds like a good idea.” Then he adds, “I have no idea how to dance, so you can teach me.”

Your face drops.

Well, now you’re both screwed.

One of the defining traits of a Hufflepuff is honesty. Up until the Great Hall incident, you’d thought you were a model Hufflepuff student. Now, you can barely keep up with all the white lies (lying about being able to dance is not a white lie) you’ve told. Helga Hufflepuff would have you booted from the house in the blink of an eye. You have to start being honest. Dishonesty is not a good look for you or your house.

You need to start telling him the truth before everything blows up in your face.

You and Kento agree to meet at the music classroom on the fifth floor to practice dancing. Being Head Boy means he gets to bend some of the rules, and one of them is being able to wander around late at night.

So it’s settled, the music classroom at midnight, where he will see that you are way out of your depth and drowning in deceit. 

(This is like the blind leading the blind.)

You get to the classroom, a fairly large room with stone walls and stone floors, music stands and stools, a drum kit and a piano in the corner of the room. There’s a conductor’s stand in the center of the room, and everything else curves around it as if it is the center of the universe.

“Okay,” you mutter, setting down the boombox you’d brought along on one of the stools. You wring your hands together nervously, thinking about how you’re going to approach this. You’ve made up your mind (we all know how that worked out for you last time) to tell him the truth. If he ends up hating you, it’s instant curtains for you. You’re done.

A part of you wonders why you didn’t just tell him you can’t dance earlier, but adrenaline can be similar to alcohol, in that it is liquid courage and you just felt like you could live a lie. You’re still hoping you have some splendid dance skills inside of you, just waiting to be unleashed.

Kento seems to be running late. Great, it’s a headstart for you. If you can get a few steps down then maybe you won’t look so hopeless in front of him.

You pull out the book you’d borrowed from the library: Dancing for Dummies: Expanded Edition. It was a choice between this one and the standard Dancing for Dummies. You think the expanded version is going to be of more help to you.

Before you can open the book to page one, the door opens and Kento walks in, looking a bit worse for wear.

He flashes you a shy smile as he removes his robes and drapes it over a stool. He dusts his hands and walks over to you.

For a moment you simply stare at him. The lighting in the room is scarce, not a single candle or bulb in sight, the only source being the moonlight bleeding through the glass panes of the windows. The light scatters across the uneven stone floors. The beams of drowsy pale light settle on his face. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, his lips slightly parted from exhaustion, and his hair has had a disagreement with him and now some of the strands have fallen onto his forehead. He doesn’t seem to care, though.

He loosens his blue and silver tie and rolls up his sleeves, all the while maintaining eye contact with you. It’s as if he knows you can barely look away when he catches your gaze and uses it to his advantage.

“Are you ready?” he asks, holding his hands out for you to take.

Your stomach begins to protest, and not because of dinner. Now’s your chance to tell him the truth.

Tell him.

You take a deep breath and hold up the book. This is going to be a very, very horrifying experience; getting to see that smile on his face wiped off instantly, replaced with a hardened glare while he says something like, Do you think I’m a joke?

Oh, the very thought sends a shiver down your spine. You wish you were a hermit crab, then you could crawl into your little shell and run away. But you’re dedicated to the cause. You can’t disgrace your house, nor can you continue lying to someone you really care about (did you hear something?). You’ve read enough books to know what happens when fictitious statements keep piling up until it detonates like a nuclear bomb.

(As embarrassing as it’ll be to tell him the truth, you kind of don’t want a literal bomb on your hands.)

You purse your lips. How should you go about it? It doesn’t help that he’s waiting for your response patiently, despite his very obvious exhaustion.

Okay. Here goes your pride.

“Kento,” you start, lowering the book and scratching the back of your neck, avoiding eye contact, “I don’t actually know how to dance.”

You force yourself to face him. You should at least have the decency to look him in his eyes while you deconstruct the very image of yourself you’ve created just for him.

At first, it seems like he doesn’t hear you. Then it seems like he’s processing your words slower than usual, almost like his RAM is overloaded with whatever else he’s got going on in his pretty head. (What?) Then, after what seems like centuries, he reacts.

He raises both his brows (here it comes) and tilts his head to a side, his arms dropping to his sides. It almost looks like he’s giving you the thousand-yard stare. You hope that isn’t the case.

You twist your hands together, biting your lip. You’re waiting for him to say something, anything - you just need to know how he feels.

Finally he lets out a small bark of laughter. Your eyes widen. He’s laughing. You’ve just told him you lied to his face and he’s laughing. (Do you have a crush on some sort of psychopath?)

“Are you serious?” he asks, trying to stifle his laughter. He shakes his head as he puts his hands on his hips. He’s hitting you with the disappointed dad stance, and yet it’s as if he’s amused by the whole thing.

Your inability to tell what’s going through his head is going to give you palpitations. It’s not looking too good for your cardiac health right now.

You nod slowly. “I’m being serious.”

This just seems to make him smile even wider. He runs a hand down his face, his little chuckles muffled. His shoulders are shaking now.

You’ve broken him. That’s it. You’ve shattered Nanami Kento, Head Boy of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, into smithereens. Oh, there’ll be hell to pay for sure.

“Why?” He tries to sober up, though his lips are still curled up. He’s stopped laughing, though it seems like he’s fighting himself to not let it out. You find it endearing and you want to say something but you bite your tongue, because this is neither the time nor the place. He leans forward.  “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Well, well, well. If it isn’t the consequences of your own actions.

You swallow hard. There’s a plethora of reasons, a whole library of them, actually, and if you had more time you’d take a leisurely stroll down the aisle of the library until you found a book that explained everything to a T. But you don’t have the luxury of time.

“I just didn’t want you to think any less of me than you already probably do.” You focus on the unevenly cut stones embedded into the floor, tracing the grout with the toe of your shoe. Looking into his inquisitive eyes is a no-no right now.

His reply is soft, like comfort wrapped in a whisper. “I actually think very highly of you.”

You look up slowly, and you almost gasp at how close he’s come. Once again, you are both inches away from each other, except this time you’re not buried inside of a step’s organs and have the option of stepping back to create distance.

You don’t. (Bold.)

“You don’t have to say that.” You hold his gaze for once in your life, feeling a rush of power as you do it, but he isn’t one to back down.

He arches his brow, and now he’s closer than ever - less than ten inches, no doubt. His eyes flick down to your lips and then back to your eyes and you hate the way it makes your body react viscerally. You feel as if someone’s shot you with a taser, the way your every nerve ending is alight with attraction and tension.

He nods once. “I know,” he says, his voice low, “but it’s the truth.”

(Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here. You need a fan.)

You shake your head quickly, putting a hand on his chest to put some distance between the both of you. You can’t think straight - whatever he’s doing, it’s messing with your head. It’s tearing apart the equilibrium you’ve tried so hard to maintain: you admiring from afar, him being, well, him and going about his life. This? This isn't a part of your plan. None of this is.

“What are you doing?”

“Hm?” He glances down at your hand on his chest and his hand twitches at his side. You pretend not to see it.

You gesture between the two of you frantically. “What is this?”

Answers. You need answers and you need them now.

“Us?” he asks innocently.

You scoff. “There’s no us.”

He presses his lips into a thin line. “Why not?”

He’s really going to make you spell it out. Fine. “Because- because you’re out of my league.”

It feels good to get it out, but it also feels weird to admit it aloud. It’s always been something you’ve known deep down and never thought you’d ever need to say it to anyone, let alone him.

He knits his brows together, leaning back. “Who told you that?”

Is he being for real right now?

“I have eyes.” You widen your eyes as if to emphasise your statement.

He looks away quickly, then meets your eyes again. It’s as if a fire has been lit inside of those hazel eyes of his, the way they burn into yours like a brand. 

He runs a hand through his hair, his other hand braced on his hip. “I’m just the Head Boy,” he says, spreading his hands. “That has nothing to do with me wanting to be with y-” He stops and coughs, his eyes wide for a millisecond, a sliver of fear flashing through the fire. “It has nothing to do with me wanting to be your date.”

Your mouth is wide open. “Just the Head Boy?” You throw your hand up. “You must be out of your mind.” And he is, you’re convinced he is. He’s doing all of this to be your date to the Yule Ball. He’s way too dedicated.

He exhales sharply and crosses his arms tightly. The tension between the two of you is beginning to tighten. Soon enough, if one of you cut it, it would snap with a loud twang and send the both of you flying right out of the window.

“Says the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team,” he murmurs under his breath, looking away. His jaw is tight.

You swear your eyes would bulge out if they could. This boy isn’t making any sense. He really isn’t. “What does that have to do anything?”

Satisfaction crosses his handsome features. He looks smug. “What does being Head Boy have to do with anything?” he counters.

(Oh, he’s got you. You’ve been gagged for the millionth time. You can never catch him lacking.)

“You’re a real piece of work, just so you know.” Your lips curl into a pout as you cross your arms and turn away from him.

He seems to find this sweet, because when he reaches for your shoulder and turns you back toward himself he’s smiling, his eyes sparkling again, the fire dimmed down to ashes and soot. (It’s like he goes through emotions in the blink of an eye, and you’re having a hard time keeping up. Mentally, you’re still on the part where he says he’s just the Head Boy.)

“I’m well aware,” he says, tilting your chin up. Your skin tingles from the contact, and you can’t move, petrified into place (no Basilisk needed) by his courage to make a move.

Wait. Is he making a move? Your guts threaten to melt into a puddle. This is too much for you to handle, but you have to press on - if you don’t, you know you’ll regret it tomorrow morning.

He pulls back, and reaches for the book in your hands. He scoffs at the title but opens it nevertheless. He’s so nonchalant, acting as if he hasn’t just raised both your blood pressure and your heartbeat in the span of five minutes. (You don’t know if you should be elated or not - this is your crush, making moves on you, and you’re acting as if Medusa’s just turned you into stone, perpetually frozen, unable to process anything that’s happening despite having dreamt about this happening since the day you’d first laid eyes on him.)

Maybe you just need to sleep on it.

He pulls you out of your stupor by holding a hand out. “Shall we start practicing together?”

You gulp, looking from his hand to his face, brightened by the moonlight, his hair turned white, glowing like a halo. Finally, you take his hand, and he pulls you close. You hold your breath at the proximity, of being pressed against his chest, of his fingers laced with yours. He’s cradling the book in the crook of his other arm, reading it out aloud as you find your footing.

You raise your head to look at him. He’s already peering down at you, a look of endearment meant just for you.

Hm. Dancing mightn’t be so bad if it’s with him.

A/N: thank you for tuning in! i hope you enjoyed this chapter, because there's more to come! (art by elitamasan on X)

[vintra-lavellan]

An amateur analysis of Rook's theme: Not The Chosen One

NOT a music expert and super open to corrections but I think Rook's theme Not The Chosen One is pretty neat—it weaves together three groups of motifs to represent three central figures in DATV: Rook, Solas, and the Evanuris.

Rook: breathing, beats, and strings in staccato.

0:00, but most especially after 0:30. We hear rapid breathing, some beats, and flourishes. These seem to convey the frenetic pace, the controlled panic, with which Rook must act and often does. It feels like Rook is running out of breath.

We also hear at around here the start of quick, detached bowings. Maybe violins? Maybe the cello?

Violins are often the central instrument, and in my head it is the instrument of choice for representing the player character. Our favorite Lost Elf Theme is akin to a duet between the violin and the cello, a final debate between a pleading Inquisitor and Solas. If it is a cello, it works well too—Rook, Solas' mirror.

In Not the Chosen One, the strings in staccato are no different—it carries the tune, the time-ticking feeling, through markedly short bows.

The use of strings in staccato here is a sharp contrast to the cello's smooth, sustained strokes (legato) that we associate with Solas. I like to think it's evocative of Rook's relative youth and position as a "narrative foil" to the Dread Wolf.

Solas: Cello, of course. In legato bowing.

At around 0:50, a familiar, mournful cello creeps in to contrast the strings. Solas.

The cello here doesn't take center stage like it gloriously does in the Dread Wolf Theme or as brutally and honestly regretful as it does in the Lost Elf Theme.

Instead, it's in the background. Underpinning the piece. You would barely notice it if you were not listening carefully, but it makes the piece feel fuller.

It is Solas, still mournful, speaking, guiding from the background, as he does in DATV.

The Evanuris. The otherwordly, digital flairs and horns.

Someone on Tumblr (can't find the original post) made an astute observation about how the Evanuris themes are heavily drawn on digital sounds to convey their otherworldliness, their warpedness. Super agree.

The Evanuris linger from the very beginning in flairs. High pitched, digitally altered horns pierce the start of the piece and throughout the interplay of Rook's breathing, their strings, and Solas' cello like a threat. In fact, a horn at 0:29 initiates Rook's running at 0:30.

The digital horns are apt—I like to think it's a callback to the darkspawn horns of the Origins theme, but warped, twisted, and advanced, as the Evanuris and the Sixth Blight are to previous blights. The horns persist heavily also in Elgarnan's theme, Eldest of the Sun (the beginning in his theme feature grand, deliberate, and slow horns, reminiscent of the Origins theme.)

At 1:20, Ghilan'nain enters. A warped wind instrument, maybe a flute, more like a harmonica. We know this is her because this is the same instrument used in her theme (see 0:32 of Mother of the Halla). She features heavily here as she does in the main story as the genius controlling the Blight.

Ghilan'nain persists for a while, rising and rising alongside the cello until around 2:00...

At 2:00, Solas' cello returns center stage in a mournful but determined passage (2:00-2:30). It is remarkable here that the cello, Solas, is carrying the main melody alone, against the digital sound, the horns, the flairs, and the strings. This is arguably the most memorable section and the most honest we see of Solas here, reminscent of his honesty in the Lost Elf Theme—no wonder this passage features heavily in the endings and meshes well with the Lost Elf reprise in the Atonement ending.

After 2:30, Rook's short-bowing strings regain control, but our other motifs—our lone cello and our Evanuris punctuating the soundscape—remain until the end.

ALSO the title is perfect. This song is about Rook, thrown into a chaos. They are not the chosen one (they are not the Hero of Ferelden nor the Inquisitor, whom Thedas views as sacrosanct "chosen ones"), they are tasked with the impossible, but they managebto weave through three major powers anyway—Solas and the last two Evanuris. This is what they do in this piece—they begin harried, uncertain... then they are guided, then they are almost bested by the Evanuris and Solas, but they survive and regain their voice in the end.

[luxaofhesperides]

Wings AU ; requested by @justwannabecat!

“Are you sure it looks good?” Duke asks for the sixth time in an hour.

Tim sighs and says, yet again, “It looks fine. Just give it to him! If he doesn’t love it, I’ll beat him up for you.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“I could! But you’re right, I wouldn’t. I would just psychologically torment him until he broke.”

“Don’t do that, please. I’d like to actually have a chance with him, even if he hates this.”

“He won’t,” Tim says. He actually stops typing to give Duke a severe look. “Go and give it to him. If you don’t go now, he’s going to think you bailed.”

Duke glances at the time, then jumps. “Shit! Thanks for your help, man!” He’s out of the door before Tim can say another word. He doesn’t bother with the front door, or even going down the hallway. Instead, he opens the nearest window and flings himself out of it, unfurling his tawny wings to catch the wind beneath them and ride them into the city proper.

He briefly considers stopping for a moment to change into his Signal outfit so he can fly above civilian jurisdiction, then decides that it’s far easier to just bend the light around him so he’s invisible. He wouldn’t want to be late meeting Danny, after all. Especially not for this.

He hadn’t been expecting Danny to be into traditional courting methods. Most people tend to go the more modern way of dating, but Danny had mentioned once or twice that he thought it was romantic. He had blushed, mumbling the words, but Duke heard them and went into researching courting methods to see which ones Danny might like best.

Sure, he could just ask Danny out on a date like he normally would if he liked someone, but if Danny wants to be courted, then Duke is going to court him!

It’s why he’s been planning this out carefully, gathering his primaries after his wings molted a few months ago so he could string them together into a thin wing covering. 

Admittedly, this courting method isn’t super common, but the thought of giving Danny his feathers, making it look like their wings are one and the same, has kept Duke up some nights, wanting it so badly. 

Besides, he thinks Danny will like it. Considering the state of his wings after the Accident…

Duke holds his handmade wing covers closer to his chest, flier lower as he leaves Bristol and enters Diamond District. The streets are busy, full of people. Most tend to stay on the ground, wings tucked close to their bodies, but there are plenty still flying above cars and buses that Duke has to carefully fly around. 

It takes another twenty minutes to get to Robinson Park, where Duke drops down to the ground and takes a moment to make sure all his feathers are straight and neatly displayed. Then he walks into the park, heading towards their usual meeting place.

For once, it’s a nice, sunny day in Gotham. Everyone’s taking advantage of it. The park is full of couples and families, walking around slowly, and kids dart through the air, still unable to go very high with their wings not yet fully grown in. It’s nice to hear the laughter and general chatter of people wandering the park. 

Duke doesn’t spend too long walking the paved paths through the park. He steps off of it near the second water fountain on the path, then heads into the trees, passing two moms on a picnic with their three kids rolling around the grass nearby. 

Tucked away in this corner of the park is a small clearing surrounded by thin trees. The tile is dirty and cracked, no one maintaining it at all with it hidden away. 

He sees Danny’s wings first, with long feathers that trail onto the ground, a black that shines dark blue in the light. He follows the lines of his wings back to his body, where Danny sits on a bench, leaning his weight back against his hands as he lifts his head up into the sunlight, basking in the warmth.

He really is so pretty. He insists that he isn’t, but Duke regularly spends time with the Wayne family, all who have modeled before, so he’s got a better idea than most about what pretty  looks like, and Danny fits the bill. 

“Hey,” Duke calls out softly, watching as Danny slowly blinks his eyes open and turns to give him a warm smile.

“Hey! I’m free for the rest of the day, which means we have so much time to complain about things today.”

“I didn’t keep you waiting, did I?”

“Nope,” Danny says. “I wouldn’t mind waiting, though. I like hanging out with you.”

Heart pounding in his chest, Duke walks forward. He doesn’t know if there’s something specific he has to say when presenting his gift, if there’s a courting tradition involved that he didn’t learn about. He’s terrified Danny’s going to reject it. He’s praying that Danny accepts it.

“Are you okay?” Danny asks, standing to get a better look at him. “You seem tense…” He trails off as he catches sight of what Duke holds in his hands, breath stuttering.

“I’m fine. I, um.” Duke steps into the clearing, entering the sunlight, and holds out his wing covers. “I made them for you. You mentioned before that you thought courting traditions were romantic… I don’t know if you like wing covers, but I thought you’d look good in my feathers… Only if you want it though!”

He’s trying so hard not to cringe away in embarrassment. He’s flirted with Danny before, half jokes and half serious, always playful. Duke was smooth then, delighting in how flustered it made Danny before he hit back with his own flirting. Now he’s a hesitant, stuttering fool, tripping over his words and struggling to find the perfect things to say. Maybe he should have thought up a speech, or something. Memorized a few lines to speak his intentions with this courting gift. Done literally any prep for giving the gift instead of focusing only on making it.

Danny doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move either. He just stares, wide-eyed at the wing covers in Duke’s hands.

That’s a bad sign, isn’t it.

His hands lower just a touch, and he quietly prompts, “Danny?”

Just as he’s about to pull back, step away and try to fix things, messily attempt to salvage their friendship because clearly Danny doesn’t want to be courted by Duke, Danny’s hands snap out whip-fast and latch onto his wrists.

“This is… for me?” he whispers, awed.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s for you.”

“And you’re courting me? Like, for real?”

“Yeah, definitely courting you for real. Do you accept?”

Danny throws himself into Duke’s arms, careful not to crush the wing covers between them. “In what world would I say no?” he laughs, bright with joy. He pulls back a second later, not giving Duke time to hug him back, and turns around, carefully stretching his wings out. “Put them on for me?”

“Of course.”

He starts by smoothing out some of Danny’s feathers. He doesn’t get to do this often; Danny hates having his wings on display for anyone, with how they spasm occasionally, and have empty patches where feathers will never grow in again. The Accident, all that electricity coursing through him, it permanently damaged his wings. There is no healing to be done. 

His wings are lacking too many flight feathers and primaries for him to fly. He’s stuck on the ground now, unable to use his wings for more than a minute. Old burns are still visible closer to his spine. 

Danny prefers hiding his wings away. He hates thinking about the Accident, hates how it’s taken his wings from him, how it’s changed him completely. 

But Duke loves his wings. He loves the softness of Danny’s lower feathers, how they shine in the light, how they always puff up when it gets windy. He’s only gotten to preen them twice before, and he treasures those memories more dearly than anything else.

This easily outshines both those moments.

He gently combs his fingers through Danny’s feathers, straightening them out, then lays the first wing cover over his right wing. His own brown feathers drape over the top of Danny’s wings, hiding the featherless patches from view. He does the same to the other wing, then adjust both until they lay perfectly on Danny’s wings.

As soon as he lifts his hands away from Danny’s wings, Danny is spinning around with a grin, flaring his wings out.

“How do I look?”

“Perfect,” Duke answers. He was right; Danny looks good in his feathers.

He watches, fond and amused, as Danny spins, keeping his wings flared, admiring his new look. “I’m never taking these off,” he says. “I love them so much. I can’t really make one for you, though…”

“You don’t need to.”

“I can’t just accept this and not give you something in return!”

“Well… There is one thing you could give me. Something I’ve been wanting for a long time.”

“What is it?” Danny asks, leaning towards Duke. He’s eager, ready to please, so delighted to be courted. 

Duke smiles. “A kiss.”

“Done.” 

He doesn’t have time to react before Danny is pouncing on him, hands fisting the collar of his shirt as he tilts his head up and kisses Duke. He pulls back before Duke can kiss back, blushing and unbearably cute.

And all Duke manages to say is, “Cool.”

He’s so good at this.

Danny rightfully laughs at him, then grabs his hand and pulls him down to the bench. “Come on, I promised to complain about my teachers today and I intend to deliver. And maybe later, I could take you out on a date? If you want.”

“Danny, of course I want to go on a date with you. I’m courting you! I thought I made my feelings clear!”

“I’m just making sure!” Danny shouts over him, and Duke can’t resist the urge to pull him closer and pepper kisses along his cheek. “Okay, okay, I got it. You’ve made your feelings clear. I’m going to date you so hard.”

“You better. It’s about time you put some work into our relationship.”

“Excuse you?!” Danny gasps in mock outrage, and they start bickering lightheartedly as they always do.

Even with their feelings come to light, even with a courtship started and a date promised, it doesn’t feel like anything between them has changed. 

It’s just them. Just as it always has been.

Duke couldn’t be happier.

[op1umeyes]

If youve read some of my revent work, i think you can understand my fascination with vampires (or vampyres). Butttttt i realized i hadn’t written any vamp!reader for anyone in cod or harry potter

So this is my official vamp!reader x tom riddle shit post.

I like to think that Tom realized somethingwas different about you when he couldn’t read your mind using Legilimency. It was sixth year at this point and you were a kept-together, quiet student. As a Slytherin, Tom knew your name but nevr paid attention to you until sixth year: people whispered about you when you passed by, teachers were noticeably more lenient with you on almost everything, your magic was extremely powerful and you were well practiced, and how striking your features were.

Professor privilege (or ‘special treatment’) consisted of you attending most classes but ignoring everything that was going on. You never slept- Tom noted- but were always doing somthing else. The differing activities you preformed didn’t disrupt the class, but the fact that you always did something else in every class was definitely an eyebrow raiser.

Your magic was powerful. Powerful, honed, practised, strong, and memorable. Tom was intrigued by how fluid your wand movements were, how quickly you could cast a spell, how lethal your movements were, and your ability to cast spells without a wand. As a sixth year, wandless incantations were growing more and more popular. But the fact that you could preform duels without your wand- strings of spells- without so much as a twitch of the hand was extraordinary.

Tom didn’t want to say you were pretty, but in all honesty, you were incredibly attractive in Tom’s opinion. Your sculpted eyebrows paired with the stony stare in your eyes? The way your cheekbones hung over your guant face was further enhancing Tom’s interest in you. Your chin and jawline were prominent, a perfect mix of sharp and piercing.

Going more in depth in the people gossiping about you wasn’t really necessary. Some people- boys- were attracted to your facial and body features, ‘spcial treatment’, and just wanted to have sex. Other people- girls- were jealous of the interest many of their boyfriends gave you, were jealous of your smarts, and didn’t like you. You were powerful and you knew it. People didn’t like that.

These traits led Tom Riddle to the jarring conclusion that you were a vampyre. town further prove his theory, Tom often caught a glimpse of you wandering the corridors at night, paying no mind to the prefects and head boys and girls that saw you. You conversed easily ith the portraits and spirits- even befriending Peeves.

Evan Rosier was the one to bring up your existence during a Knights of Walpurgis meeting. Tom had listened to Rosier’s ideas- involving you with their agenda and bringing you into their organization. 

Tom had his doubts. He believed that you were not the right person to try to convince. Tom protested for no real reason. He himself didn’t even know why he was tensing up around your name, growing defensive as the conversation continued. Why?

Coincidentally Tom Marvolo Riddle came across you striding into the Forbidden Forrest that very same night.

He didn’t know why he followed you. Tom didn’t know that, for some reason, you intrigued and infuriated him to no end. Why must you effortlessly best him at every activity? Why must you look so unbothered after singlehandedly destroying three seventh year Quidditch players after making a bet that you couldn’t win against them as a 3 versus 1? Why, pray tell, were you the only person on Tom’s mind after seeing your sly smirk when you stumbled across something undeniably inappropriate in your book? Why you? Why-

“Stop thinking so loudly.”

Tom stood- frozen- as you moved into an open clearing. You clicked your tongue a few times and whistled. After doing it a few times in a pattern, Tom realized you were summoning something.

“What did you follow me for?” Your voice was crisp and audible despite the distance between the two of you that was closing slowly. Tom inched forward, hesitating for one of the few times in his life.

“Why did you sneak out? I could report you to the headmaster for this. You’ve done this before, so I could get you in trouble for a long time.”

You showed no reaction as you tilted your ear up. You whistled again. “Step back, please.”

Tom didn’t know why he complied but he did. A second later, a large winged animal emerged from the trees. A hippogriff, Tom realized. “Did you hear me? I said-“

“Do even know my name, Tom Riddle?” You finally turnd around. Your face was even more haunting in the moonlight. “If you have seen me sneak out numerous times before, why haven’t you already told anyone? You have nothing to blackmail me with, so I am confused by your reasoning for following me.” You watched Tom for a second. The hippogriff whinnied shyly behind you and you immediately turned your sharp gaze away.

Tom realized that he liked your sharp eyes on him. He liked when you looked at him like you could crush him- knowing that you could, in fact, crush him. But then Tom realized that you knew his name.

You cooed and murmured something to the hippogriff that was inaudible to Tom. You patted the animal’s side and mounted the beast. You cooed a few more words at the animal before turning to Tom. “If you come with me, I can answer some of your questions. You’re an awfully curious fellow, Tom. Very smart…”

“You can read my thoughts?”

“Like an open book,” you snickered. “I’m leaving in ten seconds- as does your opportunity for answers.”

The hippogriff’s feet stamped anxiously, eargerly awaiting departure.

Tom’s jaw set. Did he really want to? He couldn’t answer the question as he took a step forward.

“Bow first,” you commanded quietly.

Withholding a scoff, Tom scoured the animal’s eyes before bending down at the waist. The blasted animal waited until Tom’s entire core burned to caw and return the bow. 

Tom struggled to mount. He couldn’t quite wrap his arm and get his leg up to the beast. He glowered, hearing your breathy chuckle. “Help me.”

Your eyes seemed to smile. You reached out a hand and waited impatiently for Tom to take it.

Despite how impressed Tom was at how easily you lugged him up, he grumbled. “Where are we going?”

“To eat,” you replied simply. “Better hold on, Tom, I ride fast.”

Tom grumbled. He didn’t want to hear the coyness in your tone at the last sentence. “I don’t need to hold on.”

Suddenly, the hippogriff lurched forward and Tom’s throat let out a choked cry. He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist and scooted further into you as the beast rose into the air. He grumbled some more after prying his forhead from your shoulder and opening his eyes.

“There’s food at the castle,” Tom whispered with a ragged voice. “What are you going to eat?”

“Not the kind of stuff I need,” you chuckled. “They don’t keep fresh blood for me there.”

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Paper Pirates 2.

MDNI

2/3

An unconventional pirate on an unconventional crew, you struggle to solve the problem you created (and understand WTF your captain wants from you).

Shanks x f!reader (fairly gender neutral in this part)

Warnings: Violence, blood, death, broken bones, self-esteem issues, everyone's an idiot

It was supposed to be a two-shot.

A/N: Not thrilled with this chapter's quality, but whatever. PART THREE WILL BE UP THIS WEEKEND AS PART OF MY WINTER SOLSTICE EVENT. There will be smut. Just thought you should know. ;P

Rain patters over your umbrella.

The precipitation has driven the street vendors to shelter, and voices carry from crowded taverns and restaurants.

The downpour casts everything in a haze, but it isn't enough to hide the six hunters.

You shift your cover to your nondominant hand, resting the bamboo pole against your shoulder. Closing your eyes, just for a moment, you take a deep breath. The weather casts a chill over the island, just enough to fog your sigh.

Your keen eye catches more than numbers. And, anyway, you’ve been waiting for these fucks: bounty hunters with the grace and subtlety of green Marine recruits. They’d been asking around for you, making loud threats and boasting over drinks in pirate taverns about their plans to snare on of the Red Hair Pirates.

Calling them amateurs would be too kind.

And you’re in a mood.

“Put down your weapons and surrender!”

The man stands five feet away, leering out of an alley like a common mugger with a shitty little rapier leveled at your throat. He isn’t carrying a gun, so you face him, covering your back with umbrella.

In the time it takes him to blink, you’ve drawn your revolver and plugged his chest with lead. You drop to a crouch, and a musket ball pings harmlessly off your cover. Confused shouts echo over the street.

In the same breath, the woman waiting behind the crates ahead charges with a war cry.

You pull the trigger.

Her axe drops to the mud. Blood pools in the corners of her eyes, fixed on the clouds. The bullet hole in her forehead starts collecting rainwater.

A spearman rushes from behind, and you fling aside his attack with your umbrella, pushing your revolver under his chin. He doesn’t have much of a face left when he falls.

The next two move together, trying to flank. It’s better strategy than the others showed, but they still don’t seem to understand how you’re wielding your umbrella. One kills himself with a point blank shot that ricochets off your shield and through his throat. You bring down his friend with a shot through the eye.

Only one left.

A sniper on the far roof.

You brace to catch the slug with both hands on your umbrella’s pole, and it cuts through a blade of grass to your left. Before you can go after him, he yelps, and you raise your umbrella back over your head to watch the teenager, off-balanced by his rifle’s recoil, sliding off his perch.

He lands with a splash and a crack.

As he howls, clutching his broken leg, you prop the umbrella shaft under your elbow. The cylinder swings out of your revolver, and the casings bounce off the sparse gravel around your boots. You take your time, sliding a single cartridge into the chamber. The boy is screaming, trying to cradle his leg and crawl away.

Five steps, one for each of his dead comrades, brings you to his feet. You sit on your heels. Look him over.

“You need to be incredibly strong or exceptionally lucky to survive this kind of life.” The revolver rises between you. You hold the boy’s eyes as you spin the cylinder.

He’s shaking. Thick strings of snot resist the rain pouring down his face, and although the weather hides some his shame, his bloodshot eyes confirm he’s crying. Well. You cried the first time you broke a bone, too. And you didn’t have death perched by your ankles.

As your finger squeezes the trigger, you know what will happen. Another shot between the eyes and a sixth body in the streets. You smell the gun smoke and feel the recoil in your wrist as the puddle below the rookie turns ruddy.

You’re out of step with the present, reaching just a fingertip past the surface of the future, watching it ripple.

The barest flick of your wrist in the moment present and future meet sends the vision to pieces.

The bullet grazes the kid’s ear, diving harmlessly into the puddle. He takes a minute, staring, breathing, trying to figure out whether he’s alive or dead.

Mercy is for the strong, for people who are so secure in their power they can afford the risk – because it isn’t a risk at all. You aren’t that strong, and you killed to stay alive. Stay safe. Keep working.

But this boy isn’t a threat, and for the first time in a long time, you’re secure in your power.

Your bounty is new and ill-informed. Word hasn’t spread that you’re any kind of haki user, and every fool with a point to prove and a hole in his pocket thinks you’re much weaker than you are.

There’s space, here, as the rain fades and the gutters drip, for a little mercy.

“You aren’t strong. And you aren’t lucky.” You rise, towering over the prone bounty hunter. “Go home.”

He nods, blubbering, and drags himself away. You only watch until he’s cleared the first corner, clearly desperate to escape your sight.

You empty the cylinder again and load five new cartridges. It pays to be prepared, after all. This isn’t the first fight you’ve had in the last few months. Just as you finish your work with a click, a whistle shatters your reverie.

“Oi! Oi! Our nerd is scary!”

A chuckling chorus answers the cry, and you glance over your shoulder to find a herd of Red Hair Pirates watching at the end of the street. Lucky Roux grins, tearing into his latest hock of meat, delighted with himself. Bonk Punch, Monster, Hongo, and a gaggle of lower crewmembers block your way.

Spinning your umbrella to dispel the worst of the damp, you fold it up and rest it on your shoulder. Your revolver returns to its holster, and you smile politely, like these men hadn’t abandoned you for an entire year.

You’re happy to see them, so see so little – nothing really – has changed. It feels like needles in your heart.

“Get bored?” you ask, strolling to meet them. “Stop for the show?”

The corpses you pass don’t matter. Someone will loot them. Someone will bury them. Maybe their hobbled apprentice will claim their bodies.

You’re only half crew, but you’re all pirate these days.

Hongo lifts an eyebrow and lifts his chin so he can look down his nose at you. Unlike Lucky Roux, he’s all commander in the moment.

“You weren’t where we left you. Been following your trail for three weeks.”

You shrug, spreading your arms, playing it light. “Then you must know why I had to improvise.”

Monster screams from Bonk Punch’s shoulder, the monkey holding up one of your new bounty posters. It’s insultingly low, but it’s a clear picture. And it’s a problem.

Teeth grit, you try to smile again, tapping your umbrella against your shoulder.

Are you in trouble? You haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve betrayed no secrets. That’s why you have the fucking bounty in the first place.

“Well, I’d like to hear the story firsthand!”

The needles pierce deeper, and the crew parts for their captain. He swaggers up to you, all smiles and jokes as you roll the umbrella’s handle between your fingers. It isn’t a daydream. It isn’t a nightmare. It’s the same reality you keep telling yourself is fine, fine, fine, until you snap, snap, snap.

“What do you say to a drink?”

“I’ll meet you there.” You point the way you’d been traveling before the fight.  Practicality to the rescue. “The data’s in my lodgings.”

“Work can wait,” Shanks says. “This is a reunion!”

You don’t have anything to celebrate, and the idea of liquor makes you sick. Sitting with everyone like you were one of them when you know you’re not. The past year taught you that, no matter what the bounty poster said about your affiliation.

He can’t read minds, but Shanks must see something in your face, because he changes tac with a snap of his fingers. “Not a bad idea to get your stuff before we drink, though. We won’t remember a thing in the morning.”

His men laugh, you obligingly cringe a smile, and just as you turn to do as you said, a heavy arm falls over your shoulders. It yanks you fast to the captain’s side, and you stumble, off-balance, crashing into him.

He’s so terribly real. A physical obstacle with scars and a heartbeat. Even through his shirt and cloak, he runs warm.

He smells just the way you remember from the close quarters on the Red Force. Juniper, oak, and sake.

If you don’t get out of this soon, your plans won’t matter because your traitorous heart will explode and you’ll drop dead.

Ever since your drunken revelation, you’d wielded denial as an emotional tourniquet, but it does nothing in the Emperor’s overwhelming presence. He smiles, and you bleed internally.

He doesn’t let go, and you steer the pair of you to the shitty little loft over the local stable. Shanks lets you enter first, finally allowing you to duck out from under his arm to unlock the door and disable the basic trap you’d left for petty thieves. He peers around, taking in the spider webs between the high rafters and the drifts of straw left from the loft’s old storage days. You have a cot, your little travel chest, and a window overlooking the street.

Shanks sits on your bed, bouncing like a child. “You owe me a story.”

You grunt and kneel next to your trunk. You’ll take inventory as you regale him with shit he surely knows. No matter how this encounter ends, now that the crew’s been through, the island won’t be safe for you on your lonesome.

“Everything was fine for three months. Standard practice.” You lift out the portfolio you’ve crafted since you last stepped off the Red Force. Trade notes, harvest records, changes in municipal government and population. “Then a ship full of marines pulled into port and swarmed the office I’d rented.”

The bed creaks, and you glance back to see him leaning forward, arm over knee, frown bending his face.

“They insisted I was a good person who bad people used. Said they’d make me rich and safe if I spewed something juicy about you and the crew.” You pause, but you don’t look at your captain again. You listen, though. His breath is steady. Even. None of this phases him. “Of course I told them to go fuck themselves. Then I was a bad person doing bad things for worse people, and they said we’d continue the conversation in Impel Down.”

A flutter of haki shakes dust from the rafters, and you wonder how much angrier he’d be if you’d taken the easy out.

“There were fifty marines surrounding the building. I took out a few dozen and left before reinforcements could arrive.”

“Was that when you were shot?”

Of course he knew. He was just checking your story. Making sure you hadn’t turned rat. Did he get you alone so he could dispose of you without hurting morale if he wasn’t satisfied with your answers? It would be efficient. And Shanks was ruthless once crossed.

“No.” You check through your clothes, the few toiletries worth keeping on hand. Your Berries are where you left them. Enough to live off for half a decade if you had to. “That was at sea. Between islands. I was on a civilian ship and some rookies attacked. They were pretty shit, honestly, but there were a lot of them, and the civilians panicked. Not even sure who landed the hit.”

Your first aid supplies are safely stowed bellow your gun cleaning kit. The ointment for your scar is still half full. Traveling heavy is a bad plan, but you don’t want to lose mobility in your shoulder if you run out between ports. Maybe you should find a local apothecary to whip up a similar treatment. Just so you have some spare.

The glass bottle casts green sprites around the room as you study it. You meet Shank’s warped gaze in the bottle’s reflection and catch your breath.

One by one, your belongings return to the trunk. A tally of your life. A sad collection, frankly. You’d thought you were trading material comforts for a ship full of comrades, for a different kind of fulfillment. But you don’t have that, and you don’t have the trappings of a house, garden, and sleepy old dog to prove you’ve lived, either.

“It’s very difficult, you know,” you muse aloud, “being on your crew and off it at the same time.”

Shanks clicks his tongue, and you hear him lean back from that focused slouch. “You’ve never been off the crew!”

“Semantics.” His objections are so easy to wave off when you know he won’t be your captain for much longer. “My point is, shit like the little drama you saw earlier is becoming more common, and now that I have an actual bounty, it will get worse. When I was just someone who may or may not have been attached to the Red Hair Pirates, I could balance respect and disinterest with the locals.”

“Oh?” Fuck the grin you can hear in his voice. “Attached?”

You won’t be distracted. There are things that need to be said, and you’re happy to have this conversation away from the rest of the crew.

“Captain, I’m being serious. No one showboated for more than a week when I’d settle someplace new, and they were much less concerned with hiding anything underhanded. I could do my job the way I’m supposed to. But now…” The trunk claps shut. You turn the lock. “The situation has changed, so the process should change, too.”

“I’m listening.”

Finished with your work, you angle yourself around, sitting cross-legged on the filthy floor. “I think it’s time I distanced myself.”

You can watch his reaction this time. How he reels back, brow furrowed like you’d just called him ugly.

“What?”

You’ve had a lot of time to think over the past year, and while it’s a complex problem, you’re good at solving those. “I’d still work for you, but I’d train anyone you chose to do a better job with the books on the Red Force, and I could sink into the shadows, build a web of contacts and make myself less obvious. It would be smart to –”

“No.”

He isn’t being rational. And he isn’t being fair. You don’t know how long you can pretend your idea doesn’t sit like a piece of broken glass in your throat, and you have a night of socializing before you can even hope to escape.

“I’m trying to explain I can’t do my job. If Yasopp couldn’t shoot anymore, you’d figure out a different role for him, right? If Roux couldn’t cook. If Beckman couldn’t smoke…”

“Do you want to leave?” His voice is hard, and he’s looking at you so, so seriously.

You can’t help being honest. “No. But it makes sense.”

His restless fingers  tap the hilt of his sword. “No, it doesn’t.”

If he wasn’t so self-possessed, would he have leveled the stable by now? The block? The town?

And why does he care, anyway?

Because he thinks he should. It’s honorable, even it burns you.

“I don’t know what calculations you’re working from, sir, but I’m afraid I have to disagree.” When in doubt, humor works a treat in the world of the Red Hair Pirates. It’s a free pass everyone recognizes. It keeps people sane and keeps drama at a minimum. But Shanks won’t accept your white flag.

“If you can’t do your job like before, fine. But you’re trying to pull away. Why?”

The same reason you left me to fend for myself for a year.

“Because it’s the smart thing to do, and you know it.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound friendly. It’s dark, mocking. “Nothing smart about losing a talented crewmate to a case of ennui.”

Your nostrils flare and your spine goes rigid. “Excuse me?”

“If you want to leave, I won’t stop you,” he says. “But first, I want you to tell us both the truth. Just one more time. I’ll even get you liquored up with Beck if you want.”

“Don’t be an ass, Shanks.” You’re on your feet, hissing. He isn’t getting his way, whatever the fuck that is, and he’s lost all pretense of kindness. “I don’t need to humiliate myself twice. And you clearly know what I’m talking about.”

“Eh? Do I? You’re the clever one with your numbers. How about you explain it to me again?”

No. You can’t look him in the eye any longer. You stomp to the window, crossing your arms and scowling at the latest view you’ve hated for being dry, and still, and so much less than the open ocean.

It’s so quiet, you swear you can hear the spiders repairing their webs. Shanks lets it sit, and you know neither of you will leave this loft until he’s finished raking you over the coals for not making the system work the way he wants it to.

Fine. It can’t hurt more than it already does.

“I care about you.” You tell the street. The sun. The tailor shop and restaurant across the avenue. Everyone but Shanks. “Much more than a crewmember should care for their captain, and that always leads to trouble.”

“Care?” He’s crept close, and the question ruffles your hair. “Not the word I remember.”

You tear away from his space, ducking around his left side so he’ll have to work harder to grab you if he insists on being a bully.

“Fuck off. I get it, Shanks.” From a safe distance away, you face him. He wants the truth, so you’ll drown him in it. Let him see your fear and frustration so he’ll understand. “I’m not some starry-eyed civilian you have to entertain so it doesn’t hurt when you leave. I’ve watched the Red Force sail away dozens of times. I’ll live. My plan will work, I just need some den den mushi, and –”

“I’m not trying to leave you.”

You freeze. Hold his gaze. He’s looking at you like the shitty loft doesn’t exist, like he sees the plot of your life differently and is trying to explain the center of a foreign universe.

It’s soft. Nonsensically sad.

With a sigh, he looks at the floor, scoops your trunk under his arm, and heads for the door.

“Even if you don’t need a drink, I want to see how good the sake is around here.”

[aggieharkness]

Hello! Baking (or rather cutting out) Christmas cookies was a bit like a cold, tense hell with Christmas music playing in the background.

So I'd like to request reader baking Christmas cookies (or just normal cookies) with Lilia. Put as much fluffy, funny, feel-good feelings as you can in there, please. I'd really appreciate it.

Happy holidays!

The world is perfect when I'm with you

Pairing: Lilia Calderu x reader

Summary: It's Christmas Eve and you and Lilia share a few quiet moments at home baking cookies and simply enjoying the time to be with each other.

Warnings: romance, pure fluff, dancing, baking cookies.

Authors note: Oh my God, I love the idea. You don't know just how happy it made me to read this, like I was bouncing on my bed. I hope you like it and that it brings you happiness and comfort. If there is anything at all that you don't like, tell me and I'll change it, or if you want more, I'm here. Thanks for the request. btw.

This is a Christmas gift for you!! Happy Holidays!

The world is perfect when I'm with you

The house was filled with music. Christmas carol after Christmas carol played through the Bluetooth speaker you had bought a few months ago, echoing against the walls of Lilia’s tiny living area. She wasn’t one for festivities such as Halloween or Easter, but God, she adored Christmas. The first year you had shared the holidays with her it had surprised you just how invested she was, putting up an old beat-up tree, fairy lights everywhere, even around the bedposts, but you never complained. Her big brown doe eyes had shone with such joy and happiness that you just couldn’t bring yourself to burst her bubble in any way. The house had looked beautiful once she had finished, a small nativity scene in a corner of the room, a remnant of her past life in Sicily. This year wasn’t any different, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The first of December hit the calendar, and she was like Sonic the Hedgehog pulling out boxes of lights and ornaments, leaving the tree to you, a brand new one covered in fake snow that you had gifted her a couple of years ago. She loved knowing that you were helping and making sure the house was just like she wanted it to look, little angels and random glass balls hanging from the branches, golden tinsel wrapped around it along with a string of lights. It looked beautiful next to the TV. For three weeks you helped her set up the house until you were finally able to take your vacation days, leaving your job until the sixth of January.

Morning had come, bursting through the windows in gentle warm rays of sunlight that bathed over Lilia’s form as she slept, those lovely peppery curls shinning under the orange beams, her body cuddled against yours. Every morning since you both had closed up the shop for the holidays had been exactly the same sweet routine; you waking up first to meet the dawn while she slept for a bit longer, basking in the way your hands followed the shape of her soft ringlets, and your tender kisses lulled her away from the land of dreams. It was simply the best way to begin the day. You both had stayed in bed talking about nothing and everything cuddled against each other until the sun was well high up in the sky, the pinks and purple hues that had painted the world above now a clear blue cyan while the world was buried underneath a crisp layer of snow that had fallen through the night. You had not noticed, wrapped around Lilia, lost in her kisses. She got up first, her hair falling from the bun she had had when you had taken her to bed, her ivory gown letting you catch a glimpse of her otherworld body as she made her way to the bathroom, the light hitting her just at the right angle making her nightdress completely see through. She looked bloody fantastic for being over a hundred and fifty years. The rest of the routine followed like clockwork, coffees and scrambled eggs included, making way for the moment you were both in right now.

Lilia’s body swayed from side to side to Michael Bublé, a Christmas classic for her, her voice not only harmonising perfectly, but overtaking and overpowering the music so easily and effortlessly that you had to stop pulling bowls out of cupboards simply to watch her. Over the kitchen counter she was beating three eggs along with melted butter and sugar, ingredients spread everywhere because when she had got up, right before she had left for the bathroom, she had bent over your body, your eyes drifting to her cleavage until her eyes had claimed your attention, telling you that you were making cookies today. Had you been Agatha or maybe even Jen you would have complained telling her that it was boring, but you were you and the prospect of baking with Lilia was like a perfect Christmas gift.

-Lils, how much flour do we need? – your eyes lifted from the big packet of flour that you had just left on the table, her usual red and blue robe flowing when she moved to stand beside you, a yellow apron with the words “Look at these buns!” protecting her clothes.

-280 grams baby, or one full cup. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

-Everywhere you go. Thanks, hon.  

-Take a look at the five and ten.

-It's glistening once again.

-With candy canes and silver lanes that glow.

It was wonderful to sing with her even if your voice could never compare; she did not care. Anything that she did with you was simply perfect. Her hands left the bowl of wet ingredients on the table, holding onto yours before you could grab the sifter. She pulled you away from the table, moving your arms from side to side rather dumbly, twirling you on the spot before your chest was pressed against hers. The music was forgotten in the background, drowned by both yours and Lilia’s laughter as your bodies bent exaggeratedly from right to left. Christmas suited her, it was as if this holiday had been made for her, the lights that she had placed all around the room blinking on and off within a pattern, the bright colours mixing with the warm light bursting through the windows. Lilia twirled the both of you around the kitchen table until the song ended, “Feliz Navidad” now playing instead. Her lips landed briefly over yours, pecking you sweetly before she put you back to work with the dry ingredients.

-Don’t forget the baking soda. Last time you did, the cookies became a rock-hard mass.

-Hey! How was I supposed to know that the baking soda wasn’t in the baking soda bottle but in the saffron one? You are the one who loves to recycle.

-Why would I want to throw away a perfectly usable jar? Besides it’s not my fault you forget your glasses in the bathroom all the time.

-Oh yeah? – you grabbed the top of her apron and pushed her against you. – Where are yours now babe?

-You little…

-Ah! No cursing, you don’t want the dough to get upset and not rise, do you?

-I don’t know why you listen to Rio, that it’s obviously a myth.

-Do you want to risk it? – she shook her head, her pout transforming into a bright smile before she kissed you once again, humming happily against your lips.

There were still a few deep tones of the black coffee she had had for breakfast on her lips that your tongue picked up and savoured before turning back to your bowl. Sifting the flour so there would be no lumps you followed the powder with your eyes carefully, making sure every single drop was inside the bowl this time. Over a week ago you had been supposed to bake an apple pie for Sharon’s book club but there had been a few minor hiccups, one of them being you sifting the flour all over the table because you had been looking at Lilia while she talked about a client that had come in requesting the lottery number. When she turned around, she saw you covered in the white powder, bursting into unladylike snorts of laughter that had her entire face turning red, needing to sit for a moment to fill her lungs and calm herself down. Through the corner of her eye she watched you fill the bowl and congratulated you on not spilling it, a kiss on your temple, her hands busy slicing a couple of chocolate bars. She was teasing a bit, but every praise was always genuine when they came from her, a bubble of happiness wrapping around your heart. A pinch of salt and the baking soda and the dry ingredients were ready for the rest of the mix, Lilia wiping her hands on a tea towel before beginning to pour the eggs, sugar and melted butter mix. Instead of using a whisk you had grabbed a spatula from the sink, washing it before beginning to gently fold the batter until it was smooth but thick.

-Can you turn the oven on? I’m almost done with the chocolate.

-Can’t we just bake them with, you know… a flick of our wrist?

-I swear, Halloween Town has made so much damage. Being able to do something doesn’t mean we should, and you have never seen me turn chicken thighs back into a chicken, have you?

-No, but can we?

You knelt on the floor removing trays and plastic Tupperwares so they wouldn’t melt, turning knobs until the light came on and the fan began to work. You were thankful for all those squat trainings you did as you lifted the ceramic trays you had removed from inside the oven and placed them over the bed covers noticing that Lilia had not answer the question. When you turned around she was biting into a perfectly backed chocolate chip cookie, an eyebrow raised and a smirk on her lips.

-Why didn’t you tell me we actually could Lilia?!

-Because half of the fun is letting the smell of fresh baked cookies fill the house.

She stretched her hand, the half-eaten cookie waiting for you. You rushed back to her and took one big bite, moaning at the taste of the chocolate and vanilla essence, Lilia popping the rest in her mouth, pecking your lips after a moment. Even though she could clearly bake at the snap of her fingers she still moved to put parchment over a metal tray, grabbing a scoop from a drawer. She had already mixed the chocolate into the batter, the dough cold to the touch when you went to pick up some with your finger. So, she could chill it in a second instead of putting it in the fridge, but she did not want to bake them with her magic? A waste of time in your opinion, but then again, she might be right, as usual. The house did smell delicious for days after baking. Lilia had placed a bottle of olive oil on the table so you could lather your hands in it, the first scoop of batter landing in your palms so you could round them before placing them on the parchment paper, over two inches in between each cookie so they could rise and expand in the over without ending up as one giant monstrous thing. It had happened before. The first batch of eight cookies was done in just a few minutes, but there was still a bit of batter left, not that Lilia hadn’t thought of a solution already, another tray waiting for what was left. Just as you finished rounding the last one the oven begun to beep, and Lilia bent to put the trays inside, setting a timer for around fifteen minutes.

-Now for the sugar cookies. I’ll get the ingredients ready while you clean up the table, okay baby?

-Sure, just let me move this flour bag to the counter first.

Innocently you picked up the heavy bag, waddling slightly towards where Lilia had cleared a spot for it on the counter, feeling it slipping a bit off your hands, your steps faster so it wouldn’t end up on the floor. In slow motion you let it plop on the counter, just in time, your fingers barely holding onto it, but the motion had caused a white cloud of flour to come out of the bag right towards Lilia’s spot. Your hands shot to cover your mouth, eyes wide, when you turned to look at her, fighting the laughter that wanted to erupt out of your mouth. Lilia’s beautiful face with her rosy cheeks, big characteristic nose and plump lips was utterly covered in a thick layer of white. She blinked a few times, flour falling off her eyelashes giving her an even more comical look with her chocolate doe eyes staring at you through the white mask. Some of it had made its way to her hair, mixing perfectly with her curls. She opened her mouth to speak but she coughed instead, a small cloud of flour puffing in front of her right before sneezing, part of the powder falling onto the top of her dress and over her yellow apron. There was silence for a moment, not even YouTube Music was playing as she stared at you, hands on her hips. An instant later “Let it snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!” was filling up the room with its jolly tune, your laughter impossible to keep quiet.

You roared loudly, a hand still trying to cover your mouth while the other was holding onto your stomach, eyes moving from her face down to the floor. Lilia was staring dumbfounded at you, an offended look on her face as you laughed. Her hand shot to grab your arm pulling you towards her, eyes watering when you rose up to gaze at her. She stopped your laughter quickly, her hand throwing a handful of flour to your face, making you blink away the flour surprised at her action. Staring at each other there was no sound coming from either of you before Lilia chuckled, you following until you were both laughing, your hand grabbing more flour and throwing it in her direction, Lilia dodging it just in time. When you saw that she was putting her hand in the bag you rushed away from her giggling excitedly, feeling her behind you as you rounded the table, her flour missing you by an inch. She was now actively chasing you all throughout the house, your body sliding through the curtains and into the store. You were both leaving a trail of flour on the floor, but neither of you cared.

-I’ll get you for this!

-I’m sorry! I didn’t… - you could hardly breath from how much you were laughing, screaming in delight whenever she got close enough to grab you but never actually doing it. - I didn’t mean it!

-Come here!

You rushed to the door, pulling the glass gates open and stepping into the empty street. Sure, you were not wearing clothes appropriate for snow, your feet cozy inside your slippers, legs dressed in a pair of black leggings, but you hadn’t thought of that. Moving over two feet away from the house, Lilia following you out into the street, you took one step until you felt her hands grabbing onto your waist, pulling you against her. You yelped gleefully while laughing, feeling her arms snake around you, the perfect crispy snow reaching your mid-calf, the air cold, a contrast against Lilia’s delicious warm body.

-Got you. – she whispered in your ear, her breaths rapid and hot against the skin of your neck. You smiled while resting your head in the crook of her neck, very little flour left on your faces now.

-So you did.

-If it was all a ploy so we could come out and play in the snow you know you could have just told me.

-Hmmm, not a bad idea, but it was an accident.

-I know, baby. I’m not mad, but you are cleaning up when we are done baking.

Your mouth was open in shock, a retort forming in your tongue as you turned your face to look at her, but it never made it out of your mouth, her lips on yours kissing you tenderly, her soft ringlets caressing your cheeks. The chocolate cookie had left a wonderful sweet taste on her lips, or perhaps it was the bite you had had, either way, it seemed to fit her perfectly. You both stood over the snow for a few minutes observing the usual boring street covered in glistening white all over, on the roof tops, over the signposts. It was beautiful as long as you had Lilia behind you pecking your cheek. She turned you around after a while, holding onto your hands, pulling your frame back inside the cozy home. The oven had just begun to beep when you crossed the curtain to the back, Lilia rushing to them so they wouldn’t burn letting go of you. She was beautiful, spots of flour still clinging to her skin, like on her forehead or the tip of her nose, but they didn’t seem to bother her as she placed one tray on the stove and the other on the counter over a plate so it wouldn’t leave a burn mark on the old wood. You could spend every minute of your life watching her do anything.

They smelled absolutely delicious, the aroma spreading through the room to every corner, gently sliding into the shop. Over the bed covers you had left a rack which she picked up and left on the counter, you watching from your spot against the back wall as Lilia worked flawlessly, transferring the cookies along with the parchment paper to let them cool down. There was no room for the hot trays now, but that was no issue. Lilia turned, locking her eyes with you and then winked, lazy tendrils of yellow magic wrapping themselves around the trays and lifting them in the air, floating with gentle swaying motions over your heads. Everything related to Lilia’s magic was always so very mystical, visions, readings, the usual divination magic that she was used to, so it was wonderful to see the more practical, fun side of it, it meant she was relaxed and happy. She moved her hand beckoning you to join her, pulling out a pair of clean bowls after she had left the dirty ones in the sink.

-Why don’t you start with the icing?

-What happened with cleaning up the table?

-Flour on my face happened, doll. But don’t worry, there’s not much on the table now, I’ll just move those cups to the side if I need to.

-You don’t trust me anymore? – you pouted with a fake saddened tone as she took a stick of butter and a few eggs out of the fridge, turning her body towards you, a hand on the counter and the other on her hip, head lulled to the side. She sighed but smiled, your pouting making you look just so adorable.

-You know I do, otherwise I wouldn’t have given you the fun part of the recipe. You get to paint the cookies, baby.

-Yeah, but it’s fun doing things together. I want you to paint with me.

-Who said I wasn’t going to? You just make the icing and leave it on the side while I start on the batter and then we can cut them together. Does my baby like that?

Nodding your head she moved her hands to your cheeks kissing your lips tenderly, a smile on her lips when she parted from you. Happy that you had got, yet again, another kiss you took a small bowl from the cupboard above your head, checking the recipe that was stuck to the exhaust hood above the stove with a magnet before picking up two eggs, separating the yolks from the whites. Lilia kindly took the yolks and put them aside to use them at lunch time while you beat the whites with the whisk a bit. You didn’t need to do it, you just liked to before putting the icing sugar in, which you could not find in any of the cupboards. You pulled doors open, drawers, you even searched the fridge, it wouldn’t have been the first time any of you had accidentally put something in that didn’t belong there, but it was nowhere, and you could have sworn you had bought some not long ago. Lilia saw you moving frantically all over the kitchen and asked loudly what you needed over the music of “Jingle Bells Rocks” that was now playing. Upon hearing what you needed she moved aside to present you with a bright orange bottle.

Of course, she must have picked it and put aside when she had begun to gather ingredients. She was measuring the sugar, your eyes watching how her hands, dressed in rings on multiple fingers, tapped the bag and moved to the beath of the song. With a small cloud of floating icing sugar you mixed it all, a white paste forming in the bowl to which you added a little bit of corn syrup to make it glossier, just a touch that you liked. Now came the fun bit, taking the food colouring and crating the weirdest shades you could come up with. With a spoon you poured some of the mixture into an empty glass, adding a drop of red that turned pink upon mixing it with a teaspoon, so you added a few more, happy with the bright red that you made and setting it aside. Lilia looked at your science experiment from the corner of her eyes, hands adding spoonfuls of flour into the wet ingredients, folding the powder in. You were like a little kid with a bunch of sharpies and crayons painting lines and figures excited to see the final outcome, Lilia’s brown eyes looking at you as you mixed red and blue to create purple, although right now it looked a bit more like a suspicious brown. She let you finish mixing the colours, reminding you to leave part of the icing white, before adding the last few touches of a pinch of salt and baking powder, the dough clumpy in the bowl, as it should be.

 -Are you done with the arts and crafts, babe?

-Yeah, I think. How do you make grey?

-You don’t. I didn’t get any black colouring. Why would you want to add grey to Christmas cookies?

-Well, I don’t have an idea right now, but I like to have a range.

-Come on, Van Gogh, let’s roll the dough.

While you closed the last bottle of colouring Lilia placed the dough on the table, her strong arms and hands kneading and rolling to combine it and let it form a big smooth ball. You were mesmerised by the way her muscles moved up and down even through the lose sleeves of her dressing gown, her chest bouncing gently to the motion, your eyes glued to soft flesh of her neck and collarbones through the low-cut dress she was wearing, her amulet swaying along. It was incident to stare like that, but she was just too captivating, and she knew. She could feel your eyes watching her every move, a shiver running down her spine, but she never stopped kneading, there would plenty of time for her to take you to bed later. She gave it a few more punches before patting the little ball of dough, signalling that she was done.

-Should I get the rolling pin?

-Yeah, this is ready. It’s in the second drawer, next to the bottle opener.

-It’s too early for a glass wine, right?

-Yes, darling. It’s my company so bad that you need to get drunk at 10 am? – she raised an eyebrow while looking at you, a hand on her hip over her apron. Only a couple of feet separated you, but it was too much of a gap for you, snaking your arms around her neck while her hands automatically moved to your waist, her lips ghosting over yours.

-Never. You are far too alluring and beautiful, I would hate to get drunk and forget tomorrow how you looked today, or how your perfume compliments the smell of cookies so well.

A childish giggle escaped her mouth, muffled when she bent to peck your lips. She was clingy today, or amorous, either way you were not complaining. Parting from you she patted your hip, a sign that she needed you to get her the rolling pin, which of course you did. Anything she needed. There was a certain level of excitement building in your chest as Lilia rolled the dough until it was a quarter inch thick, the sheet overtaking half of the kitchen table, the best part coming at last.

-Right, where are the cookie cutters, babe?

-They should be in a box in the cupboard over the sink. Let me check. – pulling a chair from under the table you stepped on it to check in between the toaster and a juicer that you had got her for her birthday, date that she still refused to tell the girls in the coven, Sharon included as she could be a bit of babble when she had a glass or two of wine in her system. You searched but the box was nowhere to be found. – I can’t find them, did you move them, hon?

-No, not that I remember. Have you looked behind the coffee bags?

-Yeah, they’re not there. Where… Ah… I know where they are.

-Where? I’ll get them while you come down.

-Does the car have gas? – she was resting her backside against the edge of the desk as you stepped down, returning the chair underneath the table.

-What? What does the car have to do with anything?

-I lent them to Agatha.

-What? Why?

-I don’t know, I stopped asking her what she needs things for. I’m not getting another story of her and Rio’s sexual exploits during an expo or whatever. She just asked for them, so I lent them to her.

-You mean gave them to her. We are going to have to buy new ones. Well, it’s not too much of a loss, just grab a couple of knifes and we’ll freehand the cookies.

You practically hopped your way to the upper drawer to pick a pair, rushing back to her side and handing her one. You stared at the dough as if calculating, figuring out exactly what you wanted to do and after a moment, you began to create what you were sure was a candy cane, super proud of the shape until you looked at Lilia, who had had the same idea, and noticed how your lines were hardly straight and the curve was more a 90º angle.

-Why does yours look like an actual candy cane?

-Practice. Oh, yours is not that bad, baby. What is it?

-Ha ha. You know very well what it is.

-Yes, sorry, just teasing.

It was now a competition for you, eyes squinted and your teeth biting down on the tip of your tongue as you tried to keep the knife straight through every line, connecting them all and creating a star, or what you thought should be one, because it looked more as if it had just been run over by a car. Lilia laughed when she saw it and in a childish move you planted your index finger right on her Christmas tree, squishing it while sticking your tongue out. She gasped while calling your name.

-Y/N!

-You laughed at my star!

-It doesn’t look like one, baby.

-And now your tree doesn’t look like a tree, so we are even.

-Darling, it doesn’t matter if they are not perfect, we know what they are supposed to be and that’s all that matters. So what if your star needs a bit of therapy? Now my tree needs a chiropractor. Let’s continue, alright?

-Just don’t laugh again.

-I promise, scouts honour.

She pecked your lips and forehead before tuning back to the dough. The next form was supposed to be a snowman, but it looked more like a bunch of amorphous meatballs, a giggle sliding through your lips at the sight. You turned to check Lilia’s attempt at a reindeer which was more along the lines of a corgi with horns. You could not help it, it brought a cackle out of you, her peppery curls bouncing around her face as she wiped her head to look at you.

-I didn’t laugh at yours!

-Yeah, but… what the hell is that Lils?

-It’s a… It was supposed to be a reindeer.

-I’m sorry honey, but it looks nothing like one.

-Well, it’s a new breed. From Canada.

-Shall we name it? – your hand went to her shoulder, your head resting over it as you both watched the figure.

-Agatha, for stealing our cookie cutters.

She laughed at her own joke, your own snorting only adding to the humour of the moment, without a care in the world. Both of you carried on making shapes and forms, some of them better than others, some being additions to the “new breed from Canada”. You had pointed at each other’s creations laughing and praising, giving some of them names until you had the entire coven in cookie form, but you and Lilia’s figures could not be those weird interpretations of snowmens and trees, so you let her carve yourselves as two beautiful gingerbread women. It had started out as Christmas cookies but in the end, when Lilia had begun to move them to the floating trays, there had been more amorphous beings than accurate forms, but neither of you cared one bit, “Fairytale of New York” following “Santa Baby” on your Christmas playlist. Lilia’s head perked up at the sound of the music, pushing the door to the oven with her hip until it closed, setting a timer for ten minutes. She grabbed your hand, intertwining her fingers with yours as she pressed you against her, swaying to the song.

She must have been a singer and a dancer at some point in her life, there was just no way she could be that good and not have had shown her gift to the world at least once. You would ask her one of these days, but as of now you were happy to dance with her in the kitchen, listening to her sweet voice follow the tune. The moment was perfect, down to the song, to the way the sun caught in her hair as she twirled you both around the room, her citrusy perfume filling up your lungs along with the sweetness of the cookies. How could you have ever been blue? How could you have ever thought that happiness was not in for you? Lilia had come into your life and the world was suddenly a beautiful place where nothing could ever go wrong. Staring at her eyes it was as if they were the melted chocolate you had tasted on her lips earlier, warm and loving.

-They've got cars big as bars, they've got rivers of gold.

-But the wind goes right through you, it's no place for the old.

-When you first took my hand on a cold Christmas Eve.

-You promised me Broadway was waiting for me.

-You were handsome

-You were pretty, Queen of New York City

She laughed at the nickname, head lulled back, her feet never stopping, moving from side to side. The living area wasn’t precisely Buckingham Place, but you two made it work, and as Lilia’s moved both your bodies, her dressing gown brushing the foot of the Christmas tree, she truly showed you how much that tiny little room could give. The warm light that had bathed the room suddenly disappeared, the bright colourful lights that she had placed in every corner overtaking and lighting up the room in a dance of colours and shapes. Your eyes drifted to the window seeing the sky covered by big fluffy white clouds, a gentle breeze having picked up outside the house, the first few snowflakes beginning to fall, but Lilia claimed your attention when she pushed your body away form hers while still holding your hands.

-The boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay and the bells were ringing out for Christmas day.

She pulled you back against her body once again, her arms around your waist, your hands resting on the back of her neck twirling her soft curls in between your fingers. Her forehead was pressed against yours, the movements slow as the song carried onto the last few verses letting the words drip from her lips in hushed tones only for you to hear. The two of you had closed your eyes letting the warmth of each other’s bodies wrap around you, basking in the way you could feel the love seeping from every pore, from every word that escaped her lips. It wasn’t until she sang the last verse, her breath tickling your nose, that she did press her lips to yours, hiding her face into the crook of your neck after a few moments to escape the reality outside those four walls. “Auld Lang Syne” followed, the softer tune perfect for you both to simply sway on the spot, your hands caressing Lilia’s hair and neck, your cheek resting against her ear as she breathed in your perfume and shampoo, humming happily. Neither of you wanted the moment to end, feeling as if being like this, in each other’s arms, was just the perfect way to live Christmas Eve before the craziness of going over to Sharon’s with the rest of the coven happened. You wanted to savour every second you had with Lilia and only Lilia. For once the world could wait, stop moving altogether until you were ready to carry on with life, though you doubted you would ever let the happen.

Right on time the last few notes playing marked start of another song, the oven starting to beep. Lilia did not wish to move, but she had to, extracting herself after a minute to pull the trays out, letting them float around just like she had done before. You helped her transfer the chocolate chip cookies onto a plate, setting them aside so she could let the sugar cookies out of the trays and onto the racks. But you were impatient, she knew, and with a flick of her wrist, your eyes shinning gleefully as you watched a few sparkles of golden magic fly from her fingertips, they were cold enough to be placed on the kitchen table to be decorated.

-Do you have any ideas you want to share, darling?

-Not really, well, maybe. I think we should paint the Coven with their signature colours.

-Alright. Let’s start with Agatha, that way if she looks bad it won’t matter much. She owes me a bunch of cutters.

It was playful banter, she didn’t really hate Agatha, quite the opposite, she took care of the woman as if she were a daughter, looking after her, looking out for her, protecting her from the world as if she were afraid someone could break her. It was one of the main things that had attracted you to her at first, her caring, nurturing nature. She picked up an empty pipping bag and let you fill it up with the purple icing before cutting the tip. The first blob fell right in the middle of the reindeer, and since there wasn’t much she could now she carried on. The shape was horrid, but she assured you that once the details were added it would bring it all together. You weren’t very sure. The eyes looked a bit disproportionate, and the antlers were a bit thick, but all in all Lilia thought it looked good, and you didn’t want to disagree.

-My turn now, let me do Sharon. In green?

-Yeah, we have two green witches, we’ll just make Rio’s eyes brown and call it a day.

You might not have been gifted with the knife, but you sure were better with the pipping bag than Lilia. Your reindeer was more accurate, green but accurate, the small beady eyes perfectly positioned but the antlers… the looked like a bunch of worms. It suited a green witch you supposed. Lilia was quick to praise and tell you that it was beautiful, kissing your temple and watching as you did Rio’s as well, a perfect reindeer in front you down to red nose and everything. You were so excited, bouncing in her arms, her words filled with love and joy as she told you just how pretty it was. Her hands moved on to Jen, the shape of the snowwoman much easier than that of a reindeer in pretty shade of pink, the eyes and buttons brown, along with a blue scarf and orange nose. She put it aside to let the icing harden your hands working on Billy as she did Alice, both snowman that looked pretty decent taking on account that Lilia’s orange pipping bag burst in her hand just as she was finishing Alice’s body, icing all over the table and a couple of candy cane cookies.

-What a mess!

-Baking is messy, Lils. Don’t worry, there’s enough icing left to make more orange.

-But…

-It’s perfectly fine, honey, honestly. Just clean that up and I’ll make more. And those two cookies can be like orange flavoured candy canes. See? Problem solved.

-My baking hero.

Grabbing a glass after she pecked your cheek, you were quick to blend the right shade of orange, putting it inside a new pipping bag and handing it to Lilia so she could finish Alice’s body. It was beautiful to do this together, Lilia’s lines wiggly and the consistency a big lumpy when she tried to do the first few stockings until she gave up and moved on to the stars, easier in her opinion. You tried to write names on the stockings once she had moved them to your side of the table, but they were more like scribbles that no one could understand, still the colour code every member of the coven had settled for kind of helped to identify which was for which. The moment was both cozy and hilarious, pointing at the figures you were both painting, commenting, laughing and scraping to begin again only to end up with the same wiggly lines and mismatched colours. Lilia once in a while added her own touch to one of your cookies, be it a weird bow or a string of tinsel around a tree while you gave hers a more artistic touch by adding sparkles to her candy canes or little dots of colour on her reindeer’s antlers claiming that they were Christmas lights. She had laughed hard at that stating in between laboured breaths that it looked as if the poor thing had crashed a farmers’ market, and to be honest it kind of did, laughing along with her, your body pressed against her arm as you both shook and cackled. But neither of you cared, they were yours and in their horrid looks they looked perfect to you. The only thing left was to paint were you and Lilia’s gingerbread women, something that you were left in charge of as Lilia didn’t want to risk it. The pressure was real as you did Lilia’s face, her curls a mix of white and brown icing before you moved onto the clothes giving her a yellow jacket, white blouse and blue pants, the outfit you had met her in when she had been thrown out of the Witches Road after fishing her task. She had been covered in mud back then, but you weren’t one to add brown and destroy her beautiful cookie. You put as much effort in your own, dressing yourself in a pair of black trousers and a red blouse, your hair in a bun above your head.

-They look beautiful babe. Mirror images of reality.

-It’s easy when you have the perfect model in front of you. – she smiled at the compliment, a gentle pink hue dressing her cheeks. She blushed so tenderly and so beautifully.

-Flattery will get you everywhere with me, darling.

-I certainly hope so.

-As much as I love the idea of letting you have your way with me, why don’t we let these cookies settle for a bit and go out?

-Everything’s closed.

-I didn’t say that we had to go somewhere in specific. You like snow, don’t you?

-Of course!

-Then get your winter boots on and let’s make a real snowman!

-Really?!

You jumped on the spot nearly knocking over the table, Lilia’s hands shooting to grab it, your lips on her cheek before rushing to the other side of the room. You apologised while running to your closet, grabbing a jumper, a pair of thicker trousers along with some Harry Potter socks and rushing to the bathroom, your voice reaching her ears as you sang loudly, your voice filled with joy, knocking over things that were on the sink.

-Do you want to build a snowman?!

-Oh, God, not “Frozen” again.

[mc-lukanette]

"Clear as a music note, sincere as a melody. You've been the song stuck in my head since the day we first met."

Luka meant every word of it. He hadn't known Marinette for long but he knew people. Whether one called it intuition, a sixth sense, or nothing more than a "feeling," he didn't care. Marinette was a special girl and anyone who didn't know didn't understand her. It was the way she talked, the way she laughed, and even the way she was constantly stumbling over herself because she cared so much about others.

He felt it in her designs and had seen the process himself, how she would sit in the same spot for hours until someone snapped her out of it. He wore his Kitty Section costume proudly because of it and swore that it made him play better, just by having a piece of her with him.

That was all he needed, as far as he was concerned. Whether she loved him or not was irrelevant, and he only confessed at all in the first place because he wanted to alleviate whatever doubts she'd had. He was just happy to know her and to be called her friend.

She looked so beautiful against the colorful stage lights too. Had he not needed to leave, he might've told her so. He only hoped she wouldn't run off to let them take all the credit if there were any interviews afterward. She was just as big a part of the band as he was.

He smiled and released her shoulder, turning around to face the stage where he was set to play with the others. He took one step, two steps—

and then his wrist was snagged, pulling him back. He tried to keep his balance, especially as another hand grabbed at his jacket to bring him downwards. Everything was happening too fast, his vision only able to register the blur that was Marinette's face coming towards him.

Heat flooded his system as her lips came into contact with his skin, just to the side of his mouth. She'd kissed him on the cheek before, but that had come off entirely friendly as opposed to the one she'd given him now.

"Worse" still was that he knew she'd missed her intended target in her rush, which was definitely not his cheek.

It was over too soon, but he registered the voices behind him calling him to the stage as Marinette let him go and pulled away. Despite the bold move, she looked away sheepishly and cleared her throat, her blush obvious even in the lighting.

"U-um... good luck?" she said, giving him a fluttery wave.

His shoes felt like they were filled with very selective lead, keeping him firmly in place unless he was moving towards her specifically. Alas, his bandmates were still calling and not going would've ruined all the effort Marinette had put into getting them to this point.

Thus, he turned - for real this time - and went to set up with the others.

—————

Luka somehow managed to concentrate throughout the entire performance. The nice thing about his Kitty Section mask was that he could look around freely without being noticed, particularly at the siren of a girl standing in the background watching his every move. Her fingers were steepled in front of her mouth, making it hard to gauge her exact expression, but her eyes never left his.

Each note he played felt like a pleasant shock through his body, a positive feedback loop that kept going throughout the whole song. It'd happened before when he was in a good mood, playing his feelings through the strings, but not like this.

Not after being kissed by the one he was in love with, and not on a stage where the energy surrounding him was so high. Whenever he turned to the other bandmates, they were staring at him in bewilderment, but not in any bad way. He wasn't overshadowing them or throwing off the song, he was just more of what was already there, and the stage crew was getting into it.

It was fantastic.

By the time everything was over and the recording was done, there was nothing stopping him anymore. He wordlessly passed his guitar to a confused Rose, then walked off the stage, past the crew, and past a reporter who had snuck in and was asking him questions he didn't bother listening to. He pushed his mask up and took a straight path directly towards Marinette, who was bouncing from the thrill of the moment.

"That was incredible, Luka!" she squealed. "It sounded even better than in the video! People are going to love it, I—"

He grabbed her face and kissed her. It momentarily occurred to him that he could've said something romantic like, "I only played so well because you were there," which was true, but kissing her the way she'd tried to kiss him seemed like a far more appropriate response to what she'd done.

It felt equivalent to getting to play a song she'd written just for him, which was almost a shame. Had he known she could've made noises like she was just by him kissing her, he would've suggested a different type of song for the music video.

There was a shriek in the background that was probably Rose, which he paid no mind to. He broke the kiss, but remained hunched over to Marinette's level, still holding her blushing face and cherishing the warmth against his palms.

"Did you love it?" he asked quietly, stroking her cheeks. "That's all I care about."

Her voice had raised an octave when she replied, "O-of course? I said it was incredible! I love you—it! A lot!"

She managed to fit her hands between his, covering her face with an embarrassed whine. He sighed blissfully, dropping his hands to wrap his arms around her and bury his face into her shoulder.

"I can't believe you tried to kiss me," he began, then added even though he could've left it at that, "right before I had to go on stage."

"Sorry," came the muffled apology behind her hands, though he smirked when he caught the hint of not actually being sorry in her voice. She returned his embrace, squeezing and shaking a little as she whispered, "I should've done it sooner."

When Luka had thought just a few minutes ago that he would've been perfectly happy just getting to know Marinette and be her friend, he meant it, but he wasn't about to complain about being thrice as perfectly happy either.

[ddarker-dreams]

Nexus III.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Explicit not SFW, mommy issues galore, some psychological horror elements, yandere themes, and unhealthy relationships. Word count: 15.6k.

Nexus index.

When you dream of your mother, it’s in a lotus field.

Everyone’s psyche manifests itself in a distinct way, echoes the teachings she left behind. This is yours. 

The bioluminescent petals cower inward as if hiding a terrible secret. Some bloom along the hazy ground, others swing in the air, suspended by strings hung from a glass dome overhead. 

In this dream, you cannot speak, though you have much to say. 

Gentle as you may be, each step you take to close the gap between you and her demands a sacrifice. The flower’s vibrancy drains like color from a dying man’s face. From the stem upward, it decays. To try and save it is to kill it faster. Brittle fragments crumble into ashen piles that scratch at your bare feet. 

Her back remains facing you. 

You have no way of earning her attention. She is blind to the frantic waving of your arms, deaf to the eroding necropolis you leave in your wake. 

You’re certain you’ll never reach her. Still, you try, only to fail all the same. 

With each passing dream, a crack along your glass dome spreads. It started too small to see and is now too large to fix. Is it best to let it shatter? Could it be the silent warden that cordons you off from a universe you know yet have never experienced? 

Or is it the final bastion that shields you? 

A devastating attack on the Thelx’s main guide causes cataphoric damage to the quadrant’s sixth residential district. The aftershocks resulted in the collapse of multiple buildings, resulting in injuries for hundreds and a rising death toll that currently stands at 34. Local residents have filed complaints for years now, listing concerns that the most recent building inspections have not resulted in appropriate measures taking place. 

“We all knew something bad was bound to happen,” said one woman who happened to be visiting family in Ade during the incident. “We knew, but where else are we supposed to go? Our choices were to stay put and take our chances or try surviving in Arc. No one wanted that. But now…. seeing this… maybe Arc would’ve been better.”

An investigation into the matter is being spearheaded by Chrysus, Ade’s Exalted Regent. 

We reached out to Chrysus’ team for a statement and have yet to receive a response. 

Rumors are swirling online that the attack was targeted at Thelx’s Exalted Arbiter, [First] Phaeales, the single daughter of the deceased Ania Phaeales. A spokesperson for Thelx’s fledgling matriarch has confirmed her safety, though she received minor injuries. Thelx is expected to endure further economic hardship due to the IPC’s recent travel ban. The LOTUS-EATER and similar establishments constitute up to 43% of Thelx’s total gross domestic product—

“It’s rude to read when you have a guest over,” Nona chides. 

“Sorry.” 

You turn your phone off and place it beside the other ornaments atop your vanity. Makeup, jewelry, hair ornaments, and one of the only gifts your mother ever gave; a lotus made of iridescent crystals. It’s sat untouched for years and you assume it will continue to do so. 

Nona, who has helped herself to lying on your bed, rolls over onto her stomach. Both her cheeks squish together as she holds her head up by tiny fists, her elbows digging into your comforter for support. She draws her lips into a thin line. There’s a hollowness to her gaze that rivals the mask she wore when you first met. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

Her inquiry leaves you temporarily at a loss for words. “... What?” 

“About people you haven’t met,” she clarifies. “Whose names you don’t even know. To them, you’re nothing but a glorified mascot to blame when things go bad and praise when things go right.” 

Your mouth is too dry for you to swallow. “Each life in Thelx has been entrusted to me.” 

“So? Did everyone come up to you one by one and ask for your stewardship?” 

“Of course not, don’t be unreasonable.” 

“I’m the one being unreasonable?” Nona barks a caustic laugh. “Have you seen what these people have been saying? ‘Let’s pack up the family and move to Arc!’, as if any of them could survive there for more than the instant their foot crosses over the divide. It’s hilarious! The funniest joke I’ve heard in some time.” 

Your eyes narrow. “That’s enough. The community is understandably hurt. Frightened. When tragedies happen, we each have our ways of making sense of things.” 

She pushes herself up and sits crisscross. “I’m just saying I’d like to see them try. Me… I would’ve given anything to have been born here. An organ, a limb, whatever. At least I’d be hobbling around where there’s light and warmth.” 

“Nona…” 

“They don’t know. They have no idea,” Nona trembles. “People make Arc out to be something it isn’t. ‘Look at how free they are, they can live as they please, answering to no one but themselves!’ Funnily enough, the IPC said the same thing when they built Perianth, didn’t they? Got the whole universe feeling warm and fuzzy. The poor, the wretched, the damned; they’re hideous up close, so let’s tuck them far away from the light. Then we don’t have to see them.”

She hangs her head. “Experiencing rejection from the rejected… that’s what they can look forward to in Arc. Anything else is a pipe dream.” 

You get up from your chair and sit down next to her on the bed. Finding a blanket, you toss it over your shoulder, extra prudent to avoid any accidental contact. Glassy amber eyes blink slowly as you pat the cushioned spot. She starts leaning in, only to pause a few inches shy of her intended target. You don’t need to be in her head to guess what reel she’s flicking through. When the feature film’s end credits roll, she rests her head on your shoulder. 

“Lear’s worried about you, y’know.” 

“I know.” 

“Loopy would be too, if it were sentient.” 

“It’s possible.” 

“...” 

She whispers your name, hesitant, as if she were a child preparing to ask their parents for a gift they know they can’t have.

“If I could, I’d wish that all the stars in the universe would burn so bright, so hot, that each person would melt away like ice until only us three remain. The poor, wretched, and damned. Our happiness would be unrivaled if there were no one else to compare ourselves to. You don’t know misery if no one ever tells you you’re miserable.” 

Or maybe you invent new miseries for yourself, you think. Then, with no one to compare yourself to… would you not be the most miserable person in the universe? 

You could voice your musings but to verbalize them now feels wrong. Instead, you choose to let her live the wish that will never come true. In this pocket dimension, beyond the four walls of your room, nothing exists. No Thelx, Perianth II, Stellaron Hunter or IPC. There are only two jagged shards who have abandoned being whole again. You might not click together like puzzle pieces, perfectly falling into place to form a seamless image, but you can look at the pane you broke free from and decide for yourself if the result was worth it. 

Choosing between two evils is better than being stuck with one. 

“Nona,” you break the silence. If there’s anything you’ve been doing too much of lately, it’s dwelling on factors beyond your control. 

“Hm?” 

“That flower bouquet,” you nod toward the magenta-colored roses on your vanity, which she brought in earlier. “There was a message attached to it, wasn’t there?” 

She stiffens. 

“... Possibly.” 

You knew a ‘gift’ from Miss 10.899 billion wouldn’t come without some poisonous flourish. The roses don’t have thorns, so the sharpness must lay elsewhere. 

“What did it say?” 

“You really want to know?” 

“I’m asking, aren’t I?” 

She deflates like a balloon pricked by a needle, then mumbles, “The tag said ‘Get well soon.’”

Ah, you think. If I could have anyone melt away… she’d certainly be high on the list.

You haven’t spoken one word to Blade since he carried your unconscious body back to the LOTUS-EATER. 

Regardless, he’s still around. He isn’t some option in your settings you can turn off with a single button press. He hasn’t initiated contact while you healed from your injuries, which consisted of a sprained ankle, two broken ribs, and minor abrasions peppered throughout. Your high position ensured you’d receive the best medical care Eris has to offer. 

Fourteen total cycles have passed since the Thelx nectar guide bombing. 

Fourteen dreary cycles filled with nothing but eating bland food, taking bitter medication, and dreaming the same gloomy dream. 

During this festive stretch, Nona has been your primary visitor. Lear restricted himself to electronic communication, fearing the emotional reaction he’d experience from seeing you in this state might harm you. They’ve both taken to distracting you in their own fashion. Nona shows you pictures, such as the googly eyes she put on Loopy, or discusses the strangest psyches she’s seen from clients. One client’s mind manifested itself as a drumstick. 

“Not even a pair, just one,” she giggled. “Hey, don’t start lecturing me about our privacy policy. I see you fighting back a smile. That absolves me from breaking my NDA.” 

Then there’s Lear who laser focuses on your health. At least 80% of his texts follow the ‘Have you x’ format. Stretched, taken medicine, slept, eaten; you half expect him to start asking if you’ve breathed enough. 

The timer you’ve set for your tea goes off. 

You pull the teabag out, dispose of it, and then stir the ruby-colored concoction. Golden flecks swirl in a violent vortex. Content, you throw on a diaphanous, cape-like outer garment over your loungewear. The fabric is deceptively delicate to the eye yet has been synthesized to preserve heat. 

The components that open your bedroom door at your behest emit a low hum. The lack of use must’ve spoiled them. This is the first time you’ve emerged from your hibernation. The light system in your office whirs to life upon your return. You wave off the visual assault. Your eyes have become so accustomed to the dark that you’ll need to build your light tolerance back up. 

After inputting the proper passcode, you pass through to the balcony. 

And then immediately regret it when Blade’s back is the first thing that greets you. 

He’s in a meditative stance. The gales of loud emotion that normally engulf him have quieted down to a hush. From this position, you can see how his long ebony strands cascade down his back, the tips taken on a reddish hue. A pearlescent sheen shimmers along the outline of his body, the moon’s personal gift. When one thinks of a stereotypical warrior, certain biases culminate in the rough image of some brute, like a brigand from a child’s fairytale. 

However, seeing him like this, exuding poise and temperance, you think he fits the role of prince. 

You take a step back. 

“You can stay,” his voice slashes through your entangled thoughts, “I’ll go inside.” 

A beast slithers in the calm waters as soon as he stops his meditation. It isn’t voracious or on the hunt. No, you get the distinct feeling it finds pleasure in lurking just below the surface, not creating so much as a ripple to deter its prey. Waiting and waiting. By the time some poor soul enters and realizes they aren’t alone, it’s too late. Multiple rows of pointed teeth have already pierced their flesh. 

You block his path with your body, an act that’s equally confounding to him as it is to you. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” you say. Your boldness fizzles out beneath the weight of his stare. “If… that’s alright.” 

He considers you briefly. You expect him to walk away without sparing you another glance, but it must be his turn to foster confusion. He turns around and sits on the chair to the left, as he did when you first became acquainted. After what feels like a delay in your neurons providing information to your brain, you sit beside him. It occurs to you that your little balcony is in excellent shape even though you haven’t been able to maintain it. 

You look at him from the corner of your eye. 

Has he been keeping this area clean? 

Oddly enough, it’s Blade who prompts further conversation. “How are your injuries?” 

“My ankle’s fully recovered and my ribs only hurt if I move too much. I’ve got nothing to complain about.” 

You take a sip of your concoction. A sweet, herbal flavor dances on your tongue with a hint of spice. These tea leaves are one of the few that can grow on Eris in an artificial environment. You added a spoonful of the Nectary’s tonic to complement the taste. It’s a drink popularly referred to as ambrosia. 

“How about you? Have you healed— oh, um.” You raise your hand to cover your traitorous mouth. It can prevent more words from coming out, but it can’t take back what’s already been said. 

“I have, unfortunately.” 

“‘Unfortunately?’” You repeat back, though the sound is muffled. You wince. So much for putting an end to your bluntness. 

“You’re acting reserved,” he dryly notes. “Is this the same woman who takes every chance to tell me off?” 

“Hey, I don’t take every chance to—” You throw your head back in exasperation upon seeing the beginning of a self-satisfied smirk. “... I shouldn’t… have behaved as… candidly as I did. It’s unprofessional.” 

“‘That part,’ huh,” Blade mutters. “You don’t have to section off parts of yourself, you choose to.” 

The tea’s aftertaste turns bitter. 

To be whole is a privilege Blade doesn’t have, you think. If he allowed that, then… would he really be ‘Blade’ anymore? 

You stare down at the distorted reflection the tea provides, ripples distorting your likeness before you can confirm his claim. Your hands must be trembling. 

“I advised against it for a reason. My mind is unsightly.” 

“It isn’t that!” you turn your head toward him, catching how he furrows his eyebrows at your outburst of emotion, “What I did… it wasn’t right. I took advantage of your vulnerable state and tried to manipulate you. Control you. A violation like that… it’s unforgivable.”

Anytime a situation threatens to spiral beyond your control, you resort to what you supposedly swore off. 

I’ll only do it this once, the circumstances call for it, you’d tell yourself. No more after that. I mean this time, I really do. It won’t happen again.

Until it does.

Alister with his weapon. Blade after he saved your life. Lear when the loneliness felt excruciating.

Your chest feels like it’s hosting a colony of crawling maggots ready to burst through your flesh. It hurts, this slimy, despicable filth that you scrub raw only to dirty again. Not trusting yourself with the fragile teacup, you set it down. 

“So that’s what you consider a sin,” Blade says. “You oppose incarceration and yet you're a prisoner to your own guilt.” 

“That’s different.” 

“Even so, one is far worse than the other. I should know; I’ve experienced both. If I could choose between a physical prison or my mind, I’d pick the former.” 

You recall the gargantuan structure that is Blade’s repressed psyche. The oppressive atmosphere, how it stood alone, far removed from anything resembling hope. 

If it’s of Xianzhou build, it must be none other than the Shackling Prison. 

“The injuries you received when protecting me,” You work through each word slowly, as if testing their validity. “They should’ve killed you. But instead… you ‘defied the natural order’ — death itself.” 

Blade doesn’t move his gaze from the four moons in the sky. 

The Xianzhou Alliance’s intolerance for those who follow the Aeon of Abundance, Yaoshi, is infamous throughout the universe. What the followers consider blessings, they reject as curses. For the Xianzhou, it’s personal. The ink the Aeon has left behind hardly has time to dry before more transgressions are added to the ledger. 

Those who live on Eris, yourself included, most commonly follow the Noct, the Aeon of The Ideal. Noct is thought to be the one who blessed this planet with the Nectary. Without it, the first generation of prisoners left to fend for themselves by the IPC would have perished. Your Aeon is in what the Genius Society calls ‘an indefinite hibernation’, not interacting with the material world yet not fully removed from it either. Some revere their Aeon enough to die for them, others despise them enough to dedicate everything to their destruction; neither side makes sense.

To you, the Aeons feel almost as distant as the stars. 

“Can it really be considered a sin if it’s beyond your control?” 

“It won’t always be,” he replies. “Until then, I can’t allow myself to forget. You must get why.” 

You wish you didn’t. 

A few moments pass. They flow into each other smoothly, lacking acidity. You resume drinking your tea. It’s lukewarm, but you don’t mind. 

“You truly aren’t afraid of me,” you remark. 

“What’s there to be afraid of?” 

The deep bass of his voice temporarily adjusts to allow bemusement. It takes you a moment to realize he isn’t mocking you, it’s more teasing than anything. The reminder does serve you well. Physically, the gap in your strength is insurmountable. He could snuff out your life before you realized your appointment with death had been expedited. 

“Most people are put off by my company in a casual setting. Being around someone who could peer into your mind, past all the pretenses we work so diligently to build… it’s frightening. Unnatural, even.” 

He focuses on the abyssal horizon. It’s as if your Aeon swaddled this planet in a pitch-black blanket with the four moons acting as a nursery mobile. You can reach up to grasp them as much as you’d like, but the cosmic entities will never be yours. It is you who belongs to them. 

“My mind has a will of its own,” Blade tells you. “It’s loud. Something about you quiets it down.” 

You blink. “Really?” 

He stares at you blankly instead of repeating himself. You take it that’s his way of communicating he has no reason to be dishonest. 

“This affliction you’re suffering from… it’s called mara, correct?” 

The instant the word leaves your lips, his demeanor shifts. It’s subtle, the tightening of his muscles and his frown deepening, yet the physical signs aren’t what tip you off. The pervasive air shrouding the beast inside his psyche is twitching. It longs to permanently rid Blade of control and loathes each rejection it’s endured. 

“I think I saw it. From what I’ve heard, I thought it’d be more self-destructive. Yours, though… how do I put it… it’s vicious, but it’s like a muzzle has been forced on it. I assume Kafka had something to do with that?” 

He doesn’t deny your conjecture. 

“Hmph, figures it’d be her handiwork. She can poke around in people’s heads, but her techniques are more effective in the short term. It lacks staying power,” you cross your arms. “I wonder why my presence deters your mara.” 

“It’s never functioned normally. I’ve long abandoned trying to make sense of it.” 

“I can’t accept that,” you huff. “You’ve saved my life twice now. There has to be something useful to be gleaned from this, even if it isn’t a complete cure.” 

The groundwork has been laid out. You were able to scrape together enough to give his psyche form, an act that’s no small feat, since he didn’t go through the typical interview process. Initiating physical contact with him was a risk, but you’ve yet to notice any consequences. 

While considering the best methods, an epiphany sinks its claws into you. 

You bite your lower lip. “I’m— um. Getting ahead of myself. After what happened, I understand if you don’t want me in your head.” 

The terms of atonement crafted by your own hands can’t be sufficient penance. 

“Multiple influences have fought for control of my mind,” he reveals. Your breath catches in your tightening throat. This isn’t a wound you’ve inflicted, it’s a wound you’ve reopened. Mara’s madness, Kafka’s adjustments; how much tampering has he been subjected to? There have been foreign elements inserted and his original self shifted around, if not removed entirely. His psyche is strung together like fraying patchwork. 

You don’t know what to do. Should you apologize again? Leave him be? Form some sort of arrangement where he doesn’t have to interact with you directly? 

These frantic thoughts halt when you examine his profile. 

Blade isn’t stewing in animosity or grief. He’s simply sitting there, living in the present. Swarming torments don’t caw and peck at him. He isn’t smiling, but his facial features express contentment, the way a laborer would after a toiling day. Flowing with the current instead of struggling against the tide. 

“Out of all of them, though,” 

The brilliant luster of his eyes takes you hostage.

“Yours… wasn’t so bad.” 

Unknown 

You’re there, aren’t you?

Unknown 

Don’t be shy and ignore my messages. 

Unlike some people, I’m busy 

Unknown 

I assure you I’m busy with various preparations too.

Unknown 

Never too busy to check in on my favorite Arbiter though. ♡

Unknown 

Did you like the roses? 

I would’ve liked them more if they weren’t from you 

Unknown

💔

Unknown

So, it’d be different if they were from someone else? Hm… I might get jealous if that’s the case.

It wouldn’t make much of a difference, anyway They’ve already wilted

Unknown

That’s a shame

Unknown

I suppose what I find beautiful doesn’t suit Eris’ climate very well

Unknown

I know you’re not going to respond anymore, so I’ll stop pestering you for now

Unknown

Take good care of yourself, little Miss Arbiter ♡

It’s become a tradition for Lear to join your and Nona’s training sessions. She’s in her highest spirits when the three of you are under the same roof, even if you’re all doing different things. Presently, Lear is replacing Loopy’s hardware with an older operating system. The latest update downloaded automatically and fixed the bug that caused your favorite robot’s premier quality. Having a robot named Loopy who no longer loops is inconceivable. 

Since the LOTUS-EATER is closed for the foreseeable future, you accepted Nona’s idea to have her training on the first floor rather than the second. According to her, The Lounge has ‘distracting’ vibes, so you hoped a change in scenery might recenter her. 

However, you’re beginning to seriously question your judgment. 

“Lear, can I please have a drink?” 

“Lear, don’t pay her any mind. She needs to be sober during her training.” 

“Sobriety is a concept invented by the prohibitionists!” 

Lear’s attention darts between you, standing imposingly with your arms crossed, then to Nona, who mimes what she must think to be a sympathetic countenance. 

“Um…” he trails off. Unable to withstand the immovable object and unstoppable force, he retreats to the motherboard he’s been working on. “I’m technically not on the clock, so I shouldn’t handle merchandise that doesn’t belong to me.” 

Nona wads up a piece of paper and throws it at him. 

It misses. 

By a lot.

“Stop pestering Lear and take your assignment seriously,” you frown. Then you realize what paper she used as ammunition. “Hold on… don’t tell me you just crumpled up and threw correspondence from Chrysus.” 

She shrugs. “That discount hound probably didn’t have anything worthwhile to say, anyway.” 

“Is Eris’ future not ‘worthwhile?’” 

“Not if we hop on a spaceship and never look back.” 

Lear sets his tools aside, unfurls the letter, then returns it to you. Nona sticks her tongue out at him and he flips her off.

… Maybe you need a drink.

“Hey, Stellaron Hunter,” Nona waves her arms wildly. “You must have a ship, right? How about it? Got room for three more? It wouldn’t even disrupt the arrangement. You can keep watch over [First] to your heart’s content.” 

The ‘Stellaron Hunter’ in question has stationed himself on a barstool, where he blatantly ignores Nona’s request. He had been standing against a far wall as you’ve learned he’s apt to do, but this made you feel bad. After some needling, he caved and sat down at your behest. It’s been a little over a week since your conversation on the balcony. Your free time since then has been sparse. An injury doesn’t make your work disappear, it just causes it to pile up higher. 

In light of what Chrysus deems a terrorist attack, you are to have a hearing with him and Caicias. Blade staunchly refused any request for you to meet them in person. For once, you agreed with the strict measures. The nectar guide has been repaired, but the mere chance that more people could be injured at another attempt on your life is unacceptable. After some bureaucratic back and forth, it was agreed upon that the risk of a cyberattack would be the lesser of two evils. 

Chrysus insisted on handwritten correspondence delivered through trustworthy sources until the hearing. The message Nona flung consisted of him tiptoeing around every serious query you’ve brought to his attention. Your most burning question concerns the residential district’s building inspections. More specifically, how the dire reports never made their way to you. 

Initially, you thought it may have fallen through the cracks. Your mother’s sudden death two years prior plunged Thelx into chaos. She wasn’t expected to retire for another fifty years. As such, you were woefully underprepared for the mantle forced onto you. She hadn’t even told you the passcode to unlock the LOTUS-EATER’s front doors. Data restoration from some old hardware she never disposed of provided enough login information for you to keep things rolling. That theory crumbled when you recalled that in 2150 AE, building permits and inspections were made to be public records. 

Upon checking, from 2150 AE to the present, everything has supposedly been up to code. 

The employee who signed off on the inspections is under an Ade company, which falls outside your jurisdiction. 

You wrote to Chrysus detailing your concerns. His response can best be summarized as him telling you that he’ll handle it. 

That did little to put your doubts to rest. 

“I’m telling you, this is impossible,” Nona grumbles. “Can you reset it?” 

“I’ve already reset it four times.” 

“Well, you know, fifth time’s the charm.” 

You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve sighed throughout this training. 

“Let’s not give up so soon, okay? Which part do you feel is impossible?” 

You sit down beside her to get a better look. The blue, holographic screen fills you with nostalgia. This program was developed by a retired Arbiter to aid in their training. Essentially, it generates a ‘person’ with traits indistinguishable from their flesh and blood counterparts. Physiology, disposition, every experience they’ll go through from birth to death; it misses no detail. 

The trainees are supposed to go through the steps as if they were interacting with a client. They must establish a link by piecing together the simulated psyche, giving it an interactable form. 

Nona’s a rare case. Most Arbiters struggle with establishing and maintaining Synalinks, an area she excels at. It’s the first step that presents an issue. She has a difficult time establishing links. It’s a foundational part of the process that can’t be haphazard. 

“He’s so whiny. He’s a bigshot vocalist, traveling around the galaxy to sold-out shows, and he still complains that no one will ever ‘understand’ him or his art when even he doesn’t get it! He’s just coming up with fake deep lyrics.” 

“Did you look at the childhood fragments? For insecurity, that’s a good place to start.” 

“Oh, don’t get me started on that,” she grimaces as if she bit into something sour. “He came from old money. Opera star for a mom and a successful businessman for a dad. He wanted for nothing. But no, apparently he still needs to change his profile picture to black and the about section to ‘gone’ whenever he wants attention.” 

You pull up a critical childhood fragment. “Here you can see his father leaving a recital early to take a phone call. Then, after the performance, his mother is quick to point out the areas he needs to work on.” 

“So? He was screwing around on his phone during his singing lessons, what did he expect?” 

“Consider what happens when his tutor leaves. His face falls and he’s fighting back tears. He’s acting out to get the attention his parents don’t give him. The tutor is older and in a position of power, which makes him a perfect surrogate.” 

“That happened when he was six, though. He’s had decades to get over it.” 

“Even if that were true, it wouldn’t make a difference. A person’s experiences are real to them. Say I think there’s a hidden compartment in my bedroom due to the wall making a peculiar noise. I have lived my entire life believing this. If you saw that fragment while trying to piece my psyche together, then dispute it because you know there’s no hidden compartment, there’d be disunity. Every belief, no matter how small, connects in a complex web. Why did I make that inference? Did I read it in a book? Did my mother scare me into following curfew by saying a secret monster hiding there would get me if I stayed up too late? The mind is a fragile thing and we must treat it as such.” 

Nona puts her hands up. “Alright, alright, geez. Make sense of the events through their lens, not mine. Got it.” 

Unexpectedly, it’s Lear who speaks up next.

“What would happen if those fragments were altered?” 

You place a hand on your chin. “It’d depend on the fragment’s importance. In the example I gave, it’d cause friction in maintaining a link, but it wouldn’t fundamentally change everything I’ve ever known. As for a fragment more significant, well… I’m not sure.” 

“You aren’t?” 

“Without credible data to pull from, I’d only be speculating.” 

A frigid draft whirrs through. You shiver. 

“You’re better at this than I am, Lear. Wanna switch places?” Nona asks.

Lear stands up, his palm covering his mouth. It’s as if the vitality has been drained from his face. He transitions through multiple expressions, each more agonized than the last. Your heart twists violently against your ribcage. You want to call out to him, comfort him, but there’s no combination of words that’d douse the raging fire. 

Is it happening again? You think. No… this has to be the worst one yet! 

It’s before you again. 

A simple stage in a modest auditorium. 

There are no performers or stagehands. The lights in the theater are dim, the chairs are folded up. Pamphlets clutter the ground in disorganized heaps. Looking up, you realize they’re falling from the rafters like rain. One lands by your feet. You pick it up, squinting to make sense of the words. It’s a playbill advertising a show titled The Idiot. 

Directed by

ANIA PHAEALES

THE CAST

(In order of appearance)

The Servant…………………………………………………………………………..UNNAMED

The Fool…………………………………………………………………..…………..UNNAMED

The Coward…………………………………………………………………………...UNNAMED

On and on the list goes, ascribing every unflattering role to an unknown party. 

Mother’s name is here? Why? Was she that influential over Lear?

Spotlights flick on. Hot streams of light illuminate you in a blinding assault, which you try to block with your hands. The light’s intensity overpowers your meager attempts. A spectral crowd cheers, rousing applause and whistles emanating from empty chairs. Champagne glasses clink, men guffaw deep from their diaphragms, and women shriek like banshees. 

It gets hotter and louder, again, then once more; suffocating you in a cacophony of sensory stimuli. 

The audience makes passing comments. 

“... A shame, it couldn’t work out…” 

“Though what did they expect, truly…” 

“... Know how it is…” 

The finale rings crystal clear.

“Some people born will die never knowing love.”  

A wet, metallic-smelling substance drips from your nose. The softness of a rag replaces this feeling. It remains there, tickling your senses. There’s that floral scent again — subtle and pleasant. The flower it’s derived from may be toxic, but the strands of vermillion that curl outward like spider legs look so inviting. The petals are streams of blood frozen by time. Every time they wither, they’re forced to bloom again, perpetuating a cycle from which there’s no escape. 

You’ve seen sunsets in pictures. There are two of them glaring down at you now, circular, as if viewed through a looking glass. 

“How pretty,” your words blur together. “‘ve always to see… a sunset…” 

You never will, though. Eris is far, far away from any brilliant stars. The aloof night sky will be your lullaby and your dirge. 

Sluggishly, you sit up. You’re on one of the nice leather couches in The Club. A headache thumps in your head like a landlord who raps against the door of a tenant late with rent. You’re about to stand when an authoritative voice stops you.

“Stay still.” 

You open your mouth to protest. Blade must know your demeanor when you intend to be petulant, for he cuts you off. 

“That wasn’t a request.” 

You murmur something incomprehensible and melt back into the cushion. Regardless of your obedience, Blade stands close, as if you’re planning to bolt, trip on an uneven floor panel, then hit your head and die instantly. Glancing around, you note no one else is here. 

He follows your eyes and accurately surmises your intentions. “The quiet one ran out and the noisy one ran after him.” 

Any other time, that deadpan delivery mixed with his personal interpretation of Lear and Nona would’ve made you laugh. Presently, though, you’re fighting off a headache that outclasses every other that’s come before it. Top of the class and then some. It helps to know that Lear won’t be alone. Why exactly he experienced such an intense emotional eruption is a mystery to you. Then there’s the chaotic state of his psyche to consider; if you were disoriented from the aftershocks, the epicenter must’ve been cataclysmic. 

You’re so swept up in your thoughts, that it takes you a while to notice how Blade’s been staring at you. This in and of itself is nothing new. He’s been your shadow ever since forced this arrangement. It irritated you at first, but that blistering offense eased into acceptance. His vigilance felt befitting of a guard. Taking in your surroundings, assessing any threats; such is his prerogative. 

How he’s eyeing you now feels different. It’s as if he’s looking through you, not at you. 

“Is something wrong? You’re making such a scary expression,” you joke. 

No visual reaction. 

“I’m waiting for your explanation.” 

“About…?” 

Blade doesn’t bother hiding his displeasure. He glowers down at you, the difference in your height further exacerbated because you’re sitting down. 

The impromptu staring contest comes to an end when he speaks up, his voice carrying less hostility. 

“That idea you proposed,” he begins, moving back to return your personal space, “Are you still willing to try it?” 

He has to bring this up now of all times? You don’t want to loudly announce a deeply private matter, especially if there’s a possibility the information will make it back to Kafka. Your best shot is to downplay the severity of what you went through. He might be doing his job, but you don’t want him cordoning off Lear as a precautionary measure. You don’t blame Lear in the slightest — this punishment is appropriate for your past hubris. 

“Of course.” 

“I accept your offer.” 

Ah, you think. So this is the game he’s going to play.

“In that case… when should we get started?” 

You can guess his next sentence before it comes out. 

“I’m ready whenever you are.” 

Nona

hey hey

Nona

we’re all good here

Nona

lear’s quiet but he’s doing better. he keeps apologizing 

Nona

i thanked him for causing a scene and getting me out of class 

Nona

he kinda maybe let out a sound like a laugh

Nona

i’ll be hanging with him until things simmer down a bit more

Nona

man. i have to say though. sword guy had the most abominable vibes when it all went down

Nona

i yelled at him that if he hurt lear you would turn his mind into goop

Nona

soooo if you wouldn’t mind please tell him that was a joke and that i don’t deserve to get stabbed on sight. 

Nona

anyway. take care of yourself. call me when you feel up to it

It took three hours, a couple of painkillers, and more glasses of water than you cared to count to be ‘ready.’

You change into formal garments, consisting of an ivory gown that flows down to your feet, and a chiffon, indigo cloak that encases you from your shoulders to your knees. You fasten the heavy fabric into place with a broach your mother wore when she served as the Exalted Arbiter. It shows different stages of a moon, connected by four silver spokes. The highest point is the first quarter moon; to the right, the hollow outline of a new moon; the lowest point, the last quarter moon; then lastly, the full moon is to the left. 

Blade sits across from you in the chair designated for clients. He’s silent as you make your preparations, his eyes following you like a haunted painting. His ulterior motives are irrelevant. Inside this room, you’ve carried out your work as an Arbiter hundreds, if not thousands of times. You’ve heard the most clandestine fantasies that wouldn’t even be uttered on a deathbed. Devoid of judgment, you’ve filled your mind with the overflowing desires of their heart, careful not to lose a single drop. 

“Are you comfortable?” 

He nods. 

“Good. Let me know if you need anything.” 

An ornate tea kettle made from Eris’ dark stone sits atop the Nectary’s gemstone. It’s bronze in color and emits a warm, calming glow. Once the water inside is brought to a boil, you pour it into an opal goblet. Next, you add ambrosia leaves that have been ground into a fine powder. It sizzles upon contact with the water. Finally, you procure a vial from a pouch inside your clothes. Four drops of the Necatary’s tonic descend into the concoction. 

“I’ve seen you drink this before,” Blade notes. 

“Now you’ll get to try. Don’t worry, it isn’t poisoned.” 

It could be the low lighting and exhaustion, but you swear you see his lips curl upward. 

“Add however much you please. My only condition is that it works permanently.” 

“It’s a tempting offer. Sadly, I have to drink after you. Maybe another time.” 

After stirring the ambrosia, you hand the goblet to him. His eyes remind you of burning embers. Their radiance fascinates you. You shift in your seat, suddenly conscious of yourself. Has his gaze always held this weight? When he pulls the goblet away, you notice the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, how there’s a pretty sheen coating his lips. 

Where is this onslaught coming from? Why couldn’t it have waited until later? 

You hurriedly take a sip from the goblet. Noct’s ichor tastes sweet and spicy.

It’s tradition to repeat an incantation so as to invoke your slumbering Aeon’s blessing. You’re about to say it, when there’s a cool, smooth sensation against the corner of your lips. Every muscle in your body goes taut as if you’ve been turned to stone by some wicked spell. 

Blade’s gloved finger ghosts over your skin. 

He’s leaning over, still sitting down, close enough that you can see your reflection in his eyes. You see how high your eyebrows have raised, the ‘o’ shape of your mouth. 

“B-Blade?” Your voice comes out like a squeak. 

He says nothing. Goosebumps litter your skin, the hairs on the back of your neck stand. Your heart is a ferocious war drum. Whether it’s sounding an alarm or an invitation, you cannot tell. A beast made in your image has life breathed into it. You thought you slayed it, watched the light drain from its beady eyes, but it’s resuscitating. 

Then again, maybe you’re a fool for thinking lust can stay dead. 

He sinks back into his seat, completely impassive, acting like what he did carried no significance. 

“Some of the drink got on you,” he explains, entirely nonchalant. “I cleaned it off.” 

Being thrown into a furnace wouldn’t compare to the heat ensnaring your body. 

You cough into your hand. “Oh, yeah, that’s— thank you.” 

The awkward jumble of words flounders out before you can stop them. Your lessons in etiquette and oration have hidden themselves, somewhere beyond accessibility, scurrying to the shadows like mice when a cat approaches. If you were to make a list of your dumbest statements, this would make it far in the rankings. 

This time, you’re certain of it. That little smirk. Maybe he’s getting back at you for withholding information earlier. 

Whatever the case, you have a goal you’re determined to see through. You resume the incantation, although your voice lacks assertiveness. 

“To dream is a sacred thing. Don’t fear it. Welcome it, rejoice in it, and shed no tears when it is finished. We’ve been granted your purest blessing. As you slumber, we find rest in you. Allow us the sweetest of dreams.” 

You close your eyes…

… And when you reopen them, the Shackling Prison looms above you. 

This link is far more stable than its predecessor. There’s no ticking timer hurrying you along, you’re free to examine every nook and cranny. You notice how desaturated your surroundings are. The blades of grass closest to the prison blend in with the stone, the only hit belying their true nature being how they sway in the breeze. There isn’t any vegetation or ambiance that suits the surrounding environment. Birds don’t sing, rushing rivers are silent, and bugs refuse to perform their melodies. 

Nothing regresses or progresses; he’s wedged in a constant state of inertia. Your heart aches. 

You make your way to the impenetrable gates. After thinking about it, you hypothesized the seal you previously encountered was an emergency defense he unknowingly created. At that exact moment, Blade didn’t want you puppeteering him. He may be enigmatic, but what you know for certain is that he takes his assignments seriously. The Stellaron Hunters want you alive so he has to as well. 

That’d explain why it acted hostile to your interference. You’ve never established a link in such a high-stakes, volatile setting. You were bound to encounter oddities of some fashion. This explanation reassures you as you get closer. 

Only to ruthlessly get debunked. 

The seal is still here. It’s styled in the outline of a circle, overlapping the doors that keep you from studying Blade’s mara. Frustration floods you. This can’t be Blade’s handiwork. The one comparison is how it emanates steady energy, similar to how he is in a meditative state. The similarities stop there. 

It's grown paler, you realize. Its potency has waned since I’ve last seen it, too. 

To test this, you push against it. 

The gates creak back. 

This gap lets you steal a glance at Blade’s mara. It consists of multiple tumor-like abscesses that writhe against each other, forming a pulsating, fleshy mass. This ebullition isn’t consistent. Different sections have a will of their own. Some try consuming their adversary, others suffocate what’s beneath through their bulk alone. The horror extends down into a pit whose depth you couldn’t possibly guess. Killing, devouring, gorging, and digesting; only to experience a rebirth that will perpetuate the cycle. 

It pushes against the windows and seeps into the structure’s cracks, of which you count many. The mara’s repairing him, vigilant in its upkeep. It is a ghastly glue holding fractured pieces that long for respite together. 

Your intrusion causes it to gurgle and retract. The mara doesn’t break down or weaken, it gradually oozes down like bile in an esophagus. 

The seal repels you, cutting your grotesque investigation short. 

The last thing you see before the gates slam shut is the mara reclaiming its territory. 

…

Blade’s fully conscious while you need some time to refamiliarize yourself with your surroundings. Your head raises its thunderous complaints about how it’s being overused lately. You down a cup of water, careful not to get any on your lips, so your earlier weakness isn’t repeated. 

“Alright. Let me get my thoughts together,” You take a deep breath, then continue, “I only caught a glimpse of your mara. It did retreat after noticing my presence, although I’m not sure why.

Blade doesn’t say anything. You’re beginning to get used to that. 

“And another thing. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning, since everything about our previous link was messy… but this time and the last, there’s this seal preventing me from going deeper. Do you have any idea what that’s about?” 

“You’re the expert here.” 

That must mean he doesn’t. 

“Hah. I’m starting to wonder about that.” 

You don’t mean to sound so defeated. You have some years under your belt — 120, to be exact — but you’ve realized how many areas you’re lacking in. Nymphalians live anywhere from 500 to 700 years. Your mother was 200 when she’d been anointed as Eris’ new Exalted Arbiter. She tried stamping out the quiet pride your prodigious abilities instilled in you. All it did was form a gaping chasm neither of you ever tried to mend. 

You have the materials now, but it’s too late. There’d be no one waiting on the other side once you crossed.

Blade leans forward, presses his elbows to his knees, and rests his chin on his fists. 

“Would it help if you touched me?” 

You shoot up straight from your chair like it just stabbed you. Heat infuses into your cheeks, then spreads throughout, momentarily stupefying you. His monotonous words loop in your head. How can he sit there so collected after making an insinuation like that?! Especially when you’re not at your top performance. 

“That’s highly inna—” 

“You avoid skin-to-skin contact,” he interrupts, his visage unreadable. “The one time you didn’t, you made it far.” 

It’s a mistake to underestimate his perspicacity just because he doesn’t actively flaunt it. 

“What did you think I meant?” 

Why can’t his voice have a little more intonation? If he’s being playful, his delivery is too dry for you to tell. 

“Nothing, nothing at all,” you sit back down and cross your legs in an attempt to look professional. “What you’re referring to is a precaution my mother suggested. In the past, strange reactions have occurred after I came into direct contact with someone. Not always, though. No one could determine the how or why.” 

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Honestly… you Stellaron Hunters should’ve just waterboarded me, you would’ve gotten this information faster, if that’s the objective here.” 

“Lie if you want.” 

“I don’t want to lie to you,” you admit. He knits his eyebrows together, an act that accentuates the dark lines beneath his eyes. “You deserve to understand what I did. If I hadn’t resorted to that, it’d be different.” 

“Hm.” 

No one can ever claim Blade doesn’t have a way with words. 

Suppressing a yawn, you refocus the conversation. “I think we made some good progress here. I’m willing to keep at it if you are.” 

“No. That’s enough for now,” he says. “Go rest.” 

“Eh? I can keep going, though.” 

“I know. Rest anyway.” 

Your body is letting you know that it’s finished, your exhaustion has crossed the semi-tolerable threshold to unbearable. There’s a hearing to prepare for, Nona and Lear to reach out to, and about another million odds and ends. This flurry of activity won’t get done any faster if you’re crawling around like a host controlled by a parasite. 

“... Fine, have it your way. Lear’s always getting on me about my sleeping habits too.” 

You sense an irregular fluctuation from him. However, there’s no shift in his body language, so you decide it isn’t your place to pry. 

“Blade?” 

He turns his head toward you. 

“This ability of mine, it’s only ever provided entertainment for others, which is fine, of course… but… the chance to help someone directly… is a first,” you give him a bashful smile. “Thank you for trusting me. I mean it.” 

For a brief moment, his gaze doesn’t feel so intense.

Nona

hey hey 

Nona

please tell me the sword guy didn’t confiscate your phone. if that’s the case it’s so over

Nona

i’m not going up against him to get it back

It’s me texting from [First]’s phone. I remember what you said about the brain goop. Lock your windows and sleep with one eye open.

Nona

!!!

Nona 

gg

Nona

oh btw. the dust has settled

Nona

it’s weird… this doesn’t happen for years, then suddenly, twice in such close succession? 

Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too I don’t get it

Nona

welcome back from being held hostage btw

Wow thank you

Let me know if you both need anything I actually have no idea how I haven’t passed out yet

Nona

it’s because you haven’t given mushroom mania a chance. their music is so chill

Nona is typing…

Please don’t spam the link to their album again

Nona

alright fine whatever

Nona

i am bored though if you want to play connect four hmu

Nona has invited you to play Connect Four™©®.

Nona

[first]? come back my queen

Nona

wow you fell asleep fast </3

Nona

rest up. you deserve it

There are two monitors in front of you.

To the left is a man with a graceful physiognomy — Chrysus Ophídion. He has hair white as snow, pulled back into a long ponytail that stops at his lower back. His eyes are sharp, cunning, hidden behind thin glasses that reflect his monitor’s shine. He’s already asked you the questions courtesy demands, such as your health and how the LOTUS-EATER is faring during the IPC travel ban. 

“It’s nothing but a power play,” he had reassured you. “I’ve had productive negotiations with their chief financial officer, he’s insinuated that a proposal to remedy the dispute isn’t far off.” 

While you’d often be remiss to take Chrysus at his word, there is one sacred objective he’ll never work against — money. 

He isn’t exactly subtle. His office’s backdrop is a hulking conglomerate; a screen that shows everything from graphs of Eris’ most prominent businesses to stocks throughout the universe updating in real-time. There must be around a hundred different squares dedicated to this flashing panoply. Before Chrysus’ repurposing, it was a wide window from which one could view Eris’ mountain range to the northeast. Your mother detested the change and the room itself. 

Then to the right, there’s Caicias Rex. He’s a burly, bearded man, with dark hair going silver from age. Rumors have been circulating that he’ll announce his retirement on his 500th birthday. Between the two, you prefer dealing with him. Caicias isn’t verbose or prickly. If anything, he’s a little too brazen. 

“How are you holding up, little Miss Arbiter?” 

Caicias’ gravelly voice is at a deafening volume, made worse by the fact you’re using in-ears. His microphone peaks at its own leisure. 

“Caicias, please, your microphone,” Chrysus grits out whilst wincing, “Did you not have your assistant set it up beforehand as I suggested?” 

You both take out your in-ears before he responds. It’s loud enough that you can hear what he’s saying even while holding them far away. 

“Oh, the dial’s screwed up. Alright. There. Any better?” 

You put your in-ears back on. “I believe so.” 

“Great! Let me repeat myself then. Are you feeling any better? Ready to do all that mind magic stuff?” 

“I’m doing much better, thank you. If you’re referring to my capacity to establish links, I haven’t encountered any issues so far.” 

Caicias takes a moment to respond. “That way of speaking, your posture… you’re the spitting image of Ania.” 

The call falls silent. While you’re thinking of something to say, Chrysus takes the initiative himself. 

“May Noct grant her blissful rest,” he repeats the platitude you heard spoken aplenty at your mother’s funeral. “I apologize for changing the topic so abruptly, but there’s a sensitive matter at hand to discuss. I ask that you both listen until I’m finished without any interjections.” 

Sensitive? What could he possibly mean by that? 

You feel a churning in your soul. 

“Thank you. As you’re both well aware, the position of Ade’s Exalted Regent isn’t limited to operating as Eris’ primary treasurer. Caicias and the belated Ania Phaeales agreed to my proposal to form a coalition that’d combat Eris’ uptick in crime decades prior. The coalition has seen great success. 

With Miss Phaeales injured and Mister Rex preoccupied with investigating hazardous mining conditions in the Nectary, I was appointed head of the Thelx nectar guide bombing investigation. My team and I have spared no resources in uncovering the culprits behind such a senseless act of violence. 

Initially, we turned our attention toward the IPC. At this point, we’ve found nothing to implicate them. On the contrary, evidence from the preliminary investigation suggests the involvement of Arc citizens. I am well aware of the prejudice certain people have against those who come from Arc, so I wanted to be absolutely certain. You’ll both receive digital copies of the documented evidence, but for the purpose of this hearing, I’ll focus on the most relevant evidence. 

Through data restoration and witness accounts, two main suspects have been identified. Felix Laurence, a nectar guide engineer who was granted Thelx citizenship by Ania Phaeales, and his nephew, Ryker Laurence, unemployed. A standard employee-issued passcode assigned to Felix accessed the NGT, or Nectar Guide Terminal, three cycles prior to the incident. Logs show he spent considerable time eyeing the schedule of the cycle when Miss Phaeales was to depart.

Felix’s co-workers have corroborated that he offered to take their shifts, as the trip was scheduled on a cycle he doesn’t work. His offer was accepted by the second person he asked. Audio logs recorded in the common area corroborate this. Surveillance places Felix’s arrival at 0100 hours, where he claimed that an emergency malfunction notice was sent to his pager. The NGT confirms no such notice was issued. 

The fragments recovered from the explosive device show it to be the kind that activates on contact, which simplifies the installation process. Felix is seen returning at 0112. Co-workers report he seemed ‘unlike himself’ and was drenched in sweat. Miss Phaeales’ cabin departed at 0200, the tragedy occurred at 0223. A reconstruction of the device reveals a minor malfunction that delayed the device’s detonation, a blessing from Noct, I’m sure. 

The Laurence residence was promptly raided, where materials matching those inside the explosive crime were located. Testimonies from those who know Ryker attest to his hobby of making strange contraptions that never work as intended. I have personnel ready to detain Felix and his co-conspirator Ryker at a moment’s notice, in compliance with Eris’ No Involuntary Confinement Act, where they’ll be extradited to Arc unless they make an appeal.” 

The pictures of the two suspects take up Chrysus’ screen. Caicias strokes his beard while viewing them, whereas you remain motionless. You remember the name Felix Laurence. You attended the event where his special citizenship was awarded, some twenty years ago. What could have driven him to this? Where did you fall short? If it was your mother in charge, would things have gone differently? Chrysus, Caicias, Kafka… none of them take you seriously. They consider you a child playing make pretend. 

Is that not what you are? 

Mother would’ve held her own if Kafka tried coercing her. 

She would’ve found out about the building inspection dilemma through her own channels. 

Blade’s seal, his mara — she would’ve helped him better than you ever could. 

But she can’t. She’s gone and you’ll never be her. 

“I understand it’s a lot to take in,” Chrysus states. It doesn’t sound like he means it. “In truth, the account I gave is highly summarized. I felt I owed it to Miss Phaeales before I arrived at my next point.” 

“... What do you mean by that?” You ask. 

“It became clear to me that an investigation like this couldn’t be limited in scope. For instance, how did Felix know Miss Phaeales was due to use the nectary guide at that specific cycle and that specific time? As I said earlier, he accessed the NGT, but your name isn’t visible there. Only the Director of Operations knows when you’re set to travel. All Felix would’ve been able to see is that a private cabin was scheduled to leave at 0200, which isn’t a rare occurrence.” 

“Please place aside certain biases to the best of your ability,” he says. “Ryker’s correspondence these past two years showed some red flags. Specifically, he had frequent correspondence with an unknown person whose IP was traced back to the LOTUS-EATER. These conversations were largely written in code, but from what we’ve decrypted, this unknown person has been leaking information about you and Ania Phaeales. Based on available information, it’s highly likely that this unknown person is who you refer to as ‘Nona.’”

Caicias closes his eyes and exhales. 

“That… that’s absurd,” your voice is weaker than a breeze. “There’s no way I’ll accept a baseless accusation like this.” 

“Allow me to once again request that you place aside your bias. Nona, whose birth name is unknown, was born and raised in Arc’s most hostile faction. At the self-reported age of 74, she submitted a request for Thelx citizenship. Your mother, in her benevolence, granted the request due to seeing Nona’s potential as a future Arbiter. Do you deny any of this?” 

You think you might be sick. 

“... No,” you grit out. 

“Why would she suddenly abandon an extremist group and request citizenship in Thelx, a quadrant they’re especially hateful towards? Or, did this faction see an opportunity in Nona, who was widely known to have a talent close to yours in establishing Synalinks?”

“Little Nona is what, 113 now? That’s a long time to be acting as a double agent,” Caicias points out. 

“Can indoctrination like that ever be fully deprogrammed?” Chrysus challenges. 

Your horror gives way to an icy rage. 

“If you’re determined to pursue this ‘lead’, so be it, I guarantee my staff and I will fully cooperate. That doesn’t mean you can implicate one of my Arbiters for such a serious offense with nothing but circumstantial evidence.” 

Chrysus sighs. “I’m sorry you see it that way. You’re right that there’s no direct evidence yet — I bring this up to err on the side of caution. It’d deal a severe blow to Eris if anything happened to the Phaeales bloodline. Is it at least fair to say that out of everyone at the LOTUS-EATER, Nona would be one of the most familiar with your itinerary? Did you tell her about your trip to Perianth II?” 

You draw your lips in a thin line. You had told her. 

“Alright, Chrysus, this isn’t an interrogation. This is Ania’s daughter you’re talking to,” Caicias frowns. 

Ania’s daughter, huh?

“... You’re right. I just wish to ensure Miss Phaeales’ safety. I got ahead of myself.” 

“There are better approaches. Let’s call it for now. We won’t get anywhere bickering like this,” Caicias says. He steeples his fingers and looks directly into the camera. “Have your men keep watch on those two. We’ll meet back again in a cycle; that should give us enough time to flip through all these documents you’re sending.” 

This suggestion is for your sake and you all know it. Caicias has good intentions, but you’ll never earn the respect necessary for a leader if you back down now. You imagine you’re preparing to establish a link. The steps it entails, how your mind must surrender its solid form. 

“To dream is a sacred thing. Don’t fear it. Welcome it, rejoice in it, and shed no tears when it is finished. We’ve been granted your purest blessing. As you slumber, we find rest in you. Allow us the sweetest of dreams.” 

“It’s alright, Mister Rex. I can keep going,” you reassure with a smile. Your cadence has lost its vibrato and transitions into a steady timbre. Every dissonant note is scratched out to recite the sheet music lying before you. If you’re to get through this, it’ll be the performance of a lifetime. 

“Hm… are you sure?” Caicias asks. He squints, trying to get a better read on you through the screen. 

You consider a conductor’s baton, how it glides through the air, commanding absolute obedience from its orchestra. Your heart, your lungs, the feeling of static buzzing in your head; you demand a decrescendo. 

You might not be your mother, but you can play in the same key. 

“I am. Mister Ophídion, would you please go over everything from the beginning without paraphrasing? There’s a great deal to examine.” 

You’re occupying a space between reality and fantasy. 

Cogency of any kind flees from you. Chasing after it has become tiring, a prospect that instills dread. There’s no affliction worse than uncertainty. You envy fortunate fools who can cling to a belief from their first breath to their last, what a blessing it must be to never reside in doubt’s shadow. 

You don’t know what to think, what to feel, what to do. 

Chrysus had an explanation for everything. The file he’s built up on Nona? That’s standard procedure, anyone in such close quarters with you must be vetted. The employee who signed off on an unsafe building? A full investigation will be conducted, you need only be patient. Why hadn't he contacted you sooner about any of this? He didn’t want to risk any leaks that’d tip off the enemy before he was prepared. 

You don’t know what was worse. Being treated like an idiot by Chrysus or a sniveling child by Caicias.

Ripping your mother’s broach off, you walk over to the balcony’s edge and raise your arm. 

The inky night spreads out like paint spilled across a canvas. This is the only view you’ve had throughout the years — a cold void that never wanted to host life. The nameless planet must’ve counted itself fortunate to have been passed up by settlers. No one will ever want to settle here, it had thought. I will make my surface so terrible that those who come here will certainly die. 

You lower your arm. The broach is set on a table you subsequently push out of sight.

In a way, this balcony is your cell. You’ve sat here and contemplated freedom as any inmate would. What would it be like to feel the sun? Does it burn, does it sting? Is it true that you shouldn’t stand in it for long? What about the sunrise? How lovely it must be for such a sight to be there every morning, greeting you with its gentle colors and soft edges.

You hug your legs to your chest and rest your head on your knees. 

The door behind you opens without warning. 

You don’t need to look to know who it is. You can pick up on his taciturn presence without trying. It’s inevitable, so long as you’ve been exposed to a person enough.

Blade’s footsteps make no sound, he’s almost like a levitating wraith. You assume he’ll take his place on the leftmost chair. It's become an unspoken ritual. Those who have experienced the sun are ever so enchanted by the moon, he’s no different. Rather than sitting down, however, he lingers behind you. You can feel him staring. After a few seconds, he comes closer, so that he’s beside you.

Wordlessly, he holds out a teacup you’ve never seen. It’s porcelain with a glossy finish, boasting intricate blue designs painted along the sides. The inside contains a bloody ocean that glistens beneath the moonlight. The aroma clues you in — it’s ambrosia, just without the Nectary’s tonic. 

“Is this for me?” You whisper, incredulous.

His flat expression seems to communicate, ‘Who do you think it’s for?’ 

You cradle it in both your hands. Warmth seeps through and becomes acquainted with your skin. Likewise, the steam wafts up, tickling your nose. It’s as if the drink is a pocket watch and you’ve been hypnotized. 

Once it’s secure in your grasp, he pulls back. 

Then he starts to walk away. 

He’s leaving? Why is he leaving? 

Your body springs up of its own accord. You balance the teacup in one hand and reach out to him with the other, your fingers fanning out, ready to sink into whatever they can. Everything happens in the blink of an eye. Your free hand succeeds in finding a destination — settling on the abrasive finish of his bandages. 

You feel another texture alongside it. 

It’s smooth, cold, and visible through the interstices of his winding bandages. 

His skin. 

Realizing this, you withdraw your hand in panic. Then you wait, bracing yourself for a brutal rebound. What horrors could a mind like his prepare for you? Would it cross the threshold of mental anguish to physical harm? You squeeze your eyes shut. 

When you find the courage to reopen them, there’s nothing abominable waiting with bated breath to drag you through a mental purgatory. 

Instead of a consequence, there’s only Blade, fixed in place. He hasn’t moved an inch. 

You’re okay. Nothing’s wrong.

You let out a relieved sigh. 

“Let me at least get the words thank you out,” you insist, desperate to refocus his attention. “I… thank you. You don’t have to be… in such a rush…?” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Much to your chagrin, Blade takes your teacup by the rim and lifts it. You tilt your head. Did he… did he just repossess your drink? That’s a low blow.

“You were about to drop it,” Blade deadpans. “Quit pouting.” 

“Wh—?! I’m not pouting!” 

He raises an eyebrow. 

To think you went through all that anxiety for this. 

“You Stellaron Hunters are the worst,” you grumble. 

“Hm.” 

Fed up beyond measure, you spin on your heel and start walking back to your chair. You deserve an uninterrupted night of listening to depressing music while thinking depressing thoughts. It’s your right, having endured so much lately.

“[First].” 

A chain reaction goes off in your chest. You’ve made it one measly step away and a blackhole threatens to reel you back. His voice, that deep, resonant tone, stirs something inside you, beckons it out to play. He spoke your name. Has he ever done so before? You don’t know. If someone were to ask you the most basic question right now, you’d be physically incapable of responding. 

He doesn’t have to ask you to come back. You do so willingly. 

Blade brings the teacup back down to your height. Confusingly, he doesn’t return it to your hands, nor does he give any indication that he plans on doing so. He’s holding it level to your face. You want to ask what it is he wants from you. It’s best to have everything out in the open, so that no misconceptions arise, and yet, that rational thinking presents itself as a nuisance. You don’t want anything to ruin this moment. The ambiguity entices you and holds your soul captive while the key is within reach. 

Tentatively, you press your lips to the teacup’s edge. 

The emotions teeming inside of him are palpable. They curl around you, these tendrils of unadulterated carnality squirm against your flesh. It isn’t a fair comparison to say you’re playing with fire. No, you’re laying down at an altar as a voluntary sacrifice. 

He inclines the teacup toward you.

It’s a harmonic union between saccharine and spice, a robust flavor that leaves your tongue tingling. He rebalances the cup while you swallow your first sip. Pulling back, you look up at him through your eyelashes.

“It’s delicious,” you compliment. In a coquettish act, you wet your lips as if you’d made a mess. 

His eyes glow like molten magma. 

Slowly, you stand on your tiptoes, both your arms coiling around his neck. You pull him closer and he lets you. Your lips almost connect, only for you to move back at the last second. He tries remedying this by leaning down further. You prove stubborn by dodging him once more. His nostrils flare and he lets out a sound akin to a growl. 

“Aw,” you coo, a condescending lilt present. You twist your head to the side and jut out your lower lip. “Who’s pouting now?” 

He descends on you like a rabid dog. 

His lips are relentless, demanding more and more, driven by a fervor that belies his seemingly apathetic disposition. It isn’t sensual so much as it is voracious. You’re taken aback yet find it titillating all the same. His bandaged hand flies to your nape, then drops lower, following the ridges of your spine. Subconsciously, you arch your back. He shudders at the softness of your chest pressing against him. His hand eventually settles on the back of your thigh, squeezing and grabbing the flesh with blatant greed. Without warning, he hikes your leg up, an act that causes you to temporarily lose your balance. 

Blade’s chest rumbles in a low chuckle. The husky sound sends heat straight to your core, you may have left out a debauched noise if your lips hadn’t been preoccupied. 

Regardless, you won’t let him off that easily. Who knows what he’ll start to pull if you’re lenient. You pull away and glare at him for the infraction. Considering your messy hair, heaving chest, and swollen lips, you doubt you’re very frightening to one of the universe’s most notorious criminals. The mirth dancing in his eyes confirms this. 

“Still you,” he muses. 

You release an audible yelp as he effortlessly picks you up. Manhandling you must be a newfound delight of his, his satisfaction is readily apparent. You doubt he’d drop you, but your instincts aren’t allowing the risk — you cling yourself to him for extra security. It occurs to you that both his hands are in use. Recalling the teacup, you glance around, curious about its whereabouts. You find it sitting beside your broach, perfectly intact. Wasn’t he holding it seconds ago? 

“How did you do that?” 

He grabs your chin and turns your head back to face him. 

“Strange, clumsy, and distractible,” he mutters, though not without a certain fondness. “Keep your eyes on me, girl.” 

“It’s a legitimate question! Also, hold on,” you jab your fingers at his chest in accusation, “I’m most certainly older than you. Are you familiar with the adage, ‘respect your elders?’”

“Are you?” 

“Well, obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t have said it— ohhh.”

He’s gracious enough to wait as you piece everything together. Xianzhou attire, an ability that could reasonably be classified as immortality… 

“On second thought, ideas like that are outdated. They perpetuate a cycle of complacency. Respect is earned, not given.” 

“At the end of the day, past that haughty exterior…” Blade trails off, his lips nearing your outer earlobe. You swallow while he keeps you in suspense. The pointed tips of his canine teeth drag against the sensitive flesh, sometimes sinking down, only to let up before he leaves behind so much as an indent. 

He plays this game for as long as it pleases him and not a moment longer. 

Finally, he bites down, almost eliciting a whimper. It takes considerable self-control to hold it in. 

“You’re something of a brat, aren’t you?” 

He accentuates this remark by grabbing the tips of your hair and tugging them to the side. Not enough to hurt, but enough to give him a canvas to work with. His teeth trail down from your ear to your neck, settling on your racing pulse point. He nibbles at the area just enough to leave behind marks. Meanwhile, your breathing picks up to an erratic pace. You lull your head to the side so that he has unrestricted access. He rewards your obedience with a kiss, soothing the tender area he’s been working on. 

Amazing as that feels, you swear you’ll go crazy if you don’t receive more stimulation. Whether or not he’s aware of this, you can’t say for sure, but you do know that he’s taking his sweet time sucking and nibbling the second place you want him most. In this position, there’s little you can do to encourage more friction. It’s too awkward an angle to grind against him, not to mention how damaging that’d be to your ego.

You tighten your grip around his broad shoulders in what you hope to be an obvious tell. When that doesn’t get you anywhere, an agitated noise slips by before you can stop it. 

Finally, he pulls back from his assault on your neck. “What?” 

How has his voice deepened in pitch?! 

“Just— don’t you want to, you know, inside?” 

“I don’t know. You’ll have to be clearer.” 

This bastard is deliberately toying with you. Huffing, you move back, unsurprised by the sight of supposed neutrality. He might be able to keep his facial expressions in check, but his eyes give him away. There’s no mistaking it. Those are the eyes of a starving beast. The intensity makes you shiver. Whether it’s from primordial fear or lust, there’s no telling. It’s most likely a warped combination of the two. 

This is a feeling you could get addicted to. 

Your dominant hand rises to cup his cheek. Exhaling a shaky breath, you allow the taut muscles in your face to relax. Your leering gives way to something softer. You familiarize yourself with him, running the pad of your thumb over his cheekbones, then lightly kissing the same cheek. His palms dig into you tighter. Acting as if you have all the time in the world, you pepper his face with featherlight kisses, loosely following a line that ends near his mouth. Finally, having arrived at your spell’s conclusion, you place a chaste kiss on his lips. 

You bat your eyelashes in a show of faux coyness. 

“Please?” 

He audibly swallows. 

Testing your limits, you throw in a sly comment. “Don’t you have a soft spot for me?” 

Blade scoffs. He doesn’t say anything for or against your claim, but you do notice how the tips of his ears turn red. 

“If I’d known this was the best way to deal with you Stellaron Hunters, I would’ve considered doing this with Kafka.”

Blade’s eyes narrow into slits that, realistically, should unsettle you. It does to an extent. Especially considering the maelstrom of heightened emotions swirling around him, and, by extension, you. He’s glowering, sizing you and your intentions up. He lets out a harsh laugh, shaking his head while doing so. 

“What a mouth,” he remarks. 

Unbothered by the vitriol, you shrug. “You’re the one who told me to speak ‘normally.’” 

“My mistake.” 

You don’t get to respond — his lips are on yours again. He steps back, somehow mindful enough to input the door’s passcode while never breaking away from you. His tongue doesn’t ask for entry, it demands it. You’re happy to comply. He takes pleasure in ravishing your mouth, tasting the lingering flavors from the gift that brought you to this. 

You’re back on a solid surface after he pushes some writing implements to the side. You decide that this will be the one time you allow someone to make a mess of your desk. He urges your legs open with his knee, a request you’re quick to fulfill. 

His lung capacity must be otherworldly, you have to give his shoulders a push for him to get the hint. A throaty noise leaves him, expressing his disgruntlement at the prospect of parting. Still, he grants you respite. A thin trail of saliva sees to it that your contact isn’t completely severed. 

Blade doesn’t let you recuperate for long. He presses his hard length against your core, creating heavenly friction. You no longer have the means to muffle your noises, which must’ve been his intent. His hands find your hips in a frenzy. He grabs the flesh, pulls you closer, and grinds against your clothed cunt. 

It doesn’t take long for you to teeter close to the edge. The guttural noises near your ear, the steady stimulation, his scent, and shameless thirst for you; everything envelops your head in an intoxicating haze. Your problems that stack high into the sky seem so far away. The stress evaporates away, the tension you’ve held in your body dissipating alongside it. He’s doing most of the work for you. 

Your peak gets closer, you’re right on the precipice—

—And he stops. 

You can’t say you didn’t see it coming. Blade has a penchant for riling you up, delighting in the vivid reactions he gets. 

This cruelty earns him a whine. 

“You’re awful.”

“And you’re impatient,” is his rebuttal. 

“I am,” you agree. You learn that your equilibrium is askew when you get up. After steadying your wobbly legs, you grab his wrist and tug. Your sulking must be more tantalizing than any destination you could take him to. It isn’t until the fifth pull that he relents and follows along. You pull up the lock specifications for your bedroom, inputting that an unregistered person has permission to enter. Your fingers lack the dexterity to complete this adjustment on the first try. 

And the second. 

And the third. 

“Say anything and I’ll… I’ll…” 

“You’ll…?” he encourages.

“I’ll practice celibacy,” is your final threat. 

“Mhm.” 

Your bedroom door opens on the fourth try.

After fiddling with your do not disturb settling, you point to the edge of your bed. 

“Sit there.” 

He takes off his shoes first then listens to your request. You unfasten your outer cloak. The long fabric falls into your grasp and is put aside. You’re left in nothing but your loungewear, a simple button-up shirt and leggings. Turning around, you anticipate an annoying expression to be sprawled over his face. You even have an insult on standby. 

These thoughts crumble into dust. 

Blade’s gripping your comforter hard enough for his knuckles to turn bone white. He’s leaning forward, as if ready to pounce, yet lucid enough to exercise some semblance of self-control. He reminds you of a starved animal trapped in a cage, salivating over a piece of meat hanging outside the bars. Goosebumps cover your body. This isn’t simple lust… it’s visceral, some primitive desire too overwhelming to be understood. 

You’re the one he’s staring at with this unbridled yearning. 

Yes, he’s teased you. Pushed your buttons and riled you up. Not so subtly flaunted the strength that lets him maneuver you like you weigh nothing. You might have status and mastery in your given field, but he’s participated in the annihilation of worlds; the end of civilizations that span back since time immemorial. 

He should be the one in charge. 

Yet as you stand here, witnessing how he tortures himself by not pouncing on you like he easily could, a thought is planted. 

He’d really do anything you asked if it kept this from ending. 

The adrenaline rush this realization brings is enough to turn any cognition you still possess off. 

Your trembling hands hover above your topmost button. Your mattress dips as he slants forward, his fraying patience almost snapping. You hear the leather of his gloved hand creak from how hard he’s clenching it. You shake your head to deter him. The room’s atmosphere has a headiness to it that renders you breathless. Had you seen this expression without context, you’d think he was in physical agony. 

A button is undone for every step you take toward him.

The thin shirt flutters off your shoulders when your knees hit the bed’s edge. 

Blade gazes at your body as if he’d find salvation in it. 

Since you were planning to relax, you’d discarded your bra earlier. The exposure to the cool air causes your nipples to harden. He can’t settle for ogling any one part of your bare torso, his eyes flitter from your collarbones to your chest, your navel, then back up again. You start bending over. His eyes widen slightly. It takes you a second to find where his mind has wandered off since you were just going to remove your leggings. 

“What? Was there something you wanted from me?” You hum. 

If looks could kill, you’d be a goner. 

You decide he’s suffered enough. Your leggings are thrown aside, you’re past the point of caring to be tidy. You both exhale shakily as you sit your clothed cunt directly over his prominent bulge. Your arousal seeps through your panties and onto his pants; there’ll be no pretending that you aren’t as excited as he is. 

“Are you finished?” 

His low, grumpy voice has no business sounding as good as it does. 

You play with his high collar and pretend to ponder. “Hm… I guess.” 

No sooner than the words leave your mouth do you get flipped over.

Blade’s large hands fondle your chest, memorizing how soft and pliable the flesh is for him. He’s quick to remove one so that he can attach his lips to your pert nipple. He sucks the tender area, releasing sounds that’d have you thinking he was the one being pleasured. Meanwhile, his free palm flattens against your stomach. 

You’re lost in a myriad of sensations. His hot, wet mouth sucking your nipple, the cold smoothness of his gloved hand fondling what isn’t in his mouth, the coarse texture of his bandages sliding along your skin. He’s obsessed with your body and it shows. Whether he’s worshiping or desecrating it remains to be seen. 

“Blade, please,” you roll your hips against his so he can get the message. 

He delivers his punishment swiftly — he tweaks one nipple and nibbles the other. 

Unexpectedly, this extracts a mewl from you. 

Blade pulls back. A self-satisfied grin spreads over his face. 

“Poor needy thing,” he chuckles. Your glare doesn’t last long, for he brushes his fingertips over your clothed clit. He draws featherlight circles. “Soaked too. What? Was there something you wanted from me?” 

His reciting of your previous taunt antagonizes your pride. Rather than responding verbally, you try grinding against his stupidly stationary fingers. He holds your hips down to prevent you from misbehaving further. Having not learned your lesson, you try again. He barely needs to exert any more strength for your body to be pinned to the bed as if you were a butterfly on a collector’s wall. 

He clicks his tongue. “Have you forgotten how to speak?” 

“M-Maybe.” 

“Hm. A shame,” he says. He shifts back and parts your legs. You close your eyes as he nudges his nose against your inner thigh, his warm breath fanning over your skin. He leaves a trail of sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as he leisurely makes his way to your cunt. 

“I’ll have to pry other sounds from you instead.” 

He kisses your covered core, once, then twice, a growl leaving him when your hips desperately raise for more friction. Much to your disappointment, he revisits your inner thigh, this time nipping at it. He subjects the soft flesh to the conquest of his teeth. You prop yourself up on your elbows, intending to remove the last piece of clothing that separates you from him. He pushes you back down and mutters something incomprehensible. 

The sound of fabric tearing reverberates throughout your room. 

You’re not left wondering what he’s done for long. Blade pulls you against him by your hips, attaches his lips to your clit, and sucks.  

He’s relentless, almost as if he’s chasing his release instead of yours. His tongue licks from the bottom to the top. He feasts on you, his face pressing as close as he can get. The rapidly mounting pleasure leaves you incapable of forming coherent words or thoughts. All you can think about is Blade, how he’s grinding himself against your bed, fucking you with his tongue. 

Should you be doing this? Are you using him? Is he using you? These pesky little concerns fade into the foreground. 

He slurps your clit like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Your previous sensitivity has your release imminent. You thread your hands into his hair and throw your head back. Tugging on the long locks in encouragement has him groaning against you, sending vibrations straight to your core. 

Your release builds and builds. The muscles in your thighs tense, your voice elevates in pitch, pleasure diluting your senses. 

“Gonna— mm—” 

You come on his ruthless tongue and ride out your high, ecstasy rushing throughout your body. 

Once you come back down to reality, you realize he hasn’t stopped. Your nerves are sensitive enough to almost hurt. You keen as he messily kisses your cunt. You can’t move your legs and your arms feel like jello. With some difficulty, you urge his head away. Your slick glistens along his parted lips. He greedily licks up the remnants since you’ve deprived him of the source. 

Blade takes off his overcoat. He then removes his golden shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing both garments aside. Next, he undoes the buckle that hangs across his hips. His silver pants join the heap of his clothes not long after. You drink in the sight of his toned figure. You’ve always thought him to be handsome. His sharp jawline, long, silky hair, and those blazing eyes. You never thought you’d get to see what’s beneath his clothes. Scars litter the expanse of his otherwise pale skin, their shape perplexing you. He catches you staring and gives you a look you can’t place.  

“Is it more unsightly than my mind?” 

You push yourself up, wrap your arms around his neck, and pull him close.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you murmur against his lips. “All I see is a handsome man who I want to fuck me senseless.” 

“Hm. There’s that mouth again.” 

He kisses your forehead while bringing you back down to the bed. Once your head is on the pillow, he lines himself up at your entrance. Abundant pre-cum leaks from his tip, which he smears against you, stimulating your clit in the process. You gnaw on your lower lip to stop a moan from sneaking out. He just barely pushes the head in. As it’s been a while, you hold your breath in anticipation for the stretch to come. However, he doesn’t go any further. He's just staring at you, his eyes like that of a madman. The intensity has you averting your gaze. 

Your cheek barely grazes the pillow before he speaks up, his tone chastising. “[First].” 

You feel your walls clench around nothing. 

Sheepishly, you turn your head back to face him. 

“That’s all it takes, huh?” 

You guess it did work for him twice. It isn’t your fault. Hearing someone call you by your birth name is rare. To everyone else, you’re a title or notable last name. You aren’t an individual. The characteristics that define you remain purposefully hidden from sight. You’ll just be another line on a long list, perhaps a topic for disinterested schoolchildren to write a report on. 

“Yeah,” you admit as he gradually sinks into you, “That’s all it takes.” 

He’s thick enough to make you wince, regardless of how slow he goes. Your walls struggle to accommodate his size. He stills until you recollect yourself, taking deep breaths to relax your tense body. The dull ache fades. You nod at him to continue. He pushes his cock deeper, exhaling shakily by your ear as inch after inch slips in. It’s hot and heavy inside you, occasionally twitching. 

Your legs wrap around his waist, eliciting a choked sound from him. Though you’re panting, you still have enough audacity to let your self-satisfaction show. He doesn’t chastise you or revert to teasing. No, he laughs, low and from the diaphragm. The room is almost unbearably hot and still you shudder. 

Blade slides out of you and thrusts back in. The pace isn’t too fast, but he insists on pulling all the way out and filling you to completion again. His pelvis smacks against yours as he fully stretches you. This time, he lets you throw your head back, his teeth sinking into the bruises he left earlier. You hear your headboard hit the wall from how forcefully he fucks you. It’s raw and brutal, but you love it. For once, you don’t have to think or do a thing. All he wants to do is ravish you and you’ll gladly let him. 

Your eyes shoot open when his gloved hand finds its way to your sensitive clit. He rubs sloppy circles against it, causing your walls to clench around his cock. He groans into your neck. This unrestrained expression of the pleasure you’re providing him is almost too much. You never would’ve imagined he’d be so vocal, panting hot by your ear, holding absolutely nothing back. You could spend an eternity listening to him. 

A second orgasm creeps up on you. Your moans and delighted gasps grow loud enough to let him know. He squishes your cheeks in the coolness of his gloved hand, demanding that your attention wander nowhere else. 

“Open your eyes.” 

What he’s asking of you feels personal, almost too intimate. You hesitate for a moment but ultimately give him what he wants. He rewards you by revisiting your throbbing clit, rubbing and rubbing until there are spots in your vision. You chant his name, sometimes getting through the entire word, or barely stumbling through the first few letters. He hastens his pace. 

You clench down on him hard and cry out. 

He grits his teeth from how you tighten around him throughout your orgasm. He fucks you during its duration, not letting up for a second, chasing his own end. His hands clench on your hips, digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises. You collapse onto your pillow, your energy spent. He has no problem adjusting you exactly how he wants. Your leg is thrown over his shoulder and you keen at the change in angle. The head of his cock finds a sensitive, spongy area that you hadn’t realized existed. You arch into him and whine. 

“B-Blade,” you whine, barely audible over the sound of skin slapping against skin, “Too much… It’s too much…!” 

Tears form in the corner of your eyes. One trickles down your cheek, which he promptly licks off. 

“I know. Be good,” he pants.

The insults you set aside earlier form on your tongue. They die a swift death again, for his breath hitches and he groans by your ear. 

Heat floods your tender insides. He forces your hips flush against him, his thrusts stuttering and then stopping entirely. Wave after wave of his thick cum coats your walls. It never seems to end — his throbbing cock continues releasing the viscous substance until it has no choice but to form globs that leak out of you. 

Meanwhile, he slants his lips sloppily against yours, almost growling when you whimper. He pulls back and thrusts in one last time, pushing his release as deep inside as it can go. 

You both heave desperately for air. He still doesn’t pull out, even when his cock goes soft. Something tells you he’d be content to leave it there for as long as you permit. 

“My blanket… I’ll have to wash it.” 

“Mm.” 

Blade fixes the strands of hair sticking to your temples. You tilt your head toward his hand. It’s been so long. A small, malicious fragment of yourself taunted how you’ll never enjoy another’s touch again. That your fate would be one defined by solitude. How could you take a lover with such a risk looming over your head? The last time had been disastrous. It haunts you more effectively than any ghost. 

He pulls out. 

The newfound emptiness feels strange. 

Blade rolls off of you and slides his briefs on. You watch his every movement through heavy eyelids. The scars along his chest seem like nothing compared to the amount on his back. They lay heavy along his neck, shoulders, and spine. The off-color stripes are all similar in length and width. Your stomach churns violently as you realize it must’ve been intentional. 

He must know you’re staring, but he doesn’t utter a word as he finishes getting dressed. 

A petal falls from the bouquet of purple roses Kafka gifted.

The slight movement earns his immediate attention, a reminder of how sharp his senses are. 

You grab a nearby blanket to cover your chest and crawl over, curious about what’s caught his interest. 

Blade picks up your crystal lotus. Its multiple surfaces change color depending on the angle he holds it at, refracting the low light in your room. He inspects it with furrowed eyebrows and a frown. 

“That’s from my mother,” you explain. “She was never big on gift giving, but… for whatever reason, a few years before her death, she started leaving me little trinkets like that. I have a whole drawer full of them.” 

You smile as best as you can, not wanting to be a downer. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” 

His eyes find yours in the mirror.

He nods.