#and provide bountiful shade

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Concept: LQR big naturals but also with the flattest ass. Make him a titty dorito

Lan Qiren Breasted Boobily down the stairs of Cloud Recess

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[ghoulbrain]

Happiness is a Warm Gun

18+ 4.5k ghoul x f!reader. predator/prey roleplay, lite bondage lite cnc into enthusiastic consent, heavy gun kink/play, pet names, clothed/naked sex, creampie, aftercare. ends tender bc i can't help myself. gif credit. written for my darling @luckytiggertalia, who asked for excessive gun kink and captor/captive. thank you! 🖤 written as a successor to Saddle Up, Sweetheart, but can be read as a stand-alone.

Being in a relationship with the world’s most notorious bounty hunter lands you in some strange situations, but none stranger than those you concoct for yourselves. You run, and the Ghoul hunts you.

The Ghoul is one of the fiercest bounty hunters in New California, yet regardless of how terrifyingly efficient he is, everyone knows he only takes on payouts worthy of his time. With his long shadow stretching out across the west, most hunters are reluctant to take on bounties over a certain threshold, lest they accidentally come between him and his quarry.

Which, at this moment, just so happens to be you.

You’ve made it to a Red Rocket truck stop just half a mile west of Junktown. What was once a glorified gas station in a world long-gone now serves as little more than a hollowed out shell providing shade for all manner of miscreants and creatures wandering the dusty wastes, still decorated in tiny reminders of life before the war.

Crouched down behind a counter, your back pressed to the grime painted wall beneath a window, you spot a heavily aged cardboard carton labeled Grey Tortious Famous Cigarettes wedged at the very back of the second shelf behind the counter. Clicking your tongue softly, you reach for it, using the barrel of your pistol to catch the corner of the box. Carefully–and quietly–you drag it close enough to grab.

Your hopes aren’t high, but–

Jackpot.

Smiling faintly, you extract a crumpled but still half-full pack of cigarettes from the carton. You glance around, eyes wandering until you spot the decrepit remains of some poor bastard collapsed against the far wall, still garbed in their threadbare signature Red Rocket uniform. With a slight nod, you fish a single cap out of a small pouch on your belt and slide it onto the shelf.

“Pleasure doing business,” you murmur to the corpse, tucking the cigarettes carefully into the pack strapped to your thigh.

A shrill whistle, the kind you’d call a dog with, snaps your attention back to the moment. You press your back tight against the wall, sucking in a sharp breath to hold.

“Alright, darlin’, y’little goose-chase is over,” the Ghoul calls into the lot. Your heart begins to race. He sounds close. “I’m man enough to admit y’outfoxed me back at the yard, that was clever. But’cha got nowhere to slip to now,” he says, voice gradually growing louder. It’s not long before you can hear the crunch of his boots in the gravel.

You screw your eyes shut, steeling yourself with a silent breath before opening them again. He’ll have to circle the building to get where you are. The crunch of his boots is louder with each step. If he keeps yapping, it’ll be even easier to track the moment he moves out of eyesight of the window you’re hiding under, and you’ll be able to creep out to get behind him. Your grip on your pistol flexes, finger poised off the trigger.

The footsteps outside grow quiet enough that you can no longer hear them over the thundering of your heart. He hasn’t said anything, but you give it an extra few seconds to be safe, holding your breath as you gingerly lift out of your crouch, careful to keep your head beneath the window frame, eyes on the door across from you. Even if he sees you, you’ll have time enough to–

You’re jerked backwards suddenly by your jacket, a scream yanked out of you as you’re pulled against the window, knocking into it.

“There y’are,” he says through his teeth, hauling you up to your feet. Fuck, he faked you out with his steps. He holds you against the window, the edge of it biting into your back, his fist curled tightly in the collar of your jacket. “Give it up, darlin’. Y’all mine now,” he coos, his voice a sinister rasp at your ear. 

Out of desperation, you drop your pistol and throw your arms up, slipping out of your jacket and stumbling forward onto your hands and knees. Your boots skid on the floor as you scramble to your feet, launching into a run. You look over your shoulder just in time to see him vaulting in through the window, scaring you into running faster.

Where you intend to run is a problem to be solved as you go.

Unfortunately for you, the Ghoul is a step ahead. Gunfire startles you halfway out of your skin, but it’s the sign that falls in your path that stops you in your tracks. You look up and see a woven cable swaying, frayed from where the crazy son of a bitch managed to shoot it clean apart. You gear up to bolt to the left, but it’s already too late. The tell-tale hiss of a rope whipping through the air is your only warning before the lasso tightens around your arms and sternum, one sharp yank pulling you off your feet and down onto your back.

The world spins. You let out a soft groan, moving to roll onto your side, but he keeps you from it with a hardy pull, gathering the rope in his hands as he walks to you.

The Ghoul lets out a low whistle, his shadow falling over you. “Close, but no cigar, sweetheart,” he drawls, crouching over you. 

Disoriented, you stare at his upside down face. He’s got his head tilted, lips parted in a crooked sneer of a smile. His eyes are dark enough that you can see yourself in them, glinting with predatory glee. You can’t hide the trill of excitement that runs through you over being looked at like that. He clicks his tongue.  

“N’aw, don’t you look plumb tuckered,” he says, voice laced with condescending sweetness. “No rest for the wicked, m’afraid,” he says, slipping his hands under your arms and hauling you up to your feet.

“You could’ve killed me,” you rasp, throat scorched by the dry desert air.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he deflects, amused. “Y’all in one piece, ‘ain’t’cha?�� His breath is a warm tickle on your neck. With the rope tight across your sternum, arms pinned to your sides, he slides his gloved hand up your thigh, over your hip. His fingers tap along as he does, tickling your ribs, cupping your breast before sliding all the way up to your throat. 

The barest hint of his lips brushes the spot just behind your ear, the feeling so faint you could have made it up entirely. You shiver, pulling sharply away, but he pulls you right back in, the worn leather of his glove soft around your neck, his grip firm. 

“Mmhm, seem perfectly intact t’me,” he says, giving your throat a steadying squeeze. “No need t’put up a fight, angel. Y’comin’ with me either way.”

This time he presses his scarred lips properly to your skin, the feel of them warm and wet. Wanting. You swallow the lump in your throat, clench your thighs against the heat building between them. 

“Let go of me,” you say, fighting to put conviction in it. 

“No can do,” he says, his breath prickling goosebumps from your scalp to your thighs. “I’ve struck the motherlode with you.”

 The rope is tied low and tight enough that you can’t elbow him or shoulder your way free. Impulsively, you move to kick at his leg, but he outmaneuvers you, catching your kick with his boot and spinning you around so suddenly you gasp.

“Oohh, y’ve got fire,” he says, lips pulled thin in a devilish smile. “I’m gonna enjoy breakin’ you.” Something hard presses into your rib, and you don’t need to look down to know it’s the muzzle of his revolver. He draws the hammer back into place with a distinctive click. 

“Why don’t you be a good li’l captive and mosey on ahead?” He says, turning you until the gun is pressed into your lower back. You suppress a shudder. That’s when the world suddenly goes black, the press of the gun briefly vanishing while fabric is pulled tight over your eyes.

Wherever he’s taking you, he wants it to be a surprise.

The Ghoul walks you at gunpoint. He keeps the rope between you taut, the barrel of his gun pressed firmly to your back. The venture there is quiet, your gait tense with anticipation. A sick little thrill runs through you every time he yanks the rope or gives you a deep jab with his gun. There’s pleasure in his voice when he tells you, “Mind your step, sweetness.”

He knows precisely the effect he has on you, even if it took him time and a half to believe it.

His knuckles dig into your back as his fingers hook over the rope, holding it like a harness as you descend a flight of stairs. He catches you when you stumble on the last step, but it still startles you.

“A warning would have been nice,” you say, turning your head blindly, angling to try and get any glimpse of your surroundings from beneath the blindfold.

“Apologies,” he drawls, not sounding very sorry at all. He nudges you forward with his gun. “I like watchin’ you struggle.”

“Yeah, you make that very–” A hard tug on the rope cuts you off and stops you in your tracks. The rope comes loose after that, full circulation returning to your hands in a rush that makes them tingle. The Ghoul’s steps resonate in the room–it sounds large, mostly empty–as he walks away from you. You stay still for a hesitant moment, head jerking at the sound of something scraping across the floor towards you.

“Awwh, ain’t you sweet, waitin’ for permission,” he says, making you flush. You quickly reach up and pull the blindfold from your eyes, blinking to adjust to the dimly lit room. 

It looks like a cleared out storage facility of some kind, with cement support beams lined up in a row down the center of the room, the walls lined with ransacked steel shelving. There’s a wire frame bed braced against one of the beams, heaped haphazardly with some pillows and blankets. 

The Ghoul sits on a rusty wrought iron chair in front of you, staring up from beneath the wide brim of his hat. From his thigh, he has his revolver fixed on you. 

“Atta girl,” he says as the blindfold hits the ground. “Now take off the rest.”

The low resonance of his voice easily commands the room. You swallow the lump in your throat, glancing down the dark barrel of his gun. Biting your tongue to keep yourself from showing too much excitement, you hurriedly reach for your–

The gunshot is deafening in the echoing expanse of the room, drowning out your scream. Already high on your own anticipation, the shot of adrenaline that goes through you with the startle nearly knocks you off your feet. 

His gun smokes in the wake of the shot that narrowly missed your reaching hand.

“Slow,” he tells you, cocking the hammer once again with his thumb.

The pound of your heart is rivaled only by the aching throb between your thighs. Breathing shallowly, you keep your eyes trained on him as you–slowly, this time–reach for your belt, pouches shifting as you unbuckle it. You lay it carefully on the ground, mindful of the treasures you acquired at the gas station, before you kick off each boot.

His gaze is heavy on you all the while, eyes dark and attentive to your every move. Your focus is on the tip of his gun, how it subtly follows along with your hands. You peel each layer off without taking your eyes from him, a shiver moving through you once your hands touch bare skin, purposefully sliding them down your hips, your legs, and then moving them slowly back up as you stand back up, stepping out of the garments pooled on the floor.

He tilts his gun sideways and beckons you forward with it, tipping his head back, dark eyes tracking your every move as you approach him. One at a time, he spreads his legs. “On y’knees, darlin’.” You obey, sinking down–slowly, he told you slow–onto your knees between his legs, bringing yourself to eye level with his gun. The cement floor feels harsh against your bare skin.

“Y’got my gun dirty runnin’ me out into the wastes like that,” he chides, leaning forward, pressing his gun to your sternum. With agonizing slowness, he drags the muzzle up through the valley between your breasts, to the notch beneath your throat, pressing into it briefly. He continues up, the metal cool against your burning skin, though not by much. He hooks the barrel under your chin and tips your head back.

“Clean it for me,” he says, pushing it between your lips.

While you open your mouth too readily for the game at hand, he doesn’t protest. The taste of the gun is bitter and metallic, but what strikes you most is the black powder residue. It’s charred with a sharp tang. A moan escapes you for the way he pushes it deeper, forcing your lips wider apart.

“Don’t be shy. Give ‘er a good spit shine, sweetheart,” he encourages, pulling the gun back only to push it deeper yet. You comply, welcoming the slide of it deeper, pressing your tongue into the grooves on the underside, your eyes half-lidded and glazed with desire. “Good,” he says, voice rough with the effect you’re having on him.

Hands braced on your own bare thighs, your nails bite dull little crescents into your skin. The rock of your body is entirely subconscious, your eyelids fluttering. It’s easy to lose yourself to the work at hand, to luxuriate in the weight of his gaze on you while he uses you, fucking your mouth with the full barrel of his gun. He’s so committed to the fantasy, you can’t help but buy into it wholly.

By the time he pulls the gun away your chin is spit slick and your tongue is tingling where you’d been pressing it to the barrel. He gives an appreciative whistle while inspecting the wet shine of his gun. “That’s better,” he says, gaze sliding to you. He stands, grabbing a thick handful of your hair to haul you up to your feet with him. The noise you make is humiliating. Needy. His answering grin is wicked.

“Time t’oil it,” he says, voice frayed at the edges. He doesn’t let that trace of impatience impact his movements any. He walks you to the bed with that same loose devil-may-care swagger, assured that he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece. 

The mattress’ metal coils groan with your weight as he tosses you onto the bed, standing at the edge of it. The bed stands taller than most, bringing your pelvis parallel to his when you’re on your knees. He grabs your thigh and yanks your ass up into the air, smoothing his hand over the swell of it. He gives a sharp little slap to your rear that wrings a gasp out of you. The way he smooths his leather clad hand over the smarting spot afterwards almost feels like an apology, even if he’s really just admiring his handiwork.

“Spread,” he orders simply. You do so eagerly, widening the splay of your knees, folding your arms to rest your head on. “Look at you,” he breathes with genuine wonder, gripping your ass cheek and holding it firm while he inspects you. You can already feel what he’s looking at, how wet you are from his teasing. “Y’fuckin’ drippin’ for me.”

A shiver rolls through your whole body at the feel of his gun against your inner thigh sliding slowly upwards. Your hips give a reflexive little buck at the first touch of that warm barrel against your soaked cunt, your clit throbbing so hard it aches. “Don’t move,” he tells you. He sounds wrecked. He moves it back and forth, teasing your clit with just the muzzle of it before drawing back, and your thighs tremble with the effort to keep yourself still when all you want is to chase that precious relief.

The hiss of his zipper is the most thrilling noise you’ve ever heard. The gun disappears from between your thighs.

“Up,” he tells you, taking a rough hold of your shoulder and yanking you upright before you have the chance to comply. He holds you still while he lines himself up, the familiar thick head of his cock grinding through the wet slide of you, the length of him rubbing from taint to clit. “Y’made this big mess just from suckin’ down my gun? Christ alive, darlin’. You’re somethin’ else,” he says through his teeth. The ruin in his voice makes it feel like praise, and that feels good.

Almost as good as the slow burn of his cock pushing into you, the sound of it obscenely loud and wet. You tip your head back against his shoulder and reach back over your own, grabbing at his coat, holding onto him for dear life while he sinks deeper and deeper, pulling you back until your bare ass falls flush against him. Feeling his clothing against your bare body intensifies that intoxicating feeling of vulnerability. Never in your life has the thrill of danger been safe to explore.

Not until him.

He gives you no time to adjust, thrusting almost as soon as he’s bottomed out. 

“Fffuck,” you exhale, eyes screwed tightly shut. You start to lean forward, but he catches you by the throat, pinning you back against his chest at the same time he fires his gun, shocking your eyes wide open. Your body goes rigid, cunt seizing up so tightly around him he hisses out a breath.

“C’mon, little bunny,” he whispers in a vicious grit, pressing the still-warm muzzle firmly against your temple. “Bounce for me.” He cocks the hammer back, the smell of black powder filling your senses. 

You nod fervently, lifting up on your knees and using the mattress to bounce yourself on his cock, gravity bringing you down into every one of his hard thrusts. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, sighing his pleasure in strained little sounds. His hand slides down your throat to your chest, cupping your breast and squeezing, thumbing your nipple until you shudder.

“Close,” you moan, fist twisting in the fabric of his coat, your other hand clutching the wrist of the hand he’s fondling you with. “Please.”

His only response is to slide his hand down further, fingers slipping between your thighs. His middle finger finds your clit first, the friction making your hips jerk out of rhythm. He persists, fingering your clit in smooth circles while he fucks you hard.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot and wet on your neck. “All that fight’s gone now, ain’t it? Just a needy li’l thing beggin’ t’cum.” You’re so close you’re starting to shake, breath caught in your throat. “Go on, angel. Lemme hear how pretty you can beg.”

His fingers slow enough that your ascension falters. “Please!” You rasp immediately, squeezing his wrist, begging in every way you know how to. “Please, m’so close, please make me cum, please,” you plead, voice pitchy, your thoughts empty of everything but pleasure. He’s fucking you hard, chasing his own release just as fervently.  

Just like that his touch returns to full force, deftly working your clit until your pleasure crests and your pleas turn to cries. Your orgasm hits like an earthquake, a sudden eruption that renders you silent, your lips falling open on a noiseless scream. Your body locks up like a vice, euphoria turning your vision white and emptying your mind of all thought while pleasure cascades through you in hot liquid waves.

He doesn’t stop, though his thrusts slow. He fucks you deeply through your orgasm, savoring every quiver around his cock while he uses you. You don’t hear him come, but you feel it, the deep rush of heat that he empties into the core of you, his body going still against yours. Your whole body shudders and you exhale a broken little noise, dizzy from the magnitude of it all. Everything around you feels bleary, your vision fading in and out. For a moment, you feel as though you might float away from your body entirely, your consciousness barely holding on, but the feeling of him pressed against your back, holding you to him, grounds you.

He moves the gun from your temple and holsters it, adjusting his grip so that he can ease you down onto your stomach, slipping from between your legs. You pant hot puffs of air into the bedding, your vision blurry at the edges.

“Coop,” you call, signifying the end of your little game of pretend.

“M’right here,” he soothes, his bare hands upon you not a moment later. There’s a marked difference in the way he touches you now, a subtle tenderness that he’d forced out of his touch for the sake of play. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now, feeling it as if for the first time. 

He slides into bed next to you, having shed his gloves, coat and bandolier. You find the strength to slip an arm around him, clinging despite the tremble in your limbs. The next several seconds–moments, maybe hours, you can’t be sure–pass by in a haze of touch.

He kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips. He makes you aware of your entire body, grounding you with sweeping touches to every part of your body. It’s an intoxicating intimacy that leaves you feeling warm and drunk, still hungry for more.

 At some point Cooper gets the blanket over you, skirting his scarred fingers up and down your arm beneath it. The adrenaline crash that follows your orgasm is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, leaving you exhausted on a level beyond physical.

“Still with me?” Cooper asks after a time, fingertips tapping idle patterns on your skin as if to call you back to your body. “Mhm… Intense,” you say, the lone word slurred by your lazy tongue.

“Warned you,” he gives back, sounding nearly as ruined. His voice is deeper than usual, thoroughly frayed at the edges. It’s true, he had warned you that you were playing with fire. It’s unclear how much of that had been play, and how much was just him. Still, it had been… thrilling. Amazing. Everything you’d hoped it would be. 

“How ‘bout it, darlin’, do I scare you yet?” He asks, making it sound like an inevitability. He must believe it is.

You sigh a low hum, pretending to give the matter great thought. “Mmm… Mm-mm. Not one little bit,” you say, the words hardly legible.

“Shucks,” he says simply, feigning something like disappointment.

“Why’re you so determined to scare me off?” You ask, adjusting where your head lay on his shoulder so that you can look up at him. You’ve grown accustomed to his unique silhouette, but more than that, you’ve started to figure out what it is that makes him handsome. He’s got a wide chin and a fine jawline, and on the rare occasions you see it, a charming smile.

Much of it is in his eyes. They never fail to make your heart stutter.

“A saner question would be why you’re so determined t’stay,” he counters, those very eyes dropping to meet yours. You can’t help but smile, which–as per usual–catches him just a touch off guard.

“I got a thing for pretty men,” you say, caught up in your own musings.

His expression flattens. “Very funny,” he says, and you realize he thinks you’re mocking him.

“Hey, I mean it. I was just thinking about how handsome you are,” you say, reaching up to touch his jaw.

“There’s a specific kind’a philia for finding corpses handsome, y’know,” he says, though in his afterglow the words lack their usual sharp cynicism. They come to him more like habit than anything else.

“You’re not a corpse, Cooper,” you tell him firmly, cupping his cheek in your palm. “You don’t need to keep living like one.”

He considers you in silence for a long moment. With the back of his knuckles, he brushes your cheek. There it is again; that deep sadness that sometimes appears in his eyes when he looks at you. As if he’s mourning something.

“What?” You whisper. “Why do you–”

He kisses you, swallowing the words clean off your lips. He takes your face between his hands and kisses you, kisses you, kisses you through your meager protests until your lips move with his and you sink back down into the warmth of it. He grows progressively more relentless with it, stealing your breath until you’re forced to break away, turning your head for air.

“You can’t kiss your way out of every–”

“I know,” he interrupts you, lifting his head to level you with a hard stare. “I know, alright? But it’ll come on my terms, in my time, yeah?”

You stare, pinned by the weight in his expression. After a beat, you nod, feeling dazed by both the onslaught and his words. It’s the only time he’s acknowledged that there is something, which you suppose is progress. “Okay,” you say softly, and then again more firmly, “Okay.”

His expression softens, taking in the look of you before he kisses you again. You reciprocate, pressing into his lips with the weight of your conviction, willing him to feel how much you really do mean it. 

“Thank you for today,” you murmur, settling back down against him. “I never thought that I’d be able to… do something like that. And live,” you say, adding the last bit with a rueful smile. “I feel safe with you.”

You wait for some kind of dismissive or self-deprecating remark from him, or even a sly jab at you and your sanity, but neither come. You glance up and find him staring at you, thoughtful and–if your eyes don’t deceive you–a little sentimental.

“I don’t make promises,” he tells you, sounding resigned. “But for what it’s worth, I’d never want t’do somethin’ I thought might hurt you.”

“You’re sweet,” you say, that same sentimentality slipping into your own voice. If not a bit ominous.

“Not really,” he replies, adjusting against the bedding, his eyes falling shut. “Y’standards are just too low.”

You sigh, closing your eyes with an incredulous little smile. “Shut up.”

The two of you drift into comfortable silence, his fingers idly traipsing the contours of your body. It’s like he’s memorizing the feel of you, hyper-aware that these intimate moments together are stolen. You reciprocate, seeking out what bare skin you can with gentle brushes of your fingers. He’s never admitted as much, but you’ve long suspected he struggles with pain. He’s rarely ever unclothed, and sometimes you see him wince when he goes too long between hits of those vials.

Cooper started living on borrowed time long before he met you, but it doesn’t stop you from hoping that he might someday see something more permanent in you. With you.

In the meantime, you’ll make the most of every second.

[itsabouttimex2]

Eclipse Kings

Part One: Mountain Monkeys

(Part One: You Are Here) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: Wild Dawn)

(Extra One)

(The eternal kings of Flower Fruit Mountain certainly did not expect a thief smelling of their lost son to invade the palace on the day they intended to mourn his disappearance.)

The people in your village don’t go hungry.

But they’re never full, either.

Abundance is a word whispered only in longing, yet never a reality to be tasted.

Plates are modest—never empty, yet never brimming. Bread and fish are the staples, filling enough to survive but just shy of satisfying. There’s no indulgence here, no clinking glasses of wine or wedges of cheese. The villagers say this is the way of life for those who dwell beneath the gaze of the demon kings of Flower Fruit Mountain.

Once every month each family is expected to deliver a “tribute” to the two demon kings who reign over your village from

And if you “play your part” to the kingdom and make your proper tributes, the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain WILL protect you, your family, your property- that is not a privilege many demons are willing to provide.

Some families choose the customary fruit offering for the little long-tailed monkeys around the mountains. Young, tender fruits like mangoes, starfruits, and papayas are diced into neat chunks, artfully arranged on freshly washed taro leaves, and tied up with twine. The leaves are then hung from the branches of the flowering trees at the mountain’s base, a silent signal for the little monkeys to descend.

These creatures are far from simple animals; they are spirits of the mountain, bound to the Kings, with eyes that shine with uncanny understanding. They clamber down with hungry, chittering excitement, ravenous for the colorful spoils. Villagers know to keep their distance, watching from afar as the monkeys gnaw on the bounty, tearing at the fruit until nothing remains but juice-stained leaves and the echoes of satisfied squeals. The villagers believe the monkeys carry whispers to the Kings, tales of each family’s offering—or lack thereof.

Some of the craftier types (usually those with several little mouths to feed) in the village whittle toys from wood and decorate them with feathers or colorful strips of fabric and leave those about in the woods, saving more food for themselves and their children.

Some villagers, either brave or foolish, choose to journey directly up the mountain with their tributes. This is a long, exhausting up a path that was treacherous, steep, and wild, twisting through the ancient woods that seemed almost alive with the spirits of the many mortals who came before.

They would inevitably be hounded by monkeys and insects, trying desperately to sample the goods before they were given to the mountain lords to be devoured or given as gifts to those few other demon lords that the vaunted simian had compiled as allies.

And though the tribute was mandatorily gathered each month, and every family’s name was marked and closely tracked in a ledger by the sable king, with sufficient enough explanation tribute can be delayed or even outright pardoned- as the Eclipse Kings were fathers themselves, they took mercy upon struggling parents and orphans.

…they probably wouldn’t bat an eyebrow at you, honestly.

Living in a ramshackle hut sank half into the earth and insulated with straw and mud that you had smeared into the ever-growing fractures, it was just enough to tide you safely through the year.

When it grew hot you would pull out all the dirtiest blankets and clothes in your possession, sitting for hours in the shade of the many flowering trees of Mount Huaguo, feet dipped into the cool waters of whatever lake you found first- and you’d shred those tattered fabrics to long strips and bundle them up for kindling in winter.

They would be the last thing to go, only after the dried grass and wood you had gathered months prior were gone, used to melt ice for water or ease the ache of deep chills.

You had accustomed yourself to this cycle- prepare for winter all through summer and fall, then take spring as a chance to relax and live a little more freely.

You had accustomed yourself to it for a while, at least.

And then little MK had come tumbling through your door, sniveling and shaken.

Back then he had been almost too young to speak, too small to voice whatever his fears were, too utterly weak to cry for more than a half-minute before the tiny thing collapsed in your arms.

He hadn’t needed to explain.

The pounding footsteps and booming hollers had told you enough- he was being hunted.

Months prior you had dug a little shallow ditch in the soft mud of your home, then hid it under the stiffest rug you could find, reinforced with bark and smeared with mud for camouflage, praying that it would hold and go unnoticed in the event of a raid such as this.

You hadn’t expected to share it with a toddler, though.

But it had held firm and gone unnoticed even as everything else in your home was overturned and thrown askew, ripped apart by invaders with cheap leather armor and fishing knives- an hastily gathered army, clearly.

Before leaving in anger, the lot of them had shredded through your broken house and thrown their frustrated fists through the crumbling walls, leaving dozens of holes that you would have to patch with naught but straw, hay, and mud.

Winter would be harder this year, and every year after.

Especially with a baby in tow.

You hadn’t the heart to throw MK out, or leave him to the elements, but you hadn’t been brave enough to seek out his parents, either- if someone wanted him dead, then you would be on their list for harboring him, too.

“Y/N,” the young boy squeals, breaking you from reminiscence as he runs up to you with a smile. “There’s monkeys outside again!”

“…huh. Usually they don’t come around here. Make sure you stay away from the door, buddy.”

You turn to face him, only to sigh at his blatant disobedience- he’s toddling straight towards the broken hole you use as an entrance, only covered by a thick sheet of wool- it had been a sweater that grew too dirty for further use, leaving you to use the rancid thing as a weighted tarp to keep out chills.

Soap was a luxury you could rarely get your hands on, which meant it was better used for personal bathing than clothes-tending.

If you or MK; whom you tiredly sweep up into your arms, needed new clothing, you could always head down to the cemetery on a windy night to snatch up all the fabric left as offerings- they could easily be repurposed into makeshift garments.

The boy squirms in your lap, tugging on a lock of your hair to steady himself as he stands up.

“Why can’t I go out and play with the monkeys? I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Monkeys like to eat babies, kiddo. They might snatch you up and throw you into a pot,” you return, poking his squishy little cheek.

“I’m not a baby, and monkeys don’t use pots! Cause they don’t have kitchens!”

“Yeah? I hear they get to use the whole palace on the top of the mountain,” you lie, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “And I hear they take itty-bitty babies up to the ovens to be cooked.”

“…liar.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

MK, in spite of his age, is a pretty good sport when it comes to teasing and jesting. He doesn’t hold grudges and doesn’t ask for much. He eats what you give him and never asks for a second plate.

…really, he’s just a good kid.

You’ve done what you can for him. Warm clothes and clean bedding, and the occasional toy when you could scrounge it up. He eats before you do, and you make sure he has the softer portion of whatever meal you’ve scraped together. At night, he sleeps close by, wrapped up in the cleanest blankets you have, his little head nestled against your shoulder. Sometimes, his tiny fingers tangle in your shirt, holding on tight as if, in sleep, he’s afraid of being lost.

You’ve made it through rough times with him at your side, never without purpose as long as you could return to him.

You can make it through anything, you think, as long as you have MK.

But this year, you worry. Winter feels sharper already, creeping into your bones even though it’s only autumn. The flowers on the mountain haven’t died off yet, but the chilly bite warns you that cold days are coming fast. Supplies have been meager; the mountain rains came early, spoiling at least some of the crops before they could be harvested and gathered.

But MK—little, bright-eyed MK—he’s full of life, unafraid, and curious. Where you see danger in the forest’s shadows, he sees playmates and adventure. His world is small—just your home, the patch of trees nearby, and the lakes you risk bringing him to in the break of dawn. He doesn’t yet understand what it means to live with less. To him, the world is a place of wonder.

And you, for all your struggles, feel lighter with him around. His laughter fills the little corners of your life, and his bright chatter fends off the loneliness that once crept in on quiet nights.

“Y/N?” MK’s soft voice pulls you from your thoughts again. “If the monkeys go back to the kings, maybe they could tell them to bring food down here.”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling. “Oh, you think the demon kings will listen to a bunch of monkeys? They’re big and mighty, MK. They don’t worry about little things like the people below.”

“Maybe…” he murmurs, thoughtful, “But maybe if I ask really nice, they’ll listen. Then you wouldn’t be hungry.” His face scrunches up, serious and brave. “I can be nice. Really, really nice.”

Your heart squeezes a little at that, seeing the determination in his young eyes. “Oh, buddy,” you murmur, stroking his hair. “You’re plenty nice. But there are some things we can’t ask for, even from the kings.”

He frowns, thinking it over. “But…maybe if I brought them a really, really good tribute, then they’d listen?”

You stifle a sigh. MK’s generosity knows no bounds—he has so little, yet he dreams of giving. “Let’s not worry about the kings,” you say gently, redirecting his thoughts. “The best thing you can do is keep me company, just like you always do.”

He considers this, nodding, and a smile breaks out on his face again. “Okay!” He hops down from your lap, already chasing after a stray insect that has wandered into your home, flitting in and out of the small rays of sun that pierce through the cracks in the walls.

And you know, as you watch him, that no matter how harsh this winter might be, as long as MK is with you, there will be warmth to hold on to.

“Y’know, I hear that today is the lost prince’s birthday!”

“Really?!” he gasps, his tiny hands clasped in excitement.

You nod, a sly smile playing on your lips. “Yep. Word is, there are grand feasts in his honor, all the way up in the palace on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

His eyes widen, filled with wonder, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. “Wow… Can we go see it?”

“Ah, but it’s only for royalty and their guests,” you reply, ruffling his hair. “They guard that palace like hawks. Only those with a golden invitation can even get close. But, this year… I hear that before they eat, they’re going to the village a mountain over to visit their friends this time… and that their guards are going with them.”

He perks up immediately, eyes wide and gleaming- a little ray of lustrous light to match even gold.

“Y/N… are you going to sneak in?”

“I’m gonna rob them blind,” you confirm, squishing his cheeks between your hands. “That’s why I need you to stay inside today, buddy-“

“I’m going up the mountain.”

Those had been the start of your parting words to your surrogate little brother, instilling a brilliant radiance into his wide, innocent eyes. The thought of a belly full of food fit for kings… what orphan didn’t dream of that?

The trek up had been strikingly simple- all the usual simian distractions had retreated to their dens to mourn the lost prince, leaving you with only the occasional fly or gnat to swat away.

No guards. No soldiers. Nothing to stand in your way.

In hindsight it had been foolish to expect things to be so easy, but… the journey up to the peak hadnlulled you into a false sense of security.

The climb grew colder as you neared the palace. The lush forests below gave way to sparse, twisted trees and jagged rocks, their edges sharp enough to draw blood if you weren’t careful. Shadows lengthened as the day waned, and the silence grew thick, broken only by the occasional whistle of the wind through cracks in the stone.

At the top, the palace loomed—a grand structure carved from dark stone, adorned with gilded statues and red banners that snapped and waved in the mountain breeze. It was as silent as a tomb, its towering gates shut tight.

As you reached the summit, a dense mist clung to the air, and the grand stone gates of the palace loomed before you—ornate and ancient, their carved simian figures seeming to leer down with knowing eyes. Despite your heart thundering with the thrill of what you were about to do, you felt a strange weight settle in your chest. The palace was silent, and the eerie hush made it feel like a place caught between realms, haunted by whispers of an ancient power that was never meant to be trifled with.

But in spite of that internal warning you had crept easily enough to the side, and popped open a glinting, golden-framed window, then slid your legs through the maw- and started your thieving crawl through the palace.

The kitchen is laid with a spread so luxurious it makes your stomach clench with hatred and greed- golden plates piled high with delicate fruit, honeyed meat strung from a dozen racks, wine jars glittering with jeweled necks, the air itself thick with the scent of expensive incense and exotic spices.

All for the birthday of the lost prince, you reminded yourself, a prince who had likely never known hunger or hardship.

“Qi Xiaotian,” he had been named, was lost as a babe to a rebellion led several years ago by the discontented people of your village, those who decided that dying by their makeshift blades was better than living under royal heels.

After he had been; presumably, kidnapped by one of the rebels who had broken through the palace gates, the kings had grown cold and harsh, retreating from the world at large and leaving their lavish dwellings only to accept tributes and settle riotous disputes.

…that wasn’t enough to make you feel bad for them, though.

Tray after tray you scout, going through rows of jars, sacks, and baskets overflowed with preserved fruits, dried meats, and delicate pastries. Your hands tremble as you fill a small bundle with as much as it could hold- a handful of salted meats here, a mooncake wrapped in delicate paper there—enough to sustain you and MK for… maybe a month.

Just as you were finishing up, a strange sensation prickled at the back of your neck. You turned, heart thudding, but saw nothing. Just shadows. The silence, however, had shifted, as if holding its breath. Then a voice—low, smooth, and dripping with amusement—broke the stillness.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

You froze, and before you could even think to run, a figure stepped out from the darkness. His robe flowed like liquid night, embroidered with threads that gleamed in the faint light. A crown of twisted vines adorned his head, casting intricate shadows over a face that was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

Beside him is a simian bearing fur the color of sunlight, radiant fur flecked with beads of gold and wound with strings of glimmering citrine. His garments are wrapped with shimmering threads, emphasizing each muscle bulging from below the silk.

The Eclipse Kings of Flower Fruit Mountain: Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque.

The sable king steps closer, eyes narrowing as he looked down at your small, trembling form. His lips curved into a smirk. “Stealing from the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain. Bold, and… foolish… unless you were planning to pay us back for it?” Prods the long-tailed macaque, poking your crumb-stained cheek with his forefinger.

“I don’t have anything to give,” you whimper, tears of fear and pain beading up in your eyes. “I don’t-“

“Hush hush hush!” Coos the brighter of the kings, moving to lightly swat his mate’s hand from your chin with a dramatic flourish of his claws. “Moonlight, look at this little one!”

As the king who had caught you steps back to make space for his husband, the golden monkey snatches you by the waist and lifts without so much as straining a muscle, clearing your feet well from the ground. His golden tail wraps lazily into an approximation of a heart, bouncing around happily.

“Just look at you, dumpling! Such a cute little thing rummaging around in our cabinets, hmm? Were you too hungry to stay away?”

“…you shouldn’t give grace to such a naughty thief, Peaches,” says the umbral king, holding his hands out to you. “Let me see them.”

Although this one is clearly the icier of the two, he holds you with care in spite of needing to exert more effort than his mate.

“Usually,” the golden simian chirps with glee, “we would execute thieves on the spot! My mate’s cleaved more than a few right down the middle for snatching from our castle.” His face is pulled into an easygoing grin, tail still excitedly wagging.

“I stopped doing that a long time ago,” snaps the darker monkey. “It takes forever to clean bloodstains, and maids are hard to come by, Peaches. I don’t need them wasting their time scrubbing down my carpets.”

“Our.”

“Shut up, you damn-“

“And speaking of what’s “ours”… what do we do with this little thing?”

The two monkeys look over you with varied looks, one grinning ear to ear as he pokes at your cheeks and strokes your hair, the other more restrained with only a cocked eyebrow.

“…what we usually do to thieves and trespassers.”

The feeling in your gut isn’t unlike a falling icicle, coldly sundering any hope you had of making it out of this castle alive. You were going to die. You were going to die and never see your brother again, and then he was going to starve all alone in that awful little hut.

You were going to die alone.

You were going to die unloved.

The golden king sounds a pitying gasp as tears begin to spill over your cheeks and trickles down your chin, splattering onto the polished marble floors below.

The air in your lungs begins to quickly fade, replaced with sharp gasps for breath interspersed with desperately babbled apologies. Sorry after sorry after sorry after-

“Little one, little one! Shh, shh,” the Great Sage pleads, scooping you into his powerful arms. “Shhhh, shhh, there there… it’s okay, dumpling… please, no more tears… you’ll just break this old monkey’s heart, you know that?”

“Stop fussing,” demands his mate, reaching over to card through your messy hair. “You aren’t going to manipulate us.”

“I- I’m not- no, I’m not- that’s not-“

“Shhhh! Be a good little mortal and shush! No more words, little one!” Macaque, what are you even-“

“Haven’t you noticed how they smell?”

The golden king freezes, glittering eyes going wide as his mate points out something he sincerely hadn’t noticed at all- that your scent is indeed strikingly familiar in a way that shreds out his heart and leaves him weak.

Sun Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, Handsome Monkey King- buries his face into the top of your hair, cradling you like a babe as his lips ghost the crown of your scalp, not unlike a father bidding his child goodnight with a kiss. He breathes in deep, taking the scent into his lungs and chest and holding it tighter than he holds you, only gasping it back out when breathless tears prick his eyes.

“…you smell like our son,” he whispers, holding you tighter and tighter. “I thought I was never going to- I thought I was going to die before I ever felt this- I- no, it- it’s like… gods, it’s like he’s here with us. Macaque, what do… what do we do?”

“…mortals don’t have the same scents as demons. They’re not as complex or strong. The only way a mortal gets the same scent as a demon is to spend hours with them.”

“So he’s alive”, Wukong croaks, the air in his lungs warbling with the effort to stay steady. “Our baby boy is alive. Macaque, he’s still here. Gods, he must’ve been lonely. He was so little, Macaque! He… he’s still alive.”

Wukong drops sharply to his knees, setting you on the ground with the downwards crash. The gold-veined marble cracks under the force of his movement, a testament to well-hidden power.

“Sweetie,” he coos, speaking to you as one speaks to a startled toddler,” “tell me- tell about all of your friends. Start to finish, okay? Can you do that for me, sweetie? I need to know who all they are.”

There’s a deep, desperate pleading in his voice, golden eyes scrunched to hold back tears.

“Please, please. Please tell me you know where my baby is.”

He’s so brokenly hopeful, so pleadingly anguished, so despairingly optimistic that give in to the welling guilt and admit-

“I only h-have one- he- his name is… it’s MK. He… he has brown hair and black eyes, and he’s… his favorite color is orange. He-“

Macaque screams.

He screams louder than the winds howl atop the mountain in winter, louder than tornados roar in the dry spells of summer, louder and louder and louder with each consecutive shriek until gilded windows shatter and silver braziers are snuffed.

“THAT’S HIM,” the sable king wails, throwing a fist through a solid sheet of the gold wall before him. “THAT’S MY BABY!!”

He rips his bleeding arm from the opulent ruin and tackles Wukong in a fit of relieved tears and broken openness, leaving the two tumbling in an eclipse of hues, gold and ebony rolling together on a red carpet.

They embrace in a moment of sheer, mind-numbing relief, wailing together that their beloved son hadn’t been lost, so utterly allayed that they almost forget there’s a world spinning around them.

You take your chance, and dart from the room, footsteps dulled by the luxurious carpet below.

They’ll realize that you’re gone any minute, and raise a din and raise their army- you can imagine them in the village already, desperately offering armfuls of gold and silver to any who can find you or drag you from whatever hiding place you’ve snuck to, to anyone who can return their last ticket to reuniting with their precious little cub.

You don’t even turn a single corner before what sounds like four steps of footsteps sound, racing close behind- too scared to look back, you simply fling yourself from the nearest broken window and pray you’ll land safely.

Sure enough, there’s a peach tree just below you, providing an uncomfortable cushion that prevents any fractures or breaks, thought not without shredding your arms and knees against the rough and untrimmed branches.

But losing a little blood wasn’t much when you were already afraid to lose your life.

The night air feels is oppressively thick, bitingly cold as you scramble down from the branches, your whole body aching from scratches and bruises.

It hurts, but not as much as the thought of losing MK hurts.

Every cut burns, but fear drives you forward as you push through the dark orchard. Peaches litter the ground beneath the trees, bruised and rotting, filling the air with their sickly-sweet scent. You can still hear the faint echo of anguished screams from the castle above, and you know you have to keep moving, no matter how heartbreaking the noise.

Branches continue to scratch at your skin as you hurry through the orchard, weaving between the twisted trunks of ancient peach trees. The cries of the two kings haunt you, but your heart pounds with a different terror—a need to survive, to get back to MK and keep him safe.

Swallowing hard, you push onward into the forest, where the air turns colder and the ground is uneven, littered with stones and roots. It’s dark, and the towering trees block out even the faintest hint of moonlight, leaving you to stumble blindly forward, each step a gamble.

Your lungs burn, each breath sharper than the last as you push through the dense underbrush, your only light the faint silver of cloud-breaking starlight piercing through gaps in the canopy. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to see the flash of golden eyes in the shadows.

You’ve had your fill of gold and silver- that gleam has quickly lost all luster.

In your scramble down the mountain path, you nearly trip over a root hidden under the leaf-strewn ground, catching yourself just in time. You can feel a faint ache in your chest as you think about MK, probably huddled up alone, waiting for you to come back. You bite back the surge of guilt for leaving him and going so far in the first place; there’s no time for regret, no time for anything but survival.

So you fervently press on, slipping and sliding overrocks and mud, your hands numb and cold as you cling to branches to steady yourself.

You’re going to feel like hell in the morning.

Every step feels heavier, but the thought of MK—waiting, maybe scared and hungry—keeps you upright. You cling to that memory like a lifeline, using it to drag yourself forward when exhaustion claws at you, urging you to collapse into the moss and leaves.

Just as you’re ready to push on, you hear something rustle behind you, faint but distinct. Your heart skips, and for a split second, you’re sure it’s them—the kings, tracking you, maybe already upon you, with Wukong’s wild desperation and Macaque’s icy agony close on your heels. You whip your head around, pulse thundering dangerously fast in your chest. But there’s nothing there, only shadows that play tricks on your eyes.

It’s just the wind, you lie to yourself.

Yet, no sooner have you relaxed than you hear another sound—a soft murmur, almost like…laughter? It’s chilling, unnervingly familiar, a low chuckle that seems to drift from the very darkness around you. You start running, branches whipping against your cheeks, the laughter echoing in the trees like mocking ghosts.

As you push further, the underbrush begins to thin, the ground leveling out into a narrow path long worn into the mountain. Relief fills you as you recognize it—the way back to the village, back to MK. But just as you think you’ve escaped, a figure steps out from behind a nearby tree, blocking the path ahead.

It’s Macaque.

The dark-furred king stands there, arms crossed, his piercing gaze fixed on you. His tail lashes behind him, giving away a tension that his otherwise calm expression doesn’t. “Running away, little rabbit?” he purrs, voice smooth and soft, velvet hiding a dagger. “You thought we wouldn’t find you?”

Panic coils tighter around your heart. You don’t answer, can’t answer, with your breath shallow and eyes locked on his, searching for any hint of mercy. Yet, even in your fear, you see the pain in his eyes, the raw, unhealed wound that losing a son has left behind.

He takes a step closer, and you instinctively back up—until your heel catches on a loose stone, and you stumble. Macaque moves in a flash, catching you before you can fall, his grip like iron around your arm. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, almost as if he’s hesitant, but it vanishes just as quickly.

At that moment, you feel a warm presence nearby, and a golden glow illuminates the path. Wukong appears behind Macaque, his expression far softer than his husband’s. He looks at you with tearful eyes, earlier desperation simmering beneath his clouded gaze. “We just want to know where our son is, sweetie,” he says, voice coaxing. “Help us find him, and we can put all of this behind us.”

For a moment, you’re trapped between them, their eyes—glowing —boring into you with the weight of ages, burning on either side of you. You are prey, trapped in the gaze of ancient predators, creatures who could tear you apart if they chose.

You feel a lump rising in your throat, guilt twisting in your chest. You want to help them, to tell them more, to ease that raw grief carved into their souls. But how could you? MK didn’t remember them. He’d never once spoken of a family, of a past like theirs.

Would it really be a betrayal to bring him to people who could no doubt care for him better than you ever could?

You rip from his clawed grasp with a sob, blood spilling from your arm where his nails were clutched tight- and then step back.

Air whistles around you through the sharp plummet, blaring out the wails of the two kings. It’s not too long of a fall, it won’t break or kill you- it’s just one more thing that’s going hurt tomorrow, when you wake up next to MK -and you will wake up next to him- and bid him “good morning”.

As you fall, the world blurs around you, and for a moment, there’s only the rush of air and the distant cries of the kings above. The impact comes suddenly—a jolt that rattles every bone in your body as you hit the shallow puddle below, your vision sparking with a burst of white. Pain blooms in your side, sharp and searing, but you manage to roll onto your hands and knees, gasping for breath. Everything aches, but you’re alive. And more importantly, you’re closer to the outskirts of the village, closer to MK.

You rise shakily, wiping a streak of blood from your face. The path ahead is illuminated by starlight growing ever fainter, barely peeling through even the sparsely dotted trees.

The half-hovel is only a short walk away, barely three meters from your spot of impact, leaving you to start crawling; hands and knees alight with pain, to that little refuge.

Every inch forward feels like a mountain climbed, your breath coming out in ragged gasps, as you drag yourself closer to that pitiful excuse for a home. The hut is run-down, its roof half-collapsed, with walls patched by whatever scraps you could find. But right now, it’s the only place that feels safe, and the only place where MK will be waiting for you.

Your fingers scrape against rotted as you pull yourself up onto the threshold, bracing against the shattered doorframe, steadying your shaking limbs. The inside is dim, with just the faint embers of the fire you lot in that little stone pit, the weak light casting long shadows against the walls. And there, curled up on a ragged mat, is MK—sleeping soundly, his tiny form bundled up in a blanket far too thin for the chill in the air.

You feel relief rush over you like a wave, washing away the pain and exhaustion, if only for a moment. You swallow back tears as you carefully lower yourself beside him, reaching out a trembling hand to brush a lock of hair from his face. He stirs at the touch, eyes fluttering open with a groggy mumble, his gaze unfocused at first before he realizes it’s you.

“You’re back,” he whispers, his voice small and sleepy, a hint of worry melting into relief as he reaches for your hand. “I… I thought you weren’t coming back this time.”

“I’d never leave you, MK. Not for anything.” Your voice wavers, and you squeeze his hand tighter, trying to push down the overwhelming flood of emotions. “I’ll always come back for you.”

He smiles—a soft, innocent smile that nearly breaks you. You can’t tell him what happened, can’t bear the thought of burdening him with the danger you faced tonight, or the kings who would give anything to find him.

Instead you settle beside him, draping an arm over his small shoulders as he curls up against you, his warmth seeping into your aching bones.

“Did you get any food?” he asks tiredly, eyes drooping shut again.

You reach for the cloth bundle on your back and pull it off, watching all four corners unravel and flutter open as it’s tossed into the ground-

It’s all still there. Busted, bruised, some of it mangled, but it’s still there. Fruit, veggies, nuts, meat, and even sweets.

Just like you promised.

The boy (a prince, you’ve learned) squeals with delight, clambering over to sample the spoils of your hellish night. He settles for cramming his little face with an assortment of the pilfered banquet, accidentally crushing some bit of it into crumbs with how badly his hands shake from excitement.

It’s only when he’s full enough to pause that MK looks over to you with a frown, clambering over with a mooncake held tight in his little hands- and then he pushes it to your mouth.

“Say ‘ahhh’!”

Even through the agony pricking through your skin, a smile forms- such a sweet little thing he’s grown into, even in these… limited circumstances.

“…aaaah”, you acquiesce, allowing him to nudge the pastry between your parted lips, eating half of it in one go.

“…good?”

“Really good, buddy.” You take another bite, swallowing the rest with some small satisfaction. “I’m gonna take a quick nap, okay?”

“…promise you’ll wake up.”

Oh, gods. That hurt. Sometimes you forgot how perceptive the boy was, how eager and clever. How could you think he wouldn’t notice the suffering crawling all through your body?

“Oh, kiddo. I will wake up, I promise. I’m just tired. I’ll wake up and start a fire, and we can roast the meat and nuts to warm ‘em up, okay? I promise.”

He doesn’t seem too convinced, but settles into a hushed state as he polishes off a mango and ties up the bundle again.

“You better,” the little one huffs, looking over to see that you’ve already fallen asleep. He shuffles to his little chest and pulls out the cleanest blanket he has, draping it over your shoulders before starting to crawl in with you-

Right until a knock sounds on the outer wall of the hut.

MK freezes, clutching the edge of the blanket, his wide, black eyes darting to the door. The thin walls do little to muffle the gentle, deliberate tapping. His face twists in confusion and fear, and he inches back toward you, pressing himself close against your side, trying to make himself as small as possible. He can hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest, the room so silent that each beat feels like a drum signaling his hiding place.

The knock sounds again, a steady rhythm that’s somehow polite but insistent, as if the person on the other side knows exactly what lies within and won’t leave without answers. The thought tightens MK’s chest with dread. He glances at you, wanting you to wake, but exhaustion has claimed you too fully. He shifts, leaning close to your ear, whispering with all the urgency his little body can muster.

The matted wool curtain is pulled aside, and a long shadow falls over the two of you.

It’s Wukong.

He’s not dressed in the regal robes from before, his crown and adornments discarded somewhere along the journey down the mountain. He looks oddly… humbled, vulnerable even, his golden fur matted and streaked with grime. He too has trekked through brambles and mud to find this place.

In that moment, the fierce, untamed warrior, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, reduced to a father—nothing more, nothing less—just a father, lost and found in the presence of his child.

“My son.”

MK stiffens, eyes going wide with confusion and a strange, nameless feeling that curls tight in his chest. The voice calls to something deep within him, something he doesn’t understand yet can’t ignore. He doesn’t remember this voice, but he feels it as though he’s always known it—like a lullaby, like the whisper of leaves in the wind.

MK clutches the edge of your blanket tighter, his face a mixture of uncertainty and fear as he looks up at the stranger in the doorway. Wukong’s gaze softens further, and he steps into the dim light, eyes filled with a desperate hope tempered by patience. He’s careful, his movements gentle and measured as he crouches down, bringing himself to MK’s eye level.

“Do you know me, little one?” he asks, voice trembling slightly as he waits, searching MK’s expression for any glimmer of recognition.

MK tilts his head, brow furrowing as he studies Wukong. There’s a flicker in his black eyes—a hint of familiarity that he can’t quite place, something ancient and deep inside him stirring, like a faint memory from a distant dream. But he shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed together as he shrinks back a little, still clutching the blanket.

Wukong’s face falls, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his grief. He swallows, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill. “I… I thought maybe you’d remember.” His voice is barely a whisper, so soft that it sounds like a confession, a plea.

But Wukong quickly straightens, forcing a small, trembling smile. He can’t bear to scare his child, can’t bear to make him feel any more uncertain than he already does. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice still gentle, though there’s a glimmer of resolve in his eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t remember, little one. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He glances down at you, still asleep beside MK, his expression softening with gratitude. Despite everything, despite the fear and pain you must have faced, you had cared for his son, protected him in his absence. There’s a flicker of respect, maybe even admiration, in his gaze.

But then, before he can say anything else, the curtain shifts, and Macaque steps into the hut as well, his dark, intense gaze zeroing in on MK. His movements are slow and deliberate, as though afraid that anything too sudden might frighten the boy. He stops just inside the threshold, his usual sly demeanor replaced with a vulnerability that’s almost startling.

“…my baby.”

The weight of those two words settles over MK like a blanket of warmth, a feeling he doesn’t quite understand . Still, it stirs a pull in his heart that defies reason. He glances at you again, hoping for some guidance, some sign of what to do—but you’re still sound asleep, completely oblivious to the quiet storm raging in his heart.

After a moment, MK opens his mouth, and his voice, so soft and uncertain, trembles through the space.

“Why don’t I remember you?”

The question, so small yet filled with an innocence that pierces both kings, brings a quiet gasp from Wukong. He reaches up to touch his chest, struggling to contain the ache there. He can’t meet MK’s eyes for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor as he takes a shuddering breath.

“That’s… that’s because you were very young when we… when we lost you, my little peach,” Wukong finally whispers, his voice hoarse. “You wouldn’t remember us, not after so long, but… we’ve missed you every single day.”

MK steps forward for a moment, wanting and wanting and feeling so very loved-

But then the boy pulls his hand back, glancing at you beside him, his expression suddenly filled with uncertainty. “But… I already have someone,” he says softly, nodding to your prone form. “They take care of me. They’re… my family.”

“We’ll take them too,” Wukong spits out, dropping to his knees and becoming his lost son forward. “All four of us can go home together, Xiaotian. Like… like a big, happy family.”

Macaque steps forward shaking with the effort spent to not rush him immediately. “That’s right, baby. We’ll take you, and… and we’ll take the little thief, and we can go home. Together.”

MK looks back at you, so broken and worn that he fears you might not make the night without someone else’s help- the thought straightens his brow, and sets his little head into a stiff nodding motion.

Finally, he could help you, just as you had helped him so long ago.

“Ok. Let’s go home- all of us, together.”

[snoopledrooplecheesedoodle]

Fall Yandere Prompts

Fuck Me I put prompts on the other thing at didn't actually put prompts, I suck anyways here are a few prompts made by yours truly. Others are free to use them just please tag me. Thanks. I'll make more Halloween ones if people like these.

Apple Cider: A sweet yet tangy that leaves a warm feeling. Your eyelids start drooping after drinking every drop.

Bonfire: Dry sticks and leaves are so easy to burn in high bright flames. Be wary of what the light attracts.

Crows: Inky black birds with a glimmer of intelligence in their eyes. You feel a dozen pairs of eyes watching your every move.

Dry Leaves: Crunchy and brown and always fun to mess around in. You hear a second set of feet slowly trotting behind you.

End: Autumn signifies the end of Summer and a change in season. It also signified the end of your freedom.

Flannel: The warmth of this fall apparel is so comforting in the crisp weather. Don't you like it, they picked out just for you.

Grain: Bountiful and golden, shaking in the cool breeze. You meet a friendly stranger standing in the grain field, holding a scythe.

Harvest: Fall provides us with a bountiful harvest of corn, pumpkins, apples, pears, and grain. Such bounty requires a sacrifice to be made.

Indoors: Why go outside when you can snuggle under the covers and keep warm? Just because it's your home doesn't mean you are safe.

Jack-O-Lanterns: Grinning gourds light up the night, carving them is a fun activity. They want to participate but got a little too creative.

Kettle: Boiling water for a hot beverage on the stove is so nice. The water isn't quite done but you still hear whistling.

Leaf: Colorful trees make such wonderful leaves they look good pressed in a book. You see one on your bed side every day, they have a distinct metallic scent.

Mushrooms: Clustered together they're a fungi to be around. More seem to grow near you each day in strange patterns.

Nutmeg: Fall spices are aromatic and make every dish warm with flavor. If your running low the next-door neighbor might have some, might as well come inside while they look for what you need.

Orchard: Fruit trees tended to with tender care, baring crimson fruit. Picking just one won't hurt.

Pie: Steaming goodness wrapped in a golden shell. Have another slice there's plenty to go around.

Quiet: Many an autumn night is filled with sweet and calming silence. It feels a little too quiet tonight, might want to retire early.

Reaping: How to harvest the crops grown, you reap the rewards of the Earth. Someone has come to take you or your soul, they're not very picky.

Spider: Dainty legs weave beautiful webs, enticing as they are dangerous. Any prey they catch, they won't let go.

Tree: Majestic and tall these ancient plants reach up to the dwindling sun with aching branches. Haven't you seen that tree before, you must be hopelessly lost, perhaps that's better than being found.

Umbrella: The cold weather makes rain extra chilling; with a warm smile you share your umbrella. No good deed goes unpunished, as the storm outside isn't what you should be worried about.

Vermillion: Beautiful shade of red found plentifully in the fall, its beautiful yet it can be a dangerous color too.

Wind: Rattling trees and blowing the leaves to the ground, the wind tickles your ears and nips at your nose. It carries with it the unhinged words of a person you never want to see again.

Xenial: Being most hospitable is a must during autumn. This does not change when a stranger shows up at your front door requesting shelter.

Yarn: Soft threads of vibrant colors used to create warm clothes, blankets, and other things. The string prevents you from moving while someone knits in the corner, eyes focused on you.

Zipper: Better zip up when it's so chilly outside, wouldn't want to catch a cold. You also might want to zip it before they hear you.

[pupkou]

✧ No Lights To Tell Us ✧

✦ Zagreus (Hades 2018) x Gender Neutral Reader. ✦ Warnings: slight mentions of gore (mention of beheading), mention of blood, mention of swords/blades. ✦ Word Count: 900. ✦ A standalone one shot, set within my "Blood and Darkness" universe (but not yet somewhere specific in that story's timeline). ✦ Link to part one (parts are not yet connected).

Zagreus is nothing if not devoted.

That sentiment applies to everything he's interested in-- but really 'obsessed with' is a better way of putting it, because he doesn't lightheartedly ponder or enjoy anything. He's too intense for any lighthearted observation and studying because he connects too deeply with the stories of others and the worlds that they live in, his heart too big to live without sorrow. Despite his attachments, he lives to find a place of his own, to feel like he belongs, and his ambition to complete this quest has not been strained.

While living in the Underworld provides him with so much inspiration for adventure and reasons to dash around, defeating friends and foes alike, Zagreus can say that his favorite adventure has been knowing you.

Before you, Zagreus trained with Achilles for as many hours as the great hero allowed-- starting their sessions back when it was revealed to him in a dream that there is a world outside of the house of Hades. Zagreus obsesses about his trainings, the way he moves is careful and planned because one wrong move could send him plunging back into the depths of red blood that always seem to greet him eventually-- warm, but not kind. His movements matter because you can only get beheaded so many times before it gets old, and Zagreus prefers to spill blood with a slash of his blade than to be the one lying cold and hard against the stone floor.

But he's also devoted to you, his most beloved (as he calls you).

He did all of the outdated courting rituals, like inviting you over for a grand feast, gifting you ambrosia won in battle, and demonstrating the best way to remove the sweet beads of fruit from a pomegranate (as any good prince would do for a prospective partner) but Zagreus didn't need all those formal actions to be sure of how he feels.

Zagreus, since the moment he laid eyes on you, was obsessed with you. Like a hunting bird watching its soft, warm-hearted prey from above as it flies steadily above, Zagreus set his sights on you, and needed you more than anything. His desire for you outweighed any other, so strong that he lent Orpheus a few words on longing and tenderness. He didn't need time to love you; because his devotion to you was formed in an instant, rendered unchangeable and strong within the blink of an eye like a blacksmith plunging a sword into dark, cool water.

You are his main devotion, his beloved, his favorite shade, and it is through Zagreus' obsession with you that you learn what it is to be loved by a God.

One night, under the living stars and lying on the plush earth of his mother's garden, he rests his head in your lap as you comb your fingers through Zagreus' dark locks of hair. His laurels are set to the side, simmering with crimson and glittering with gold, and he is at peace in your embrace.

"Zagreus?", you say softly, pulling him out of his trance and drawing his bicolored eyes toward you. His eyes of garnet and emerald shine at you inquisitively as his mouth smiles, pleased at hearing his name from the mouth of his lover, the sweetest song he knows.

"Yes, beloved?", he answers, kind and warm.

"Did you hear that the villagers of your mother's hometown have built a temple in your honor?"

"I did, love," he beams, proud of their efforts and appreciation. "Their offerings were quite impressive, I need to remember to reward them with a bountiful season of hunting for their efforts."

"That's kind of you," you muse, petting his hair still as he leans into the soft press of your hand against him. "They're lucky to have someone who is as generous as you, Zagreus."

"You flatter me, darling. I just.. try to give everyone what they deserve," he says, sighing as he looks up at the stars dancing through the night sky, "and to be someone they can believe in."

"I know it isn't easy, my love. After all, if all Gods are worshipped, who is left for the Gods to believe in? Who is there to guide those whose hands mold mortality?"

"It's a bit late to get philisophical," he jokes, although it is without much humor behind his voice. "But I believe that the answer is that we are left with only what we cherish. For me, you are cherished-- so I have you to believe in, to lean on, and to worship in this infinite strand of life. You love me even when I have no offerings, and not even any blood to spill into your cup, and it is not because of my power. You know better than anyone that Gods only have what they have been given-- we have no lights to tell us our fates, only stars."

"I do love you, Zagreus," you affirm, leaning down to kiss his forehead. So many thoughts swirl within his mind, and your kiss helps to soothe his celestial thoughts of life and love. "And I thank the stars that they have led you to me."

Above your heads, in silver and gold, the stars sparkle brighter in their carefully planned formation, as if they are content with the way the scroll of fate has unfurled perfectly.

lmk what you think plz <3 love you

@allright @transchainsawman 💜

[jesterwriting]

Throwing confetti and rice in celebration for your wonderful milestone!!!

I’d truly love a gn reader x Mihawk with “like the dawn” as some fluff. C; fuel the brain rot!!

pairings: mihawk x gn!reader

word count: 1.1k words

contents: fluff and pining, reader has a bounty high enough for marines to bother them, set sometime in the two year time skip

note: YEESSSS THANK YOU LUMI I'M SO EXCITED and of course i can provide mihawk fluff i love to fuel brainrot always hehe. im still getting used to writing for him, but i hope you enjoy this all the same <333

playlist: like the dawn - the oh hellos

“You were the brightest shade of sun when I saw you. And surely, you will be the death of me, but how could I have known?”

done for 200 followers event!!

Sunny days were more than rare on Kuraigana Island. They were practically nonexistent. That was why, on the off chance a ray of sun made its way through the gloom, you could be found laying in it.

You were dozing, basking in the warmth of your lone sunbeam. Dry grass prickled the back of your neck, and you slid your arms behind your head to protect the sensitive skin. Your mind slipped in and out of your dreams, barely aware of the world as it moved around you. Distantly, you could hear Perona’s laugh, or the stomp of Zoro’s boots as he strode through the empty halls. There were no birds to chirp, no insects to tickle your cheeks. The only signs of life around you was the sparse garden you had started to add a splash of color to the gray.

You loved your garden, and you were starting to believe that your host did too. Unlike the land he tilled, it was mostly flowers. Mihawk was a hard man to read, but after a year of living with him, you were starting to get the hang of it. His golden eyes would linger on the colorful petals, and every so often, you could see his nostrils flare as he breathed in the sweet air. You could feel your lips twitch at the thought. He liked to group you in with those freeloading kids — freeloading kids you couldn’t help but be fond of — but you knew your worth.

Besides, it was easier to mooch off Mihawk’s warlord status rather than fight off swathes of marines yourself. Didn’t they ever get tired? You sure did.

Footsteps approached you from afar, and through your sleepy haze, you almost thought it was Zoro coming to steal your sunshine. If you were more awake, you would have recognized Mihawk’s near silent footfalls. They were distinct, far quieter than the other two— though you knew they were capable of it, you wished they chose to utilize said skill more often.

You ignored him, still under the impression he was Zoro, and continued to doze. Minutes passed, the intruder’s gaze soaking into your skin, past your flesh, and into your bones. Without meaning to, you fell into a deeper slumber, the slow rise and fall of your chest evening out ever so slightly. The feeling of fingers brushing through your hair caused you to stir. There was a pause in movement, before something tickled against your ear, and the hand pulled away.

It was a fleeting interaction, one you were sure you dreamed until you awoke an hour later, chilled to your marrow. The sun dipped behind the clouds yet again, leaving you cold and wanting for more. A weight against your ear caught your attention. Lips parted in surprise, you plucked a marigold from behind your ear and stared down at it.

“Where did you come from,” You muttered, twirling the stem between your thumb and forefinger. It was a beautiful shade of gold. It reminded you of Mihawk's eyes, and you couldn’t stop your heart from fluttering.

There was no denying there were feelings for the warlord brewing under the surface. He was a handsome man. His confidence was what drew you, but what made you stay was the softness he kept hidden. Mihawk could have kicked you out months ago, yet here you were, sleeping in the garden with a flower behind your ear.

“Enjoy your nap?” It wasn’t a question, not really. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and stared over at the lounging warlord, a glass of wine by his side as he read his book.

You pointed at him with the flower. “Was this you?”

Mihawk gave you a once over, his expression cool disinterest. “What does that little flower have to do with me?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

He was quiet for a moment, taking a lazy sip of his wine. “I do not ‘play dumb,’ Y/N.” His sharp eyes traveled from your face to the flower, and his lips pulled into the barest smirk. “Though I can’t say that color doesn’t suit you.”

“See! It was you, I was right.” Triumph flooded your face, your smile big and all encompassing. Mihawk studied your expression, eyes soft for a moment before they were back to the hardness you knew so well.

Mihawk stood, closing the gap between you in a few strides. To have a warlord towering over you while you sat in the grass should have been terrifying. All you could do was grin. He kneeled before you, plucking the flower from your hand. Your fingers felt empty without it. Holding your gaze, Mihawk stared deep into your eyes as he tucked it back behind your ear, fingertips grazing your jaw before he pulled away.

“You proved nothing but my point. Gold suits you.”

You snorted. “Like your eyes?”

He unfolded his legs and stood at his full height before offering you his hand. His palm was callused from years of swordplay, though his grip on your forearm was gentle

“Like the dawn,” Mihawk said.

His words were matter of fact, as if they weren’t enough to drown you. You stumbled, halfway off the ground. The only thing holding you aloft was Mihawk, whose stare never left your face, even while you gaped up at him. With a final tug, he hauled you to your feet. You stayed stock still, gaze firmly locked on his own, though he didn’t appear at all affected by the sincerity of his compliment. Not like you, at least. Mihawk frowned slightly and pulled a leaf from your hair. It fluttered to your feet.

“Close your mouth, dear, you’ll catch flies.” The pet name rolled off his tongue smoothly.

Your jaw snapped shut and a hint of amusement flitted across Mihawk’s face.

What if you were born to be dear to him? Although you wondered that for a while now, the words seemed to be caught in your throat. Of all the millions upon millions of people who inhabited this world, you sure you were made to slot inside his bones and meld your flesh with his. That, the first day you saw him, the only thing you could think was: at last.

That was too vulnerable, though. Instead of making a fool of yourself with sentiments and feelings that were better left unsaid, you picked up the leaf and set it on his shoulders.

“You’ll be the death of me, Dracule Mihawk.”

He sighed and flicked the leaf from his shoulders. “And you, me”

[hopepetal]

This story is set in @applestruda's boatem knights au!

Masterlist

AO3

Enjoy :)

Once upon a time, there lived a huntsman with a heart of gold. 

The huntsman was of the lonely sort, for the only company he kept was that of his horse and his dogs. Save for the occasional rare trip to a village, or a passerby stumbling upon his camp, the huntsman did not interact much with others of his kind. That was just fine with him, as he had long been content with conversing with the trees. They were much better listeners than any human would be, he found, as was the case with his animals. 

He had lived in the forest his whole life. He was a part of the forest's family, and respected her bounties and blessings with humble grace and thanks. He respected and protected the forest, and in return she did the same for him. During the warmer months, she'd provide him with good hunting in order to prepare him for the biting cold and sparsity of the later months. 

It was during one of the colder months– a particularly bitter winter, as the huntsman had been making his way further north during the summer. He had prepared well for this trip, as he didn't wish for his animals to suffer needlessly from the cold. He had spent quite a bit of time bartering and trading to get all the equipment, but it was worth the comfort of his closest companions. 

Clearly his dogs were fine, he thought to himself as they once again began chasing each other around in the snow, barking playfully and kicking up powder in his general direction. Shivering slightly and thanking the trees for breaking the wind, the huntsman led his horse carefully through the woods. His dogs ran ahead, as they usually did, and he followed their path. They were much better than actual compasses, and not because they were better at directions. The huntsman had a tendency to lose or damage the small devices, and besides, one couldn't pet a compass. 

It was only when a strange bark joined the chorus that the huntsman felt fear shoot through him. His dogs did sometimes run into others of their kind, those that still felt the song of the wild in their veins. Not wanting his dogs to be injured, the huntsman hurriedly made his way to where his dogs had stopped and were growling at a wolf far larger than the huntsman had ever seen. Its fur was the same bright shade of the snow, and intelligent eyes the same sharp blue as the sky. 

The huntsman called his dogs back, confused as to why the wolf wasn't attacking or running. In fact, it was quite calm for an animal of its species, laying calmly on the ground and watching the huntsman move. Taking a step forward, it became clear to him when he saw the contrast of red blood against the snow and its fur. The wolf had been caught in a trap, and had likely been stuck there for some time. It had resigned itself to its fate after struggling, and that broke the huntsman's heart. 

Slowly, he approached the wolf, being careful to not make any sudden movements. It was strangely calm, especially for a trapped animal. The huntsman knelt in the snow and reached out, stopping right before his hand brushed against the wolf’s fur. Murmuring words of comfort and safety, the huntsman allowed the wolf to sniff at his hand before continuing. He found the trap its leg was caught in, sighing in relief when he recognized the type of trap. He was quick to find the release mechanism and activate it, remaining tense just in case the wolf decided to pounce. To his surprise, it didn’t, although it may have been due to the injury.

Thinking quickly, the huntsman reached into his bag and began to search for medical supplies. He wasn’t able to find any before a warm breeze swept through the clearing, and all of his dogs went still as something changed. With the sudden warmth came the sweet scent of honey apple cinnamon springtime flowers–

Ah.

That–

Woah. Big lady. 

The huntsman scrambled back, eyes wide as the snow simply melted around the woman’s feet and flowers sprung from the earth. The woman wore a flowing blue dress that turned into flowers at the ends, and behind her fluttered golden wings like stained glass. Hair the colour of cherry blossoms flowed down her back, and twin antlers poked out from under her hair.

She was a fae, the huntsman did not doubt, though he had never seen nor heard of one like this. Fae didn’t usually just reveal themselves to humans, not unless they had done something wrong. The huntsman swallowed the lump in his throat and prayed to gods he wasn’t quite sure he believed in.

“Huntsman.” The fae’s voice washed over him like sunlight and warmth, and he found himself relaxing. “You have shown my youngest wolf a great kindness. I appreciate this.” With a swirling, sparkling magic, the wolf’s injury healed and the blood faded. It yipped in excitement and bounded over to the fae, pressing against her happily. 

The huntsman blinked, before nodding. “You… yeah. No biggie. Uh.”

The fae laughed, a charming sound, and knelt in the circle of flowers she had created so that their heights were more level. “May I have your name?” she asked with a cheeky grin, and the huntsman shook his head. “Oh, you are smart, as well as kind. Very well. What may I call you, then?”

The huntsman felt his cheeks heating up and took a shaky breath. “Well, uh, huntsman! Huntsman is fine! I quite like that, actually.”

His stumbling amused the fae greatly, and she laughed again. “Very well then. Huntsman, to repay you for your kindness in setting my wolf free, I will gift you with one made from magic and shadows.”

The huntsman had forgotten how much emphasis the fae put on equal trade and deals. “Th–” He cut himself off quickly. “...that’s very nice,” he got out, choosing each word with care. “But will a wolf get along well with my horse and my dogs?” he asked.

The fae smiled, nodding. “Of course, dear Huntsman. It is, after all, a repayment for the kindness you showed, as we will never meet again.” With that, she began to weave magic and shadow together with her hands, a mesmerizing process that the huntsman had never seen before. From that was born a mighty wolf with a pelt as dark as the shadows and eyes the piercing yellow of the sun. 

The huntsman watched in awe as the wolf let out a mighty bark before bounding over to him, sniffing and pressing against him like any of his dogs would. “Oh! Eeeeasy there… boy? Girl? Y’know what, doesn’t matter. Your name is Geraldine.” He looked up at the fae. “Tha– goodness, I’m not good at this. She’s perfect, thank you.”

The fae beamed. “She is in fact a she. And Geraldine is a lovely name, befitting of a mighty wolf.” She stood, her wolf at her side. “Now that your kindness has been repaid, I must be leaving. Goodbye, Huntsman, and may the wilds bless you.” She and the wolf disappeared with a warm breeze, similar to how she had appeared, leaving the huntsman stunned on the ground. 

“Woah,” the huntsman breathed, glancing around at his animals. “That was… wild.”

He knew one thing, and one thing only. 

He was going to find her again, somehow. He was too stubborn not to.

When Joel had said he’d find the fae again, he never thought it would be like this. 

Several months had passed since they first met– and, in the fae’s mind, the only time they would meet– and it was well into the spring that he found a village that claimed to know about the fae. Did he believe them? Not really. Did he want to? Absolutely. 

Which is why he found himself trekking through the nearby forest, searching for the lake they had claimed was frequented by the fae queen herself. Now, if anyone would know where he could find the fae he’d met back in the winter, it would be the fae queen, right?

The sound of water drew his attention, and Joel turned so that he would be heading in that direction. The trees began to thin out and finally, he found himself standing on the bank of a beautifully serene lake. 

To his surprise, the fae he had met so long ago was also there, sitting right by the water’s edge. She hadn’t noticed him, it seemed, and for a moment he just stood there and stared until he finally blurted out, “You’re the fae queen?”

The fae startled, letting out a high pitched squeak and throwing her hand up. Joel only realized his mistake as he was thrown face first into the lake by her magic, becoming completely submerged almost instantly. Luckily for him, the fae queen (if she even was the fae queen) pulled him out coughing and spluttering not a moment later.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t realize– Huntsman?” 

Joel waved at her from where he had been plopped on the ground, dripping wet. “Hey. Nice to see you again, too.”

Shocked, she took a step forward, flowers blooming at her feet like they had when he first met her. “You– how did you find me?”

Joel ran his hands through his hair, beginning the process of squeezing the water out. “Well, y’see, the locals in that village nearby said the fae queen came here a lot. So I came here to see if I could find her and ask where you are. But it turns out, you are her! Are you?” he asked after a moment, blinking up at her.

The fae laughed, though whether it was from shock or actual amusement was a mystery. “Yes, I am,” she confirmed, and waved her hand. A warm breeze washed over Joel, completely drying him off. “And you are a very lucky little human.” 

“It’s genetic,” Joel quipped, “I’m just like that.”

She laughed again, this time from genuine amusement. “Indeed you are. And brave, at that. Not many humans would attempt to seek out the fae like this. May I ask why you did?”

Joel hesitated. “Uhh… well, I never got your name,” he tried, and she raised an eyebrow.

“And I never got yours,” she countered. “Names are a powerful thing, Huntsman. Especially one like mine.”

He gave her a nervous grin. “Well, I’d hope so! You are a queen, mate.” 

She took a few more steps forward and settled in the grass by him, brushing out her dress. “So tell me, Huntsman, why you actually tried to find me.”

“Well,” Joel started, “for one, you’re pretty? And two, I like you? Also, I’m really stubborn and I wanted to see you again soooo…” As he spoke, he realized his cheeks were heating up once more, causing a light pink flush to appear across his face. “Oh, jeez.”

“Really?” the fae queen asked, a smile appearing on her face. “Well well well, Huntsman, that changes things.”

“Does it?” he squeaked out, the realization of what he had just said– to the highest ranking fae– starting to dawn on him. “Well, I, uh–”

“You may have my name,” she decided, “if I may have yours. The trade will be far from equal, so I also wish for your heart.”

Joel blinked. “I kinda can’t live without my heart,” he pointed out, “I need that thing.”

She laughed. “Oh, not your physical heart! Your love, companionship, that sort of thing. Being the queen is lonely, Huntsman. And you… there’s something special about you. I like that.” She looked over at him. “Your name, then?”

He cleared his throat, nodding. “Well. Joel. Joel Beans. That’s my name.”

The fae queen smiled, letting her eyes briefly flutter shut as she felt the magic of the name wash over her. Opening her eyes, she gazed directly into Joel’s. “I am Lizzie ShadowLady, queen of the fae.”

The power Lizzie’s name held washed over Joel like a tidal wave, causing his world to spin and tilt. He jolted slightly from the impact it had, though the shock was lessened by her kind smile and gentle hand that had reached out to hold his (when did that happen?). Finally, it was over, and Joel gasped. “That! Woah. Okay. Wasn’t expecting that!”

Lizzie giggled. “I didn’t think you would.”

Joel let the silence sit for a moment. “So… what now? Do you take me to the uh, fae land, whatever it is?”

Lizzie shook her head. “Fae realm. And no, the court would not be too pleased with that. And who would look after all your animals if you were in the fae realm? No, Joel, you’ll be staying in the mortal realm for now. But! You can call my name whenever you wish and I will come to you.”

“And what about me?” Joel asked. “Do you get to say my name and have me appear?”

“Nothing of the sort! But I will be visiting you whenever I please.”

Joel flushed a brighter pink. “Just… not while I’m bathing, please. Or in any state of undress, really.”

Lizzie smirked, leaning forward. “But what if I want to?” she cooed, and Joel’s face turned completely red. 

“Alright! Um! Okay! Well!” He jumped up, stumbling over his words as she laughed. “Lovely meeting you, Lizzie, but I should– uh, gotta– I– go check! On my dogs! Yeah.”

“I’ll let you go just this once!” Lizzie called after him as he fled, “but I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again very soon!”

She came to him again on a warm summer’s day, on one of his rare trips to the nearby village. If their very souls had not been so intricately connected, Joel wouldn’t have been able to recognize her. She’d used magic to change her form, clearly– before him stood a shorter woman with pink hair tied up in a bun, and human ears, and no antlers nor wings in sight. “Hello, Joel!”

Joel startled slightly, looking Lizzie up and down. “Oh– gosh, you look different. Lovely! It’s, you’re still, lovely! But different.”

Lizzie giggled, cheeks dusting a light pink as she did a little half twirl. The light green fabric of her dress shimmered in the light, and Joel noticed she had what seemed to be cherry blossoms sewn into the fabric. “Thank you!” She looked up at him with bright eyes, and smiled. “I want you to show me the mortal realm. As a human!”

Joel was slightly taken aback. “Well, I’m certainly not the best person to ask, but I’ll try. I’ll definitely try.” He held out his arm, laughing softly as Lizzie took it. “You’re lucky you caught me when I was near the village. I’m not usually around people.”

Lizzie gave him a quizzical look. “I thought humans were social creatures.”

Joel shrugged. “Not all of us, mate. I live out in the woods all alone mostly. Livin’ with my dogs and my horse.”

“And Geraldine,” Lizzie reminded him.

Joel nodded. “And Geraldine.”

The village was one of the larger ones Joel had seen, though it still wasn’t comparable to the cities he had visited. The market was bustling, with farmers and craftsmen and artisans having set up stalls to show off their wares. Lizzie was absolutely delighted, exclaiming gleefully over the variety and amount of things. 

“Have you never seen these things before?” Joel asked, with quite a bit of bemusement in his tone as he watched Lizzie coo over a hand sewn blue jacket. 

She shot him a look, rolling her eyes. “Of course! Of course I’ve seen these before! I’ve just never really interacted with these things, is all.” She carefully placed the jacket back before taking his arm again. “Hand-made things are so adorable! Fabulous, even! What do you mean, they just made that with no magic?”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head slightly as Lizzie took his arm once more. “It’s a skill they’ve likely spent years honing. It’s magic in its own way, if ya think about it.”

“True,” Lizzie agreed, continuing to gaze around the market. “Oh, what’s that?!” she asked, pointing toward a different stall. 

“Jewelry,” Joel answered. “Best stay away from that one. They probably have iron and such in their items. Dunno if that’s bad for you or not, but better safe than sorry.”

Lizzie hummed softly. “Good idea, good idea.”

Joel continued to lead her through the market, briefly stopping by a bakery and buying some warm bread for the both of them. Lizzie was very pleased with this and happily snacked on her bread before taking the last bit of Joel’s. “You love me,” she teased when he pretended to act offended. 

“I do,” he admitted, feeling his cheeks start to get a little more warm. He supposed getting flustered around the woman he liked was going to happen now and again, but gosh, it felt like he was blushing every five seconds! “And you love me. I’m a very sexy lad, you know.”

She giggled, reaching out to boop his nose. “Indeed I do.”

They spent the rest of the day wandering the village, before Joel brought her to a nearby lake to watch the sunset. It was there where she kissed him, before disappearing into the night’s shadows and leaving behind flowers where she had been standing.

Accidents happened.

Especially to those who lived far from the well lit paths, who roamed the forest freely, who forgot that as beautiful as the wilds were, they were just as dangerous. 

“Oh gosh–!” he stuttered out, firing another arrow at a zombie. “Geraldine!” he shouted, but the wolf was already ripping into the undead alongside his dogs. “Good girl!” He fired another arrow, this time at an approaching skeleton. “Oh no you don’t,” he muttered, nocking another arrow.

There was a sizzle behind him. Joel whipped around and stumbled back just in time for the creeper to explode, sending him backwards and straight into the path of the skeleton’s arrow. He let out a pained shout as it pierced through his back, pain flaring up his side as he fell. Twisting just before he hit the ground so that he wouldn’t land on the arrow, Joel landed with a thud, groaning in pain. “Blummin’–” He coughed, gasping for air. “Oh, gosh. Oh gosh.”

His ears were still ringing as he tried to push himself up from the ground– failed– and fell back with what might have been a sob. Everything ached, burned with pain built up throughout the fight. His dogs were still barking, growling, tearing into the mobs, but Joel…

Joel couldn’t get up.

…ah.

So that’s what death felt like, then.

The sound of a skeleton falling apart ended the battle, and Joel felt soft fur press against him. He looked up to see Geraldine whimpering softly, gazing down at him with her intelligent eyes. “Hey, Geraldine,” he whispered, weakly bringing up a hand to stroke her fur. “It’s… it’s not going well. I think… this might be it for me, girl.”

Geraldine let out a soft growl that turned into a whimper, nudging his side with her nose. He winced, hissing softly. “Ahh… yep, that– that hurts. Ahhh, gosh.” His hand fell to his side. “Sorry girl,” he mumbled. “You did– you did good. Yeah. You did good.”

Geraldine whimpered again, before turning her head toward the sky and howling, the rest of Joel’s dogs joining in with her cries. Joel choked back a sob, feeling his blood seep out from the wounds that covered his body, feeling the exhaustion begin to draw darkness over his eyes. “I don’t… wanna die,” he mumbled. “I wanted to… I needed… to see her again…”

The image of his beloved came to his mind as he lay there, dying. How she had looked on their date together, when they met by the lake, when he had first seen her… It comforted him, to know that if he died here, he would die with the image of Lizzie seared into his brain.

“Lizzie…”

A warm wind carrying the sweet floral scent of honey and apples was the last thing Joel experienced before everything went black.

Joel woke up in a world not his own, in a bed softer than anything he’d ever experienced, wearing clothes that were most certainly not his.

Oh, and he was alive. Cool!

Joel pushed himself up into a sitting position with a soft groan, looking around the brightly lit room. There was a large window… door? that led out to a balcony, letting in light from outside. The room was much bigger and fancier than anything Joel had ever seen, and he wondered just where he had ended up.

The door opened, and in walked Lizzie. She was “normal sized” once more– or maybe Joel was just big now. Their eyes met, and Joel awkwardly gave her a little smile and a wave. “Heya.”

Without saying a word, Lizzie ran to him and threw her arms around him. “Oh, you–!” she spluttered, hugging him close– “How could you?! Do you know how scared I was when you called for me and I found you just, lying there? Joel!” She pulled back, cupping his face. There were tears shining in her eyes as she gazed into his. “I was so scared you were going to die!” she scolded.

Joel let out a weak laugh. “I mean, I was too. I was really scared, for a bit. But hey! I’m okay now! I’m okay!” 

Lizzie pulled him into another hug. “Don’t do that again. Don’t scare me like that, Joel.”

He hugged her back, breathing in the sweet scent of flowers. “I won’t. I promise.” She pulled away again, and Joel settled back. “So… where am I?” he asked.

“When I found you in the woods and saw how injured you were, I decided to take you to the fae realm,” Lizzie explained. “You’re in the palace, in the room typically…” She flushed slightly. “...typically occupied by the fae king.”

Joel blinked. “Oh, goodness. Am I in another man’s room?”

Lizzie’s eyes widened. “No! No! Not at all, Joel! This is your room!” She paused. “Well. It will be, if you’d like.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Are you proposing to me? On my deathbed?”

Lizzie yelped. “Don’t say that! It’s not your deathbed, idiot!” Another pause. “...but yes, I suppose I am.”

“Well, Lizzie, I’d absolutely love that.” Joel smiled as he spoke, watching Lizzie’s face light up. “But maybe give me a bit before we get uh, married. And everything. Maybe show me around your realm a bit? Like I did with the human world.”

Lizzie grinned. “Deal.”

Joel sucked in a soft breath, eyes widening. “Wait, hold on, I didn’t– oh goodness.”

Lizzie giggled, shaking her head. “Don’t you worry, my love. I won’t harm you, nor will I let anyone else harm you. I’m the fae queen, and as such no one will lay a hand on you.”

“Okay, that’s good, because sometimes I can be a real blummin’ idiot,” Joel muttered.

“Maybe,” Lizzie agreed with a smile, “but you’re my idiot.”

As promised, Lizzie showed Joel around the fae realm.

There were many sorts of strange things there that Joel couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around (what do you mean those axolotls had wings?), but it was all beautiful. And yeah, sure, everything looks beautiful when you’re in love, blah blah blah, whatever. 

“Take my hand,” Lizzie instructed Joel, standing on the shore of a crystal clear lake. “And don’t let go, alright?”

Joel grinned and did as she asked. “I would never let go of you.”

Lizzie giggled, giving his hand a soft squeeze. “Oh, you sap. Now, remember what I told you!” And with that, she pulled him forward and onto the lake.

Not into.

On.

His hand in hers, Joel found himself walking on the surface of the lake, little waves rippling out from where he stepped. “Woah– Liz, this is insane! How are you doing that?”

Lizzie giggled, wings fluttering slightly behind her. “Oh, you know. Magic!” she chirped, continuing to lead him out onto the water.

Finally, the two stood in the middle of the most beautiful lake Joel had ever seen, and Lizzie turned around to take both of his hands in hers. Joel pulled her close, an arm around her waist, and laughed at her soft giggle. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed, and she smiled up at him.

“You’re not so hard on the eyes yourself,” she teased, gently brushing her hand against his cheek. 

“I do try my best,” Joel responded, giving her a smirk. “I’m glad you approve.”

Lizzie hummed softly, swaying slightly back and forth. Joel followed her lead, trying not to think too hard about the fact that they were literally standing on water. “I more than approve,” she told him. “I love it.” 

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Well, considering we’re getting married pretty soon–”

Lizzie smacked him with no real force, making an offended noise. “You shut up!” she scolded, before a smile brightened her face. “Dance with me.”

Joel’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded. “I don’t really– I’ll do my best, mate, but no promises.”

“I’ll lead,” Lizzie promised. “Don’t you worry about a thing.” 

Joel had never really danced before, but he had always been a fast learner. Being a huntsman as well meant he was in tune with his body, and had quite the knack for swift, smooth footwork. Soon, the pair were dancing to a song no one else could hear, one shared between the two of them as their hearts beat for each other.

Joel twirled Lizzie before pulling her back in, and their steps fell in sync once more. They moved together as naturally as the wind moved through the trees, flowing like water in a stream. The lake rippled as they danced, footsteps disturbing the usually calm surface. 

“I thought you said you don’t dance,” Lizzie teased, her eyes shining as her wings fluttered behind her. 

“I don’t!” Joel insisted. “This is all you. I’d fall over the minute you asked me to do something more fancy.”

Lizzie giggled, shaking her head slightly. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.” 

“I give myself plenty of credit!” Joel protested, pretending to be offended. “I’m great! I just don’t dance.”

“You do now!” Lizzie sang, and the pair continued to dance.

The dance ended with Joel holding Lizzie close, the both of them silent as they simply held each other. The sky was beginning to paint itself in brilliant watercolours as the sun set. Content to just be near each other, the embrace lasted several moments before the two finally pulled apart. “That was lovely,” Lizzie breathed, her cheeks pink from the exertion and excitement. “Thank you, Joel.” Joel smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Anything for you.”

The moment was so incredibly romantic that, of course, something had to go wrong. That thing being Joel forgetting about Lizzie’s earlier instructions and letting go of her hand, just for a moment. But a moment was all that was needed, and the magic connection between them was broken, plunging Joel into the lake.

Once again he found himself sitting on the bank of a lake, sopping wet with Lizzie beside him. This time she was laughing at him instead of apologizing, and Joel let out a long groan. “Yes, yes, I know, that was stupid, I look like a wet dog, can you magic me dry now?”

Lizzie giggled, her wings fluttering behind her. “A wet wolf,” she corrected, waving her hand to summon a magic breeze. “You’re still very intimidating, I promise.”

Joel grumbled, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Well now you’re just being– you’re being very rude, Liz.”

Lizzie settled down next to him on the grass. “Aww, did someone get their feelings hurt?” she cooed. “What ever shall we do about that?”

Joel rolled his eyes, trying his hardest not to smile. “You could apologize,” he pointed out. “How ‘bout a kiss?”

Lizzie beamed. “Gladly.” She gently cupped Joel’s face with her hands and leaned in to kiss him. It was tender, loving, everything it could’ve been and more. After she pulled away, she turned to gaze up at the first stars to decorate the darkening sky. “We have stories about the stars,” she told Joel, who turned to gaze up at them himself. “Some of them are thousands of years old. Other stories are so old even the wisest among us can’t remember a time when they weren’t told.”

Joel nodded, letting out a soft hum. “We have those, too. Stories, I mean. Mum told me that stars represent souls.” He shrugged. “Dunno how true that is, though. Lots of stuff was just made up a long time ago.” He leaned against Lizzie. “What are your stories about?”

Lizzie smiled softly. “There’s one in particular I’ve been wanting to share. It’s been passed down the line of fae royalty for as long as there’s been a line to pass it down. I think that if any of our stories are going to be true, it would be this one.”

Joel turned to look at Lizzie, eyes shining with curiosity. “Well, I’m all ears, if you want to tell me.”

Lizzie nodded, taking a deep breath.

Our story starts with the void and the stars. For there would be no story to tell, had they not written the beginning. 

They were lonely, you see. Eternity, even when shared, is an incredible burden. One day, the void approached the stars with an idea. A simple concept, something that had been no more than a passing thought. 

Creation.

The stars grew quiet so she could better listen to the void speak. Hesitantly, the void explained, growing more and more certain as they continued. With their combined power, they would be able to shape the forms of four other gods and their domains. 

The first god was very similar to the stars. His domain was that of the sun, and he woke as the new star blazed into life. He was warm, compared to the cold void and the distant stars, and shone brightly. 

The second god was made with the light of the sun, for her duty was to shine when he could not. Her domain was that of the moon. There was a dim glow around her as she reflected the sun’s light, the only source of warmth.

The third god was molded carefully into life. His domain was the earth, and his duty was to be a home for those who wished to live there. The void and stars took care to place his domain perfectly. Being too close to the other gods would end in disaster, as would being too far.

Finally, the last god was made. The void wished for a god who could move freely, requiring no outside energy to act. The void herself was a vast source of great power, but could not act on their own– something always had to be given in order for them to act. And so the oceans were created, the fourth god set to gently drift in the waters.

Life flourished on the earth. Mortals were warmed by the sun, guided by the moon, nourished by the earth, and traveled by the sea. And the void and the stars watched over them all, no longer lonely. 

Lizzie’s last words rang out over the lake, Joel letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. There seemed to be some sort of magic in the air, as if the whole world– no, the whole universe– had stopped to listen to the story. 

“I like that,” Joel decided, “it’s a pretty story.”

Lizzie smiled, nodding. “It is very pretty. I like to imagine the gods when I’m looking at the stars, or walking through a forest, or gazing out at the sea. I wonder what they’re like. If they’re real, I mean.”

Joel let out a soft huff through his nose. “They’re probably super old. I mean, can you imagine?” He paused. “...well actually yeah, you probably can, but–”

Lizzie began to laugh, shaking her head. “You’re so silly,” she told him.

The rest of the night was spent under the stars, laughing and sharing stories.

“And what do you think you’re doing, heading out all on your own?”

Scar looked up from where he was fitting the last few things into his horse’s saddlebags. Grian was standing a few feet away from him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised in question. Scar had to laugh at that. “I was invited somewhere!” he explained. “Some friends of mine are gettin’ married.”

“Friends?” Grian tilted his head slightly. “I didn’t know you had friends.”

Mumbo looked over from where he was sitting, working on some sort of flower crown. “Mate, I’m pretty sure he just told us about them the other day. Joel and Lizzie, right?” 

Scar nodded, and Grian let out an annoyed trill. “Well, you didn’t tell me!” he insisted, feathers ruffling. After a moment of thought, he frowned. “Wait. Actually, I might be wrong. Must've slipped my memory… haven't been getting much sleep lately.”

“What’s this? Griba admitting he was wrong about something?” Pearl made her way over, using Grian as an armrest. “Impossible. Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

“Get off–!” Grian ducked away, flaring out his wings to smack Pearl lightly. “I hate you. I hate you so much,” he grumbled, trying to bite back a smile. 

All the commotion drew Impulse over, and he joined the other knights by the stables. “What’s going on, guys?”

“I’m going to go marry my friends,” Scar explained again, which had Grian looking slightly confused.

“You’re ordained?” the avian asked, folding his wings behind him. 

Scar nodded. “Yep! Normal and horse ordained!”

Grian blinked. “Scar, you can’t marry horses.”

Scar laughed as he mounted his horse, looking down at the knights. “Those are the words of a quitter right there!”

“Well, have fun,” Impulse called over Grian’s squawking. “Be safe.” 

“Don’t make any more deals with the fae!” Pearl added on, which seemed to cause Grian more panic. 

“He’s going to the fae realm-?!” 

With that, Scar bid the knights goodbye and left for the fae realm.

The wedding was every bit as grand as it should’ve been for a queen. Grand, fancy, and yet somehow Joel wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest. Unlike that time he had tried on a suit in the mortal realm, nothing felt forced or too stifling– it was all perfect. How could it not be? He was marrying the most amazing, beautiful woman in the world.

Flowers bloomed anywhere and everywhere they could, letting their sweet scent perfume the air. Lights shimmered in the grand willow trees, which bordered the venue perfectly. Everything about it was magical, in both a figurative and literal sense. 

So many people had come to witness the wedding. Fae, welcomed mortals, and even animals had gathered in the forest. Joel's eyes caught sight of Geraldine and the rest of his dogs, and he couldn't stop himself from smiling. His beloved horse was nearby as well, and of course Scar was there to officiate the whole thing.

“You look great!” Scar had told him, giving Joel a thumbs up. Which… wasn't very reassuring, but by then it was far too late to get cold feet. 

The music began, soft and beautiful. The idle chatter from the guests immediately died down, and the whole gathering collectively held their breath as they waited. 

Joel was not ashamed to admit he cried when he saw Lizzie in her wedding gown. All the love he had for her swelled up and filled him with so much joy that he simply hadn't been able to hold it in. She had joined him at the altar, and Joel had barely been able to concentrate on the proceedings. She was just so beautiful.

Finally, it was time to exchange vows. As sacred to the fae as they were, Lizzie and Joel shared their vows to each other and only each other through a magical connection. With closed eyes and loving hearts, they whispered sweet promises to each other. The weight of their vows settled comfortingly around their hearts, and then they kissed. 

Once upon a time, there lived a huntsman with a heart of gold. 

This is his happily ever after.

[witchboxco]

Litha Altar Ideas & Elements

Litha, also known as midsummer or the summer solstice, is a Pagan sabbat that honors the longest day of the year and the height of the sun's power. It's a time of light, abundance, and connection to nature. There are infinite ways to create a sacred space that captures the essence of the summer solstice, but here are just a few to get you started.

Choose a Sacred Space

Select a location for your Litha altar that feels harmonious and tranquil. It could be indoors or outdoors, depending on your preferences and available space. Consider placing it near a window to invite in the sun's rays or under a tree to connect with the earth's energy.

Colors of the Solstice

Embrace the vibrant hues of summer by incorporating colors that symbolize the sun and its energy reflected in nature. Opt for warm shades like gold, yellow, orange, and green. These colors evoke the energy of vitality, growth, and abundance.

Sun Symbols

Since Litha revolves around the power of the sun, incorporating sun symbols on your altar is a wonderful way to honor this celestial force. Decorate with solar discs, light catchers, sunflowers, prisms, Helios statuettes, ojos de dios, solar inspired artwork, or sun candles. These symbols remind us of the sun's life-giving energy and its powerful presence during the summer solstice.

Florals

Celebrate the beauty of nature's bounty during Litha by adorning your altar with a selection of fresh, seasonal flowers. Sunflowers, daisies, St John’s Wort, and marigolds are excellent choices. Arrange them in vases or make garlands and wreaths to hang around your sacred space. The vibrant colors and sweet scents will infuse your altar with a delightful atmosphere.

Elemental Representations

Litha is a time to honor the elements and their harmonious interplay. Consider incorporating representations of fire, water, earth, and air on your altar. Candles can represent fire, seashells or a small bowl of water for water, crystals or stones for earth, and feathers or incense for air. These elemental symbols help create balance and align your altar with the natural energies of the season.

Symbols of Abundance

As Litha celebrates the abundance of the Earth, include symbols of prosperity and growth on your altar. Wheat, corn, berries, honeycomb, and seasonal fruits like strawberries, peaches,or cherries can be placed in baskets or on decorative gold bowls. These symbols express gratitude for the bounty of the sun and the abundance it provides.

Ritual Tools and Divination

If you work with ritual tools or divination methods, consider placing them on your Litha altar. This might include a wand, a cauldron, a chalice, runes, or a tarot deck. These tools act as conduits for your intentions and can be charged with the heightened energy of the summer solstice.

Solstice blessings. 🌞

[mistressofduskanddawn]

Household Worship Of Azura

[IMG ID: A shrine of Azura from Raven Rock in the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Dragonborn DLC. The shrine is set upon stone, circular, with candles around an image dedicated to Azura. At the top of the image is a star, with a skull below it, then trailed streaks of black. Before the image are some offerings of gems, a coinpurse, fruits, and vegetation to Azura. It is simple, but beautiful.]

THE DAEDRA, IN SOME ASPECTS OF TESLORE, ARE SPOKEN OF BEING FOUND IN THE DANGEROUS WILDS OF NIRN. Daedra worship within itself is controversial in Tamriel, sometimes inconsistently so, for they are often considered more dangerous than the Aedra. In a way this is true, the Daedra are more present than the Aedra, but the Aedra still may cause harm. My dear Kyne, even if she is a kind mother, rules over the storms that destroy. Eventually, I will cover the cut content that shades the worship of the Aedra in favour of Daedra, instead of the usual anti-Daedric worship that the Aedra-loving lore often proclaims.

Household worship of the Daedra seems to depend on the culture: while there are shrines within some Dnemeri households, outside of the realm of traditional worship, many of the daedra appear to be kept from cities—especially in Skyrim, where nearly all the centres of worship for Daedra are outside the strong-walled holds. She out of all of the Daedra appears to be the closest to cities and the likes, but her temple still stands outside Winterhold in Skyrim. 

On Earth, however, we can hopefully worship our deities within our own homes. Azura integrates herself well into the home, providing all her bounty, especially in liminal protection from the dangers of the beyond. 

MODERN HERETICS ON AZURA

I was inspired by doing my scholarly research on Azura as usual, when I re-read a passage on Daedra worship in lore that provided a much more realistic perspective: that on Daedric cults and their actions, without the usual gore and harm that permeates the discussion of Daedra. A portion of the passage Modern Heretics inspired this post, with it focusing on Azura in the majority of the text: 

I personally have discovered one community worshipping theDaedra LordAzura, Queen of Dawn and Dusk. A researcher curious about Daedra worship might research in several ways: through a study of the literature, through exploration and discovery of ancient daedric shrines, through questioning local informants, and through questioning worshippers themselves. I used all these means to discover the shrine of Azura.

First I read books. References like this one may provide a helpful general background concerning Daedric shrines. For example, my researches led me to understand that, in Cyrodiil, Daedric shrines are generally represented by statues of Daedra Lords, are generally situated in wilderness locations far from settlements, that each shrine generally has associated with it a community of worshippers, often referred to as a ‘coven’, that shrines have associated with them a particular time — often a day of the week — when a Daedra lord might be solicited, that Daedra Lord often will not deign to respond unless they regard a petitioner of sufficient prowess or strength of character, that they will only respond if given the proper offering [the secret of which offering often known only to the community of worshippers], and that, in return for the completion of some task or service, the Daedra Lords will often undertake to offer an artifact of power to a successful quester. Then I questioned locals with an intimate knowledge of the wilderness. Two classes of informants I found especially useful — well-traveled hunters and adventurers [who might come across shrines in their travels], and scholars of the Mages Guild. In the case of the Shrine of Azura, both sources were profitable. I discovered aCheydinhal hunter who had chanced across a strange epic statue in his travels. The statue was of a woman with outstretched arms; in one hand she held a star; in the other hand, she held a crescent moon. He had shunned the statue out of superstitious fear, but had marked the location in memory –far north of Cheydinhal, northwest ofLake Arrius, high in theJerall Mountains. Then, proceeding to the local Mages Guild with a description of the statue, I was able to confirm from its description the identity of the Daedra Lord worshipped. Having discovered the location of the shrine, I visited it, and discovered there the community of worshippers. Because of the strength of opinion against Daedra worship, the worshippers were, at first, reluctant to admit their identity. But once I had won their trust, they were willing to divulge to me the secrets of the times when Azura would hear petitions [from dusk to dawn], and that the offering required by Azura wasglow dust, a substance obtained from thewill-o-the-wisp. I am, of course, nothing more than a chapelman and scholar, so it did not lie within my power to find a will-o-the-wisp to obtain glow dust; nor am I certain that Azura would have found me worthy to make such an offering, even had I proffered it. But I was assured that if I had been able to make such an offering, and if it had been accepted, Azura would have given me some sort of quest, which, if completed, might have earned me the reward of Azura’s Star, a Daedric artifact of legendary magical powers.

—Modern Herctics, Haderus of Gottlesfont in Oblivion and ESO.

Undoubtedly the outlawing of Daedra worship is what drew these worshippers into hiding, with the daedra often being seen as dangerous and taboo. I cannot help, as others have noted, that this sounds very much so like paganism. Hiding in covens deep within secret locations, petitioning beings outlawed by common society—the Daedra seem to be coded in such a manner, even if the traditional religions of Tamriel are all polytheistic. The usage of coven also draws my eye—almost relating it to this world’s traditional witchcraft circles, in which a figure, often the Witchfather, is petitioned and met with those seeking something. Often power, as those in these covens seem to commonly pursue. 

Living on Earth does afford the ability to not have to necessarily hide my Azura worship, even if it is something I naturally keep on the quieter side. Among other pagans it is acceptable, sometimes even adored, to be following a goddess from Nirn. While it would be fun to pursue a shrine in the woods to her, it is a comfort to invite the Lady of Dusk and Dawn into my home instead. 

HOUSEHOLD WORSHIP OF AZURA

Household worship has become a norm for pagans, as we are often separated by space and time, and often alone. Praying alone in the home is the standard for most of us, even if we can visit the woods and go deep into dredges to find our gods. The Aedra have handmade shrines designated for home usage within Skyrim, but of course, none for the Daedra without mods. While Wintersun provides a way to express devotion to Azura, it does not fulfil every aspect there is to being a worshipper of a deity in Tamriel. 

To worship Azura in the home, it is as easy as a prayer and some offerings. I do prefer to bring my offers outside before Dawn and Dusk, but prayer can be anywhere. Beyond the title however, once again drawing from my background in Mediterranean religion, I believe that there is more to Azura’s household power than simply placing her within the hearth shrine. 

Prayer to Azura For Home Protection 

Azura’s liminality lends well to a protective goddess. Liminal deities such as Hekate are often invoked to remove spirits as much as to bring them forth, and considering her star, Azura has some sway over souls. To keep spirits from the home, speak this prayer:

AZURA of the Crimson Gate, Rose-bound,  she who wards away spirits amore,  kismet in your designs. Let your silver starlight  grace the doors of my home and  let your dawn and dusk appraise the walls.  Ward the dwellings I as your people call home, As once you did before, and shall do, Again into your liminal passages evermore. 

Prayer to Azura To Banish A Malicious Being 

As a goddess who loves her followers dearly, Azura is more than happy to exercise her power over lesser beings from her world and beyond. To ward off entities who would harm your home, place a statue of Azura by the door and or place an image of her symbol to warn. If a malicious being manages to sneak past the wards and locks, speak this prayer to tell Azura of the spirit that evaded every protection placed. 

AZURA, she of OBLIVION beyond, There is a demon who haunts these halls, A trespasser, unwelcome, unfound, within This home of this worshipper yours.  Roses bloom for your love and command, And here comes this foul being to destroy  The buds containing your altar anew. So come, Azura, the warden of the home  Who blesses with silver and beauty untold Banish them with binds of silver and red, Rim of all holes, to the halls beyond the dead. 

Prayer to Azura To Ward Locks 

As the rim of all holes and possibly enemy of Nocturnal, I see no reason why Azura could not ward a lock against thieves and trespassers who would seek to steal and harm the home. Speak this prayer to her to ward locks against such intrusions, less they face her deserved wrath. 

The night invites holy Nocturnal’s surmise   devotee Thieves speech under her blessings, to come  And rid my locks of the silver we both endure.  Transition the path of stars and light, Banish thieves and tricksters from my home goodnight  Let fate be woven ever so, ward these locks untold  So that Nocturnal may dance in another hearth tonight, And we rest under your lilac Twilight delight. Rim of all holds, master of keys and lock-holes, Azura, ward my locks, let no lockpick be turned, Azura, Azura, the mistress of liminality foretold! 

I do wonder what those people in Tamriel would have thought, seeing as I can freely honour our goddess within my own home. She is a wonderful goddess, kind and caring with her love understanding. Foretold or not, she is a rose-hearted gift to any hearth who seeks her name. In order for our popculture religion to survive in this world, it must be met on the terms of our lives and heart, and household worship is the step before even considering the likes of temples or communal ritual.

References

Lore:Modern Heretics – The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP). (n.d.). https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Modern_Heretics

Parker, R. C. (2011). On Greek religion. Cornell University Press.

[angela-maps]

Delta

Where the lifegiving fluvial waters meet the open sea’s brine, this river delta teems with life, some of it not necessarily lethal. A place of solace at the end of a harrowing journey, the beginning of an exhilarating expedition, or just a site of interest along your party’s path? Featuring two fully animated variants, one with bridges the other without, and a third where these bountiful waters have turned a worrying shade of scarlet and the land around them has withered, this map provides all the delicious delta delights you could want!

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe Rating: Teen Audiences Words: 4.8K~ Summary: A young human-Gem hybrid- a soul yet unknown to the rest of the Crystal Gems- takes their first brave steps towards greeting their heritage firsthand.

Chapter 3 of 4! This time, my OC goes on a tour of Little Homeschool with Bismuth, and gleans a far clearer picture of the most pertinent events of recent Gem history.

Enjoy! <3

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Same as the car ride into town, the warp stream sees fit to aggravate their motion sickness.

Jean doubles over with hands on wobbly, wobbly knees when they finally reach their destination, relishing in the familiar comfort of feet planted upon solid ground once more. (Because good grief, they were whirling about like a damn tumbleweed in there. Balancing themself all perfectly poised and upright like the Gems felt near impossible.)

“Hey, you good?” the purple one— Amethyst, they remind themself— says, reaching a solitary hand out as if to catch them should they stumble.

“Y-yeah,” they stutter, still breathing heavy. “Yeah… sorry, it’s just— hoo boy, that was a lot.”

“Steven took a while to get used to the warp streams as well,” Garnet comments, issuing a formal, solitary nod. “It’s only expected that an organic being would struggle to acclimate to a zero-G environment like that. You’ll learn to manage it. In time.”

Jean swallows hard, willing that awful nausea at the base of their esophagus to recede. With any luck she’s right. It’d be such an embarrassing shame if they couldn’t physically handle such a basic form of Gem transportation. They always knew the theory for how the warp pads worked— the inter-linked system of crystalline terminals providing near-instantaneous travel between distant locations— but it’s another thing entirely to actually experience it. The whole journey from the beach house to this other settlement took, what? Maybe five or so seconds? Goodness, such a swift means of transportation could entirely revolutionize life on Earth as humanity knows it. It really is too bad these warp pads only activate for Gems.

(And that… well… they disorient every last balance-keeping anatomical feature of the inner ear. They’re thankful for Garnet’s encouragement, they are— but as of this precise moment they can’t imagine how such a trip could get any better, motion sensitivity in mind.)

Then, fingertips tapping delicately against the crystal inlaid at their chest in pure subconscious habit as the post-warp jitters fade away, they cast their gaze upwards and out. Shift their posture upright once more. This place…

“I— I’m actually here,” they mutter to themself, drinking in the glorious sight of all the colorful architecture and the bounty of Gem students milling around the busy central square.

Little Homeworld, in the flesh.

They step off the warp pad and— eyes widened with childlike wonder— begin to map out the area in their head. Clustered beyond the gold-rimmed concrete platform wrapping around the warp are a number of small buildings, each one featuring a completely different architectural style. Some are cozy A-frames, some are suspended on stilts… some are fashioned from wood and stone, others from brick… there’s square windows, circular windows, half-moon windows, no windows—! One story, two story, many, many stories… name any exotic building feature, and this place probably has it represented somewhere. And it’s a very colorful town, too— Jean has never seen a neighborhood painted in such vivid, welcoming pastel shades.

They’re still drinking in the sheer exhilarating splendor of their new surroundings when a broad figure they don’t recognize rushes across the square towards their current group, the very image of a Gem on a mission.

She’s clad in overalls that look much like their own, sporting a friendly face and— most unusually, compared to the Gems they’ve seen so far— an inverted gemstone at her chest, one that spirals inwards towards her core instead of sticking out.

“Oh, thank goodness you lot are back!” she says, nudging one of her rainbow locs back behind her shoulder as she plants herself square in front of their three hosts. “I was beginning to wonder if I needed to start the seminar on your behalf.”

Pearl’s glance flits their way for the briefest of seconds, their fingertips threading together. “Apologies, we got a little caught up in… something important, shall we say.”

“Bismuth, this is Jean,” Garnet says, gesturing towards them. “They’re a prospective student and need a full tour of our campus and dormitory. Do you or Peridot have time to show them around?”

Her mouth screws up as she considers. “Well… pretty sure Peri’s busy with her horticulture class, so I guess I can do it. It sure beats all the busy work I had going on this morning. But wait, wait—” she interrupts her own train of thought then, her attention snapping right back to the other Gem— “hold up. You said prospective student? You mean this isn’t just a tour for the short-term exchange program?”

“Jean’s half-Gem,” Amethyst blurts out with clear excitement painting her tone. “Like Steven.”

Bismuth’s expression snaps from minor confusion to spellbound amazement almost faster than Jean is capable of processing. Her glance flits down, briefly hovering on the pale lavender-blue gemstone resting atop their sternum.

“Huh,” she muses out loud, balling her hand at her chin. “Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know that was possible.” Then, her focus pulling back up to meet their eyes: “But hey, we’ve plenty of time to talk shop about that later, right? It’s nice to meet you, Jean! We can begin that tour right now, if you’re ready. The rest of you guys, go on ahead. I’ll take it from here.”

“Sounds good,” they nod, tangling their own hands within the wide expanse of their pockets as they rock back and forth on their heels. “I, erm—” they wave an anticlimactic goodbye to the other Gems, who seem to be in a huge hurry to meet their previous engagement… golly, all of this is happening so fast— “can I just do one thing before we start, though?”

Bismuth hums an affirmative. “Whatever you need. We got all the time in the world.”

Inhaling deep through the slimmest slit of their lips, they pull their phone out of their pocket and sling a quick text to Dad, updating him on where they’re at. After all, warping straight to Little Homeworld itself was not in their plan for today… but oh, well. Life is full of surprises sometimes.

(A fact of existence that’s both a blessing and a curse.)

But with that little task out of the way, Jean follows their guide down the wide central path connecting to the main square, eagerly soaking up whatever knowledge she can spare. Bismuth, as it turns out, is the Gem who designed this whole campus. Thus for all the questions they might have, she’s got a pretty solid answer for most. Or so she claims.

From what they’ve seen of her so far, they’re apt to believe this, though.

“So… Little Homeworld,” they begin with a fair measure of timidity, skipping a little to catch up with this Gem’s large and energetic stride. “This place was only built in the last few years, yeah?”

She grins. “Yep! We broke ground in mid 2015, shortly after the start of Era 3.”

Their brow creases. “Era 3…?”

“Gem society’s current era,” she says in explanation, “which began when the Crystal Gems finally made peace with big Homeworld. You’ve… heard of Homeworld, right?”

“I mean… I always figured there was one, but that’s kinda it. I—” they trail off for a moment, their chest deflating under the humiliating weight of everything they’re unaware of. “To be completely honest, I’ve never even met any Gems until today. So there’s gonna be a lot I don’t know. Sorry…”

Bismuth merely waves their apology off. “Psssh, don’t worry about it. I can explain some of the basics to you after the tour. Plus, if you’re looking to enroll, you’ve plenty of time to learn all this stuff anyways. Now follow me, our first stop is just over here…”

The first stop she speaks of is the campus gymnasium. Jean’s interest is immediately piqued as they notice a few Gems sword fighting in one of the gym’s many courts. Bismuth— ever the keen eye— gives a fond laugh at their sharp swerve of interest, and dives straight into the meat of her tour spiel, beginning with…

Campus tour factoid number one: not only is this space utilized for structured classes (mostly swordplay and wrestling, which the quartzes are huge fans of), but students can even reserve courts for individual use. It’s not a super large gymnasium, but there’s plenty of space for sports outside, too. Apparently baseball (of all things) is a favorite pastime amongst Little Homeschool students.

Campus tour factoid number two: right next door to the gymnasium there’s a building with a bright, airy common area. Here, there’s tons of tables and chairs set up for students to play games and connect, a communal kitchen (mostly for the benefit of their human visitors, but also for Gems who wish to experiment with eating), and a mini library of human entertainment.

Campus tour factoid number three: when weather is permitting many instructors like hosting their classes outside, but they have plenty of physical classroom space too, over in the cluster of buildings nestled under the trees right across the main path. Some of the other amenities Little Homeschool boasts are a full art studio, an all-seasons greenhouse kitted out with the latest and greatest in hydroponics technology, and a records room with access ports to a whole wealth of Homeworld data banks for research and learning purposes.

The final stop on Bismuth’s tour is the dormitory, which is housed within the central tower.

“Now, many of the Gems who attend our school are at a delicate transitory stage in their lives,” she says, leading Jean through the front entrance of the dorm. “Plenty of them have never been apart from those of their own cut for more than a second, so the concept of ‘personal belongings’ and having a space that’s all their own is… well, for lack of a better term, alien.”

They nod as they follow Bismuth through the building’s lobby, each and every step bringing a new curiosity to gawk in awe at. Damn, this place is insane! The whole core of this tower is open space, with a set of transparent elevator-like pads stationed at the middle to ferry folks up and down from each level. There’s tons of greenery and light brightening up this expanse, and a number of railed walkways arcing across this central atrium from different angles every few floors. These walkways even have flowering vines hanging from the undersides, giving this building a strikingly organic vibe despite its concrete heavy architecture style. It all feels very… oh, what’s the style Dad always said he likes the aesthetic of, again—? Very, uh… very solar punk. Yes, that’s it. A sort of combination of solar punk and neo-futurism, what with all the bold angles and sweeping curves represented here.

A few Gems wave at Bismuth as the two of them pass by. She beckons them along towards the lift system.

“Thus, when building this school,” their tour guide continues, “we settled on dorm style accommodations, hoping that it could provide a nice balance between solo and community living for our students.”

“How many Gems are housed here, out of curiosity?” Jean asks, stepping up on the platform with her.

Bismuth taps her fingers against the diamond shaped screen inlaid in the half-wall that separates the lifts— probably imputing a floor— and the crystalline platform jolts to life. “Currently? About a hundred seventy or so,” she responds, turning back to face them. “And our roster rotates all the time. But the school itself serves plenty more— there’s a lot of Gems who warp in each day for their classes, and others who only choose to attend one or two sessions.”

They hum in acknowledgement, falling quiet to enjoy the smooth ride up to one of the upper levels.

The lift stops at floor seven, where their gracious host leads them towards what she describes as one of the few empty dorm rooms. (Or they think these are supposed to be the dorm rooms? These doorways don’t have any handles to speak of, which is a little confusing.) In any case, Jean’s brow arches in ample curiosity as they watch Bismuth press her palm flush against the adjacent panel much like one would use a hotel keycard. A dull chime rings out, and the entire surface of the door splits in two. They flinch a step backwards, wholly mystified. Wait, what?? But how did— there was no seam before, right? The doorway had no visible seam. They swear to the edge of the Earth it didn’t. So how could it just—?

Bismuth gives a fond chuckle, merely shuffling aside to invite them in to the room. “Trippy, right? This whole building’s a bit of an architectural labyrinth— held together with a whoooole lotta Gem tech, hah! So when you walk through that frame, you’re actually entering into something of a pocket dimension. It’s the only way we could scale up our operations while maintaining a slim footprint. The sunlight’s real, though,” she says, gesturing towards the wide window at the far end of the living unit.

Eager eyed, Jean takes a quick inventory of the space.

The room itself is fairly sparse, a blank canvas to be furnished and decorated however a Gem would prefer. But there’s some shelves built into the right hand wall at the far corner for storage of personal items, and a humble table and chair nestled by the window. Meanwhile, on the left side of the wall there’s a strange little person-sized inlet— a ‘cubby,’ of sorts— with another one of those touch screen panels next to it. They hum with intrigue, striding towards this mysterious furnishing feature.

“What’s this for?” they ask, the panel’s interface bursting to life under even the most feathery brush of their fingertips.

“Oh, that—?” she smiles. “It’s a newer contraption, actually… meant to mimic the unique conditions of any Gem’s exit hole.”

Jean purses their lips, absolutely nothing about the conclusion of that last sentence making sense.

Their what hole?? Oh gosh, it’s gonna take eons to figure out what even half of this stuff means, isn’t it?

Bismuth begins to speak further on the topic, delving into something more nuanced about these so-called ‘exit holes…’ something about rest, something about incubation, a kindergarten or whatever. Ugh. They don’t know. They don’t know. And even more frustratingly, for whatever goddamn reason it suddenly feels impossible to maintain focus on her words at all, their mind instead seeing fit to fixate on the daunting ravine that is their sheer lack of an even baseline understanding of Gem physiology, culture, and history. Here they are, trying to enroll in an all-Gem school, and they barely even comprehend the basic lingo. Oh god, she thinks they’re an idiot, doesn’t she?

They don’t even realize they’re clutching their arms around their midsection in the sheer strife of it all until the sound of their own name cuts through all the murk and mire that’s taken their body hostage.

“Jean… hey, Jean? You doin’ okay, there? D’ya want me to slow down?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, I just—”

Whatever lame, emotionally downplaying words they were about to utter die like snuffed cinders upon their tongue as they hazard a sheepish glance at the Gem and note the genuine concern weaving across her features. Jean sighs, dropping their arms.

“I think I need to go outside,” they admit, averting their gaze. “Everything’s just… a little overwhelming right now.”

“Hey, that’s all right,” she says, tone soft with understanding. “The rest of the tour can always wait. In fact… how ‘bout I take you back to my forge, and we can talk shop there, instead? It’s open air, and if you’re not up for talking, I can just show ya’ how I prepare billets for a while. At least until the others come back ‘round. That sound more your speed?”

“Yeah,” they nod, the barest hints of a smile returning to their lips. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

~

The walk back to Bismuth’s forge is pretty uneventful. There’s a few Gem students who wave a friendly hello to their guide as she leads them down the path, but beyond that their journey is cast in comfortable silence. And honestly, thank goodness for that. Jean is exceedingly glad to find another soul in this place who understands the importance of like… why a person might desire chatter-less companionship. Sometimes they just flat out don’t feel up to talking, y’hear?

Bismuth only breaks their quietude when the two of them step through the arched entry into her workshop.

“Here, you can sit, if you’d like,” she says, gesturing towards a squat wooden stool nestled at the corner of the space. There’s a table there as well, filled with a number of specialized metallic hand tools Jean can’t even begin to guess the names or uses of. Their Aunt Dee might, though. As a film costumer, metal work seems like something she would’ve at very least dabbled in before.

They nod in gratitude, eagerly situating themself on the offered seat and allowing their muscles to relax. Ahhh… it feels nice to rest after such a long walk.

Their gracious host rounds the room to grab a dense bar of metal from the healthy stash she’s got stacked on the shelves. As she crosses back around, her eyes lock on them immediately. Ever so subtle, her brows lift upon her broad forehead as she regards them once more, signaling her active sympathy.

“You ‘doin any better?”

They nod, small and meek. “Yeah, I think so. Sorry, about— well, sorry.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to be apologetic for, don’t you worry,” she says, laying the metal bar down on the working surface of her anvil. Then, with a faint laugh: “‘Sides, if you think you’re feelin’ out of your element, you should’ve seen my last tour group.”

“What would a Gem have to feel out of place about…?” Jean asks, more of an under-their-breath mutter than anything else.

Of course, Bismuth seems to glean the deeper meaning behind their hazy afterthought of a query anyways. “Oh, you’d be surprised. A lot of our students here have, well… a bit of a complicated past. A large number of them fought in the war for Earth, back when the Gem Homeworld was still trying to colonize it. And a good number of those spent a few thousand years trapped in a state of mental damage we Gems call ‘corruption.’”

Their features crinkle inwards as they ponder these facts. Hmm. ‘Corruption.’ Yet another term they’ve never seen show up in any of their research efforts. It seems the scant amount of information they’ve amassed about Gems up until now really was barely scraping the barrel. Was this their fault? Did they not dig deep enough? Are these pieces of their own history they could’ve learned years ago if only they applied themselves to their search harder? But in a true blessing of a breakthrough for an anxious wreck who’s starting to feel too ashamed to bother anyone with any more of their ignorant questions, their blank, deer-in-the-headlights gaze is obvious enough that their host clues in on the confusion swirling through their mind immediately.

“Ah, hmm. I guess you prolly don’t know what corruption is either, huh?” she muses, pressing a closed fist to the edge of her lips.

Jean flashes an apologetic smile. “‘Fraid not.”

She nods, and temporarily abandons her starting metal to the anvil so she can grab a second stool from the other side of the forge and sit herself down across from them.

“In that case,” she jabs a solitary finger in the air, “lemme just start from the beginning and give you the ol’ Earth rebellion primer…”

So, here’s what they glean from her narrative:

The Gem Homeworld was apparently once ruled by four Diamonds. The youngest of the quartet, Pink, had Earth given to her as her first colony. The colonization efforts went as planned for a good few hundred years… and then, a lone rose quartz and a pearl (the Pearl, the one they met just an hour or so ago, which makes a damn lot of sense from what little they’re aware of her), began seeding whispers of rebellion. It started small… isolated attacks on key settlements and construction sites, strategic disruptions of supply shipments and warp pad installations, that sort of thing. At first, the two of them only ever intended to scare the others off this planet— not wanting its ecosystem to be permanently destroyed via the lethal impacts of Gem production on the Earth’s soil chemistry. But over time, the rebellion blossomed to champion a cause far broader than what was originally intended:

Freedom for all Gems, no matter how disparate to Homeworld’s stringent ideals.

This was when Bismuth joined the fray, and where much of her recounting of this history is based on eye-witness experience.

Jean takes a moment to inquire a bit deeper about the destructive impact of Kindergarting before her story moves on.

“Essentially, Gemkind used to set up camp on a new planet, construct their colony, siphon every last scrap of life out of its crust until they’ve incubated all the Gems they possibly can, and then move right along to the next one,” Bismuth says, shaking her head with a tinge of shame coating her features. “An endless, soulless cycle, with countless dissatisfied Gems trapped at its center. That’s why the mere existence of Rose Quartz was such a shockwave at the time— ‘coz she was a Gem who outright defied her superiors’ demands at every opportunity. Rose, she—” her expression grows somewhat wistful with melancholy remembrance— “she taught me that my unique existence was precious, that I didn’t need to bend to Homeworld’s demands. That I could choose my own path in life. My own friends. My own loves… Stars, Rose Quartz was everything to me back then.”

Jean’s nose crinkles as they ask the obvious next question. “But…?”

Bismuth sighs as she slumps forward on her stool, age-old exhaustion evident within her tone. “But war is complicated. And so are Gems. I made a few choices I now regret, and got bubbled over it. Missed a few thousand years ‘coz of that. And by the time I was let out, the war was long over. The Crystal Gems won, but… only by a technicality.”

“Bubbled?” they inquire, tilting their head.

“Hah,” she laughs, low and half-hearted. “Means my form was dissipated in combat, and my gem was stashed in a bubble. It’s a long story. Don’t really wanna hash through the details of it now, if that’s okay.”

Jean nods, more than emphasizing with that sort of sentiment. There’s tons of awkward stuff in their past they’re not super interested in discussing with others, either. They gesture for her to continue.

Bismuth moves on to explain how— once she was freed from her stasis and allowed to reform— she discovered that all the Gems left behind on this planet were caught in a massive retaliatory attack by the Diamonds.

“They believed Rose Quartz shattered one of their own,” she shrugs. “Pink Diamond— the appointed leader of this colony— was lost during the war. So the three who remained traveled to Earth and tried to wipe every last Gem off its surface… their own soldiers included. They assumed they destroyed all of them.“

“But they were corrupted instead,” Jean completes, remembering that specific word Bismuth had used earlier. “Which means—?”

“—that their minds were thrown into a jumbled, primal state. Unable to retain a humanoid form, or even communicate in words. To use your human lingo, it’s as if the sheer brutality of the Diamonds’ damage reduced them into monsters.”

“Hmm. So how were they healed?”

“Ah, that was all Steven’s doing. I’m assuming you already know about Steven—?”

They nod. “I’ve seen his adverts,” they put it lightly.

That’s— of course— only the tip of the iceberg. They choose not to mention the ridiculous sum of time they’ve spent combing the internet for every last scrap of information they could feasibly grasp on Beach City, Steven, and the other Gems. It’s not clear yet what this particular Gem would think about such an obsessive level of study… whether she’d admire the initiative or resent them for sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.

“Alright. Now, here’s where things get a bit topsy-turvy,” Bismuth says, a bit of a chuckle coloring her tone. “So, Steven’s the half-human son of Rose Quartz, right?”

Yep, that tracks. None of Jean’s sources ever stated this so bluntly, but it meshes with the vague timeline of events they’ve pieced together… what with Rose’s disappearance and Steven’s arrival on the scene years later.

“Well, back when he was a kid, this whole bombshell secret ‘bout his mother comes out. I wasn’t there for the reveal,” she shrugs, gesturing wide with her palms spread open, “and only learned about it secondhand, but— basically, all along, Pink Diamond and Rose Quartz were the same person.”

Their brows scrunch inwards. “Wait, what?”

“Wild, right?” she says with noted amusement. “All those years of chaos and turmoil… when the whole time, Rose was simply waging a false war against herself. I’m sure you’ll learn plenty more about this era of history in time, but the important part is that this makes Steven one of the Diamonds. Which gave him the unique authority to negotiate with them for not only the complete liberation of Earth, but also the healing of all the corrupted Gems. Such a cure took the powers of all four of them to achieve. So, hah—” Bismuth cracks a half-hearted, wistful smile— “as much as it really cut my facets down a size at the time… in the end… making peace with Homeworld was literally the only option.”

Jean continues to muse on the broader implications of all this newly learned history as the Gem moves on to describe how Little Homeworld came to be. (Which— they’re ashamed to admit— they’re only halfway paying attention to.) So, Steven’s like… what… royalty, then? Some sort of Gem prince? It certainly would explain the sheer level of political sway he had in setting up this school, and the almost reverent way people here have spoken of him so far. Still, it’s not what they expected. Online documentation on Gem matters is still very sparse, yes, but nothing they’ve read thus far even remotely mentioned the existence of ‘Diamonds,’ let alone Steven’s innate connection to them. They can’t help but wonder if there’s any specific reason why.

Their thoughts migrating to related horizons, they inquire more about the rest of the Diamonds… are they still in some form of power today, they ask?

Bismuth shakes her head no. “Not entirely. It’s, ah… it’s complicated. We’ve elected leaders to aid in governing each of Homeworld’s planets, but… it’d be foolish to claim that the Diamonds don’t still hold a certain sway over a vast percentage of Gemkind. Our society’s entering a vital transitional state right now, shall we say.”

“Makes sense,” Jean nods.

Especially with how long-lived Gems are, though they elect not to say as much out loud. They have no idea if the topic of age is as sensitive for Gems as it can oft be for humans.

“But despite any lingering influence they may hold, they’re not ‘in charge,’ so to speak,” she continues, throwing up air quotes as emphasis. “Not as they once were. Everything’s different now.” Bismuth shifts back upon her stool as she pauses in her lesson, allowing the rejuvenating relief of those three little words to sink in for the both of them. A serene, content smile rises upon her lips. “After a lifetime of struggle, Gems are finally free to be their own selves in this era. We can finally rest.”

Their host meditates within the cusp of this welcoming truth for a few moments, staring off towards the open air doorway at their right to watch a fair handful of residents pass between activities. She closes her eyes, her features aligning into an almost unparalleled show of utter tranquility. Then, bobbing her head a little as she wrestles through the last few items on her laundry list of mental troubles, she clasps her hands upon her knees and pushes herself wholly upright once more.

“Anyways, that’s probably enough history for today, yeah? Hah, wouldn’t want to spook ya’ away with all the heavy stuff before you’ve even enrolled.”

“No, please, don’t worry ‘bout it,” they say with a slight laugh, shaking their head. “I thought it was pretty interesting, really.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it!” she chimes, pacing back across the forge to her anvil. “We can talk shop in more detail when Pearl’s back, but— should you be interested in becoming a student long-term— my plan is to retrofit one of those dorm rooms you saw with a kitchenette and a bathroom, as well as shuffling around some of the furnishings to make space for a bed. Does that sound suitable for your needs?”

“More than suitable,” Jean chimes, folding their hands in their lap.

“Good, good…”

Bismuth shines her a bright, enthusiastic grin, and picks up that dense hunk of metal she fetched minutes earlier.

“So… with all that said and done—” in a flash of brilliant light, she morphs her hand into a broad mallet— “d’ya think you’re still up for a lil’ demonstration?”

[ak-vintage]

Quarry - Chapter 9 (Part 2)

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, unresolved sexual tension, pining, discussions of blasters, masturbation (f & m), praise kink, hand and finger kink, glove kink (sort of), competence kink

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

The Match

“Have you ever fired a blaster?”

You frowned slightly at the question, squinting into the sun as you watched Mando arrange several of the items in question on the rocky slab before you. Though you were still on Trevi IV, the search for his latest quarry ongoing, he had brought you many miles outside the city, deep into the barren plains. It was safer, he said, for your first time handling a weapon.

The landscape was dusty, gravely, and sunbaked, dotted only occasionally with brittle shrubs and thin, twisted trees. The Razor Crest provided nominal shade, and you could already feel sweat beginning to trickle down your spine and pool in the small of your back. A part of you wondered whether perhaps there was a better time or place to do this, but when you had woken this morning, foggy-headed and dry-mouthed, your companion had seemingly decided that teaching you how to handle a firearm was at the top of his priority list.

“No, never,” you replied with a shake of your head.

The bounty hunter nodded slowly, almost absently, and began picking up each blaster pistol he had laid out one by one – examining the sights, testing the weight in his palm, pulling back the action to get a look at the power pack, the gas cartridge.

“How much do you know about them – their mechanics, their operation?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Only a little. Small tech has never really been my specialty.” You thought back to all those months ago, when you had considered attempting to disassemble your binder cuffs as a means of escape. “I could probably…tear one apart? Break it down into its components? But I’m not sure I could tell you what the pieces do,” you admitted.

The Mandalorian nodded again. “In my culture, weapons are an integral part of our religion,” he explained. “Children are given blasters as a rite of passage. We go through extensive training on blaster assembly, operation, maintenance, and safety, and we are expected to be highly proficient by our thirteenth birthday.”

As he spoke, he continued the slow, methodical examination of the pistols. Calmly, confidently, he handled each one, and though you weren’t entirely certain what he was assessing, you felt as though you could watch him do it as long as he wished. There was something reverent about it, and suddenly the connection to spirituality made sense.

“After we turn 13, we can begin training with other, more specialized weapons if we so choose, but you will never find a Mandalorian without a blaster as part of their personal arsenal,” he continued. “However, you are neither Mandalorian, nor are you training to become a warrior. As such, your training will have different goals.”

You raised your eyebrows at that, even as a ripple of relief passed through you. “Such as?”

Mando met your gaze finally, setting the last blaster back down on the slab. “First, safety. Most blasters have a ‘stun’ setting, which is what we will be using, but they can also be deadly weapons. In inexperienced hands, a blaster is far more dangerous to the wielder than the target.” He beckoned you forward with a flex of his orange-tipped fingers. “I’ll teach you how to properly handle a blaster – how to manage the different settings, how to carry it, hold it, store it. And I’ll teach you how to safely reload and how to keep it from overheating. Then, target practice,” he added. “We’ll start with large, stationary targets and, over time, introduce smaller, moving targets at greater distances.”

You studied the selection before you, a total of five different blaster pistols of varying sizes, materials, and configurations, and fresh nerves began to flutter in the pit of your stomach. Before you could allow them to take hold of you, however, the bounty hunter’s big, heavy hand came up to grip your arm, and your eyes snapped to his.

“I don’t expect you to be a perfect marksman,” he assured you, his voice softer and gentler then. “But I need to know that you are able to protect yourself. And the child. In time, I want to feel confident that if I’m away, the two of you would be just as safe out in the world as you would be inside the Razor Crest. You deserve to see the galaxy beyond the walls of a gunship. Both of you do.”

The space around your heart melted, settling your nerves and softening the tension in your muscles you hadn’t even realized you had been carrying. The Mandalorian was no less intimidating to you now than he was when you first met, but at least now you were secure in your belief that he was a good man under all that beskar.

So you nodded, and you squared your shoulders, meeting his visor with your gaze. “I understand. I’ll try my best.”

“Good,” he replied. He sounded pleased, almost proud. “Then let’s begin. We’ll start by seeing which of these best fits your body. Pick one to start with.”

The two of you spent the next several minutes evaluating each of the blasters Mando had selected for you, feeling their weight, ensuring that the grip was comfortable for the size of your hands. He had you extend each one as though to fire it so you could feel its balance, and any that you felt were too heavy or impossible to hold steady he set aside.

When you had finally managed to narrow down your options to two, as promised, he began the safety portion of his instruction. You watched carefully as he showed you how to turn the safety settings on and off on each and how to grip them with your finger off the trigger, only moving it into place when you were actually ready to fire.  After demonstrating it himself, he made you practice while he watched – check the safety, pick up the blaster, flick off the safety, gently lay your index finger on the trigger, remove your finger, turn the safety back on, lay the blaster back down.

Only when he was satisfied with the confidence and fluidity of your movements did the Mandalorian move on to showing you how to reload. Open the action, release the spent gas cartridge, click the new cartridge into place, close the action.

Again, he demonstrated, once slowly with verbal explanations and then again faster and silently, and you couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the ease and grace of his leather-clad hands, the dexterity of his long, thick fingers. You recalled the sensation of those hands on your skin – caressing your neck, your jaw, your cheeks. The firm, assertive grip around your arm, the ghost of a touch on the insides of your wrists, the steadying press against the base of your spine in a crowd. Both soothing and inflaming, in equal measure.

You fumbled your way through your own demonstration with your face hot and your throat dry. So thoroughly distracted were you that he forced you to unload and reload both blasters more than ten times each, just to really drive the point home. Only when you complained that the tips of your fingers were starting to go numb did the bounty hunter finally allow you to take a break.

“Think you’re ready to try shooting one?” he asked after giving you a moment to shake out your hands.

You swallowed thickly, the quivering, burning sensation of lust suddenly replaced with nerves. Still, you nodded. You trusted him to keep you safe. And to withhold judgment if you ended up being a piss-poor shot.

Mando inclined his helmet in the direction of a craggy rock formation jutting up out of the dusty desert ground some 20 meters away. It was sizeable, about your height and twice as wide.

“You’re going to try to hit that rockface, as close to the center as you can manage,” he said. Pulling his own blaster out of its holster, he set his feet shoulder width apart and took aim. “Pay attention to how I’m holding my body. My arm is steady but not rigid, my shoulders are relaxed, my footing is firm, solid.”

His invitation had the lust rocketing back up to the surface again as you allowed your gaze to trace his form, silhouetted in gleaming beskar and dark fabric against the sun-washed landscape. Impossibly broad shoulders, long limbs. Thick thighs, strong arms, and his tattered black cape fluttering in the wind, every once in a while giving a glimpse of his perfectly shaped ass. You didn’t know when you had started noticing such things. All you knew was that now, it seemed impossible not to notice.

He oozed competence, and it was intoxicating.

The raspy modulation of his voice pulled you out of your musings, forcing you back into the moment. “We’ll get to shooting while on the move or from different positions eventually,” he said, lowering his blaster and slipping back into its holster. “Today, I just want you to get comfortable standing and stationary. Now, let’s see what you can do. Pick a blaster and give it a try.”

___

“Try again.”

You gritted your teeth and squinted against the relentless clouds of dust kicked up by your missed shots. You had missed so many at this point, you had begun to lose count. Sweat streaked down your back and your temples. It coated your palms, making your grip on the blaster evermore precarious. You could sense Mando losing his patience in the clipped tone of his encouragement, and it made you burn with embarrassment. Leveling the blaster once more in the direction of the rockface, you squeezed the trigger again.

A puff of dust erupted from the ground to the right of the rock formation, and you bit back a curse.

“Again,” Mando commanded, short and gruff.

A wave of bitter frustration rose in your chest, and you sighed heavily, pulling the trigger almost carelessly. That miss was worse, now several inches in front of the target.

A sound something like a growl crackled through the bounty hunter’s helmet modulator, and you heard him mutter something unintelligible in Mando’a before saying, “You’re getting further away.”

“Oh, thanks for that. I hadn’t noticed,” you replied cuttingly. You dropped your blaster arm for a moment, rolling your head on your shoulders in an attempt to release some tension. However, when you brought it back up to take aim once more, you caught sight of your companion’s arm shooting out toward you.

“Stop. Hold there,” he snapped, approaching from where he stood off to the side. “Pay attention to your stance, your grip. Does that feel like what I demonstrated?”

You groaned deeply, your head dropping back on your neck and your eyes sliding closed, almost as though in prayer. “I don’t know any more!”

“Yes, you do. Now pick your head up. What’s wrong with what you’re doing right now?”

“Damn it, Mando – !”

Suddenly, that firm, confident grip was back, his time on your shoulder. The Mandalorian had closed the distance between you, cupping the ball of your shoulder in his palm, his long fingers extending along your trapezius muscle, warming, soothing. “Relax,” he demanded, leaving no room for protest. “You’re getting frustrated, and it’s clouding the connection between your mind and your body. Now, breathe in with me, from your diaphragm. I don’t want to feel your shoulder move, understand?”

You swallowed and nodded stiffly.

“In,” Mando ordered, inhaling deeply. You allowed yourself to follow his lead, careful to breathe from your belly, feeling it expand against the heavy fabric of your new boilersuit. “Out.” You exhaled, sensing the slowing of your heartrate and the gradual dissolution of your aggravation.

He nodded once, seemingly pleased with your capitulation. “Good. Again. In…out.” You obeyed once more, and to your mild annoyance, you felt the last of your irritation evaporate on your exhale.

“Now tune in to your body. What’s out of place?”

Dropping his gaze, you turned your attention inward, sending it out into your limbs, your extremities. The warmth of Mando’s hand on your shoulder was a glowing beacon to your senses, comfortable, happy, content, but the rest…

“I…my knees,” you murmured, your voice breathy and distracted. “My knees are locked.”

Your companion nodded. “Good. Unlock them. A slight bend is safer and more sustainable, especially in this heat,” he said, matching the softness of your tone. The sound, the intimacy of it, made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “What else?”

Immediately, you said, “My weight is uneven. I’m leaning more on my right leg than my left.” It was so obvious now that you were paying attention. You were wildly out of balance.

“Yes. Correct it.” You did so instantly, centering yourself completely over both feet. “Now tell me about your shoulders.”

Shifting slightly beneath his grip, you felt the ache in the taut muscle, the way your shoulders had somehow managed to creep up around your ears without your permission. “I’m…I’m tense,” you replied, feeling as though you were stating the obvious. Certainly he could feel how stiff you were.

“Why? What are you afraid of?”

Your eyebrows rose at the unexpected question. “I don’t know.” You thought of the way the blaster jumped back in your hands, small, easily absorbed, but always unexpected. The durasteel felt foreign, cold, and intimidating in your palm. “The recoil, maybe,” you mused. “The…blaster itself.”

You felt more than saw the Mandalorian tilt his helmet in acknowledgment. “Having some fear of a weapon is wise, healthy even. It will help prevent you from getting careless,” he conceded. “But a blaster is merely a tool. It is an extension of yourself. Allowing the fear to take hold will only make it more dangerous.”

You nodded, releasing a sigh. He was right, of course. You worked with tools every day that were just as dangerous as a blaster. Your fusion cutter had been nearly glued to your hip lately, and if you didn’t handle it the way you had been trained, it had just as much potential to harm you as the pistol in your hand. You needed to relax. Mando wouldn’t let anything hurt you.

As though he had read your thoughts, the man in question shifted to stand behind you then, bringing both of his hands up to your shoulders and slowly, purposefully lowering them back down to a more neutral position. You felt your heart rate increase at the touch, all while your rigid muscles warmed and relaxed. His palms were hot through his gloves. If you hadn’t already been sweating in the desert sun, the heavy stretch of his hands on your body would have been enough to start.

“Good,” Mando murmured, his rasping praise almost too soft to register to his vocoder. You felt a swooping, dropping sensation behind your navel at the sound, and it took all your strength to not allow your eyes to close, to not lean into his presence mere inches behind you. “Now, take aim at the rock again. Look down the barrel. The rock should sit directly on top of the sight.”

Clenching your jaw, you did as he said and adjusted your aim, raising your arm just enough so that the rock hovered, barely touching, on top of the sight at the end of the blaster pistol’s barrel.

“Are you ready?” he asked. His hands remained on your shoulders. They held you steady, kept you centered.

Swallowing thickly, you replied, “Yes.”

“Fire.”

You pulled the trigger, firm and quick, before you could lose your nerve...

And another explosion of dust burst from the ground to the right of the rock, choking the air around you.

“You’re holding your breath,” Mando accused.

You let your arm drop back down to your side, defeated, and loosed a colorful curse. “Well, how exactly am I supposed to hold my arm steady if I’m breathing?” you snipped. You could feel the tension bubbling back up in your limbs, in your neck. “I’m swaying all over the place, every time I breathe in!”

The bounty hunter’s hands slipped from your body then, and you glanced over your shoulder just in time to see him bring one up to his helmet, almost as though he was pressing on the bridge of his nose through the layers of beskar and padding. “Show me your stance,” he commanded once again.

You didn’t even attempt to repress your groan. “Mando – ” you started to whine.

But he didn’t allow you to continue. “Show. Me. Your. Stance.” If you didn’t know better, you would guess that he was speaking through his teeth. He was calm, but it was an effortful calm, as though he was now fighting back just as much impatience and frustration as you.

Feeling appropriately chastised, you reset your stance from the ground up – feet shoulder width apart and securely on the ground, knees slightly bent, hips centered, weight evenly distributed, spine straight and tall, arm extended, hand firm but not strangling around the blaster grip, the rock balanced gently on the top of the sights. Everything as it had been moments before.

When you had missed. Again.

“This time, when you’re getting ready to shoot, breathe in slowly, exhale, and then fire,” he instructed once you had settled back in.

You pulled a scowl at that. “What’s the difference between that and just holding my breath?”

The Mandalorian was quiet for a moment, the only sound the desert wind rustling through the sparse shrubs, the wiry trees. You dared a peek over the cap of your shoulder once more and found him standing with his hands on his hips, staring at the ground as though contemplating something carefully. You drew your lower lip between your teeth as you watched him, your confusion growing with the silence, but before you could ask him what was wrong, his gaze snapped back up to yours, and you swore you could feel his eyes on you even though you couldn’t see them through is visor.

“I’ll show you the difference,” he said, a note of finality in his modulated voice. He took one step toward you then another, and then suddenly it felt as though you had blinked and he had crossed the distance between you, sliding up behind your back, his left hand slipping around the front of your body to settle on your belly, his right hand wrapping around yours on the pistol grip.  

A molten wave of heat flushed through your system at the contact, settling high in your cheeks and low in your abdomen, right under where his palm now spread – so gentle, so steady. You felt surrounded, swallowed by him. His presence loomed hardly an inch behind you, the warmth and the breadth and the power of him so close and yet not nearly close enough. Your knees felt watery, your spine prickling, begging to melt back into him, to mold yourself against the hard planes of his cuirass, his thigh armor.

“This all right?” Mando murmured, his deep baritone a hairsbreadth from your ear. You wondered whether he could feel you tremble at the sensation, whether he could sense how he was affecting you. Your brand-new panties were soaked now. Hot and slick, they clung to your lips inside your boilersuit.

Breathlessly, you replied, “Yes.” Because it was all right, you realized. He could touch you whenever he liked, however he liked, and you would welcome it. You knew that now.  

“Then take aim,” he commanded, giving a light squeeze to your right hand where it gripped the blaster. You obeyed instantly, centering the target rock formation over the sight.

“Breathe in.” His abdomen expanded behind you, barely brushing your back, and you copied him unquestioningly. Your belly pressed into the palm of his hand.

“Out.” You exhaled slowly and evenly, and then, at the very bottom of your breath, you felt the pressure over your blaster hand increase. “Fire,” Mando ordered. Your index finger flexed smoothly, easily, and the blaster discharged once more.

Shards of sandy rock burst from the target as the bolt of energy finally collided with its face.

You let out a whoop of victory, nearly collapsing in relief. “Ha! I did it!” you shrieked, gesticulating wildly at the rock formation, pulling yourself out of Mando’s grip.

A chuckle rumbled through his vocoder, and he inclined his helmet in your direction, crossing his arms over his chest. “Kandosii, gotabor’ika. Well done.”

You felt yourself begin to laugh, too, as you swiped the back of your hand across your sweaty forehead. “I can’t believe I hit it.”

“Only just,” the bounty hunter corrected. “You’re still pulling down and to the right when you squeeze the trigger.”

Again, he was correct – the jagged scar from your blaster bolt was nowhere near the center of the rockface where you had meant to be aiming, but you refused to allow such details ruin the rush of your success. “Oh, come on, Mando, that’s the closest I’ve gotten all day! I actually hit the rock. Let me celebrate a little!”

His gaze on you felt warm even through his impassive helmet, as though you could sense a smile on his hidden face. “Of course. We have a way to go, but for your first day of training, you’ve done well. Perhaps we will make a marksman out of you yet,” he said wryly, and oh, you could have melted at the praise.

“Maybe you will,” you replied, the tip of your tongue touching the corner of your smile.

___

The Flame

“Damn it,” you swore softly to yourself as you wrestled with the zipper of your boilersuit. It occurred to you as you writhed and wriggled, working the heavy fabric down your body, that perhaps you hadn’t thought this through. The somewhat claustrophobic confines of the Razor Crest’s bunk alcove weren’t exactly an ideal place to try to disrobe, but when the opportunity for a bit of privacy had presented itself, you hadn’t had time to weigh your options.

The chance to relieve the molten hunger that had been building inside you all day was well worth a bruised elbow or a bump on the head here or there.

The distraction of your minor victory earlier hadn’t lasted long. As soon as the thrill of watching your blaster bolt hit its target for the first time faded, the longing had returned. The weight of the Mandalorian’s hands on your body, his heat wrapped around you like a cloak, his deep, rasping voice dropping praise in your ear… All of it had felt more appropriate to a late-night tryst than a shooting lesson, and your body had responded accordingly. You could hardly remember the last time you had taken someone into your bed, but you were certain that you had never wanted another person the way you had come to want him.

Thankfully, Mando had not made you continue to practice for much longer. You had been allowed to stop shooting all together, eliminating any excuse you may have had to prolong his physical contact. He simply asked you to repeat your demonstrations of the safety and reloading protocols he had taught you earlier, as a review. You had managed to wrangle your frayed concentration long enough to do so, but when he had met your efforts with a soft-spoken “very good, gotabor’ika,” you had been nearly desperate to excuse yourself.

You had feigned fatigue when he invited you to join him and Grogu in the cockpit for the flight back to Trevi City, claiming to need a nap after overexposure to the sun. He had inclined his helmet at you graciously, encouraging you to “take all the time you need.”

His boots had barely disappeared from the top rung of the ladder before you were ripping off your own, diving into the bunk, and hastily shutting the blast doors.

Now, with your boilersuit crumpled in a haphazard ball at the foot of the mattress, clad in nothing but a matching set of black cotton underclothes, you finally allowed your hand to slip down your body to the place that had been aching for attention. Your heart thundered in your ears, your breath loud in the confines of the bunk alcove as you gently, tentatively cupped your sex over your underwear. You smothered a moan in the bend of your other elbow at the delicate pressure. The fabric was hot and absolutely soaked, clinging to your form like a second skin.

Ultimately, Mando had barely touched you. Your shoulders, your hands, your belly. The suggestion of a breath on the back of your neck. If this was how you reacted to so little contact, what would it be like for him to truly touch you?

You felt that same tugging, swooping sensation behind your navel from earlier at the thought, and your pussy throbbed, clenching around nothing. Unable to resist for another moment, you softly, tentatively slid your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and between your folds.

“Oh, fuck,” you sighed, swallowing heavily against another moan. Maker, it was good. Warm and slick and perfect, the friction of the pads of your fingers making you quake. Your clit was already swollen and sensitive. You could feel your nipples pebble and tighten under your breastband as your touch barely skimmed it, light and suggestive. Normally, you preferred to work yourself up a bit before you got down to it, but you could tell just from that first touch that this wasn’t the day for teasing.

You could feel your body melt into the bunk mattress as you began to play in earnest. Your knees falling apart to give your hand more room to move, your back arching in pleasure, your other hand dropping to grip and massage a breast. A whine slipped out from between your lips at that, and suddenly, it was as though it was Mando’s hand pulling down your breastband, Mando’s fingers teasing and plucking your nipples. It was Mando’s touch between your thighs, rapidly circling your clit, Mando’s fingers sliding down to your entrance, collecting more of your juices.

You wanted him inside you. You could feel your body grasping, thrusting into your own touch, begging for something to fill you up and give you something to bear down on. You whimpered loudly, no longer aware of your own volume enough to keep it in check. You couldn’t take it anymore, you had to –

Thunk.

The sound of something heavy dropping onto the metal deck plating sounded on the other side of the alcove doors. Mando had jumped down into the cargo hold.

Your hands froze, one still buried in your panties, the other gripping one of your breasts. The continued pressure, firm and stationary, was nearly unbearable, but you drew your lips between your teeth and bit down, willing yourself silent and still. Your heart was racing, and you could feel sweat gathering at your temples, in the small of your back, behind your knees. Wordlessly, you prayed to every deity you had ever heard of for him to leave. You were too pent up to have to stop now.

However, your prayers were not to be answered.

You heard the metallic hiss of the ‘fresher door sliding open and closed again, followed by the groan of the shower turning on.

He was taking a shower. Right on the other side of the thin panel of durasteel that made up the alcove wall.

…if you were going to finish, you were going to need to be absolutely silent.

Without allowing yourself to consider it further, you rolled over onto your front, wrapping one of your arms around the thin, threadbare pillow and burying your face in it. Trapping your other hand between your body and the mattress, you slowly, gently slipped your middle and ring fingers inside your pussy.

You moaned into the pillow at the stretch, tight and hot and absolutely dripping. Maker, Mando was so close to you – just on the other side of the wall, likely stripped naked like you were, standing under the steaming rush of the showerhead. Faceless, as he always was in your mind, but with the golden tanned skin you had seen but once, water streaming down his muscled shoulders, his broad, masculine chest, his soft stomach. You thrust your hips into the mattress at the thought, mindlessly fucking yourself on your fingers, grinding your swollen clit into the heel of your palm.

You weren’t going to last much longer. Having the object of your fantasies so close seemed to have sparked an urgency in you, the thought of him perhaps hearing your whimpers and moans so desperately smothered into the pillow lighting your nerves on fire. Your clit pulsed against your hand; your walls clenched around your fingers. Your hips circled and bucked of their own accord, chasing your release. It was too much, all of it was too much. You were going to come –

And then you heard it.

A soft, low groan, muffled against the wall of the ‘fresher. Purely male. Unmodulated. Unmistakable.

“Oh, fuck,” you sighed, feeling your pussy leaking onto your palm, onto the mattress. He was touching himself, too.

You couldn’t have held back your orgasm in that moment if you had tried. You shoved your face deep into the pillow as your pleasure ripped through your body. You could feel yourself drooling into the fabric, your mouth hanging open in a silent cry, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The smell of Mando’s soap, woven into the seams of the mattress, seeped into your senses and drew out your trembling.

By the time the last of the aftershocks had passed over you, your breast band hung loose around your waist, much of your hair had escaped from your braid to stick to your sweating forehead, and your underwear had become so twisted and wet that they were now startlingly uncomfortable. Drawing out your hand, dripping and sticky, you barely managed to shove them down your legs to join your boilersuit before you drifted off to sleep.

[kid-az]

Star Wars AU/alternate timeline where Jakku isn’t Just Tatooine 2 but has a different aesthetic to it, aka Scavenger-punk where the native cultures all emphasize the scavenging and recycling of the wrecks of spaceships and vehicles from various wars and making use of them in their daily life, kinda like how Rey resided inside an At-At.

The planet being utterly filled with the wrecks of Imperial, Rebel, Clone Wars, and even older ships, and half of the inhabitants of Jakku are sapient droids (Many being CIS battle droids who live peacefully with the residents) who coexist equally and alongside the organic inhabitants.

Not only do sapient organics and droids benefit from these wrecks but the wildlife does too. Water from coolant systems and waste alike, food supplies and shade provided by these ships creating oasis’s filled with bountiful life and plants, the warships that were once utilized to kill instead nourishing new life on the planet.

While definitely cold in exterior and distrustful of outsiders, (Since these outsiders were usually criminal groups or corporations wanting to exploit the resources of Jakku) Jakku’s people emphasized cooperation and supporting one-another in their daily life and struggles.

The galaxy may have treated them as nobodies and their planet as a dumping ground for trash, but for the people of Jakku their planet was a home that had everything they needed, a world that was theirs to be free, to run amok the so-called “useless” wrecks and make something new and beautiful out of them.

Sorry for not sounding normal I just think Jakku had potential to not be a discount Tatooine and instead be a unique planet with its own identity and culture emphasizing cooperation and the recycling of old technology and treas to make tools and works of beauty, where organics and droids lived together in harmony.

[magickkate]

Today, let's talk about Lammas, the Sabbat of the first harvest! As the days grow shorter and the first fruits of the harvest ripen on the vine, we come to Lammas, a festival of gratitude, abundance, and celebration. This Sabbat marks the first harvest of the season and celebrates the fruits of our labor and the blessings of the earth.

Lammas, also known as Lughnasadh, is a sacred festival celebrated on July 31st - August 2nd in the Northern Hemisphere (or January 31st - February 2nd in the Southern Hemisphere). It marks the halfway point between the Summer Solstice and the Autumn Equinox and is a time to honor the first harvest of the season and give thanks for the abundance of the Earth.

🌾 History and Traditions:

Lammas has its roots in ancient agricultural societies, where it was celebrated as a festival of grain and the harvest. The name "Lammas" comes from the Old English word "hlafmaesse," meaning "loaf mass," referring to the tradition of baking bread with the newly harvested grain. In Celtic mythology, Lammas is associated with the god Lugh, who was honored with games, feasting, and rituals celebrating the harvest. It is a time of community gatherings, feasting, and giving thanks for the blessings of the Earth.

Here are a few ways to honor the magic of Lammas:

Give Thanks for the Harvest: Take this time to give thanks for the abundance of the earth and the blessings of the harvest, expressing gratitude for the nourishment and sustenance it provides.

Bake Bread and Share Food: Bake bread or other baked goods using grains harvested from the earth, and share them with loved ones as a symbol of abundance and community.

🌾 Recipes: -> Lammas Bread: Bake a loaf of bread using whole grains such as wheat or cornmeal. Add herbs like rosemary or basil for flavor and intention. -> Harvest Soup: Create a hearty soup using seasonal vegetables like corn, squash, and potatoes. Infuse it with warmth and nourishment to symbolize the abundance of the harvest.

Create a Harvest Altar: Decorate your altar with symbols of the harvest, such as grains, fruits, vegetables, and symbols of abundance, to honor the bounty of the earth and the blessings of the season.

🌾 Correspondences:

Colors: Gold, yellow, orange, green.

Symbols: Wheat, grain, corn, bread, sunflowers, sheaves of wheat.

Herbs: Meadowsweet, chamomile, sunflower, rosemary, basil.

Crystals: Citrine, amber, peridot, carnelian.

Offerings to the Land: Make offerings to the land and the spirits of nature, giving back to the earth and expressing your appreciation for its gifts.

Hold a Harvest Ritual: Gather with loved ones to hold a ritual of gratitude and celebration, giving thanks for the abundance of the earth and the blessings of the season.

🌾 Rituals and Celebrations:

Harvest Ritual: Create an altar adorned with symbols of the harvest, such as grains, fruits, and vegetables. Offer gratitude to the Earth for its abundance and blessings. Light candles in shades of gold and yellow to honor the sun's warmth and energy.

Bread Baking: Bake bread using freshly harvested grains or incorporate grains like wheat or cornmeal into your cooking. As you knead the dough, infuse it with your intentions for abundance and prosperity.

Outdoor Activities: Spend time in nature, perhaps visiting a local farm or orchard to connect with the land and observe the ripening crops. Take a nature walk and collect wildflowers or herbs to decorate your home or altar.

Feasting and Sharing: Host a feast with friends and loved ones, featuring dishes made from seasonal produce. Share stories, laughter, and gratitude for the abundance of the harvest season.

Lammas is a time of gratitude, abundance, and celebration, reminding us to honor the cycles of nature and give thanks for the blessings of the Earth. May your Lammas be filled with joy, abundance, and blessings from the harvest! 🌾🍞🌞

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

My Daily Meditation by John Henry Jowett

In Green Pastures (Psalm 23)

This little psalm has been called the nightingale of the psalms. It sings “in the shade when all things rest.” It makes music in the darkness; it gives me “songs in the night.” And what does it sing about?

It sings of God’s bounty in food and rest. “Green pastures”; “still waters.” My Lord knows when my heart is faint, when it needs His reviving food. He knows when my heart is tired and needs His sweet rest. “He restoreth my soul.”

And it sings of the God-appointed way across the hill. “He leadeth me in paths of righteousness.” He makes the right way clear. He walks the path of duty with me. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.”

And it sings of the feast which the Lord serves in the very midst of my foes. “He spreadeth a table before me in the midst of mine enemies.” He gives me the fat things of grace in the very presence of frowning circumstances.

And it sings of the providence which guards the rear. “Goodness and mercy shall follow me!” God’s grace comes between me and my yesterdays. It cuts off the heredity from the old Adam, and no far-off plague comes nigh my dwelling.

[luv-kakashi]

One of us is dead

chapter two | chapter four

chapter three - konoha

"Aren't you guys supposed to be guarding the gates? I can't believe we're letting Konoha's biggest sleazebags guard our village, you know," a red-haired kunoichi retorted as she whacked the two gatekeepers awake.

"Oh good morning to you too Kushina. Besides, it's not like anyone's attacking the village or anything," one of the guards mumbled as he slowly raised his head, still half-dazed from his sleep.

"Oh sorry, it's not like the Third Shinobi War is happening right now, you know. Get it together! I'm going to scout the surrounding area and you two had better be awake by the time I'm finished!"

"I'm sure Minato will be back soon Kushina, and congrats on the Jounin promotion!"

Kushina left the two deadweights as she went for her normal morning. Her morning usually consisted of the same old; scout the surrounding area and report back to the hokage. 

Today had been no different until she reached the west gate.

Kushina watched as a girl collapsed in front of her, causing her to pull out a kunai, gripping it tightly before cautiously stepping towards the child. She knelt down and brushed long strands of red hair away from her face before inspecting her worn out, fatigued state. Dirt and sweat smeared across her skin and many shades of purple and blue decorated her neck, underneath her zipped-up jacket. The kunoichi turned her over to notice the child was clinging to a scroll, tightly wrapped against her chest with her bruised, bloody, blackened arms.

She couldn't help but bite the inside of her mouth at the state of girl, no older than her partners students, grasp onto the slightest bit of life left in her. Carefully picking her up, Kushina cradled the child to her chest and took off to the leaf's hospital.

The sunlight poured into the room, cascading through the curtains as it filled to room with its warmth. I slowly reached my hand out, hoping to feel anything that would indicate where I was.

Crisp sheets hugged my body as I laid in a bed full of soft feathers. It was soothing to say the least. 

But, where am I? The last thing I remember is running straight to the Land of fire. Had the masked man taken me away?

I jolted up out of the bed, panicking at the foreign hospitality I had been offered. 

Holy shit, where am I?

"Oh, good morning. Hey, hey, easy there. You have some nasty injuries, be careful" said a gentle voice from the corner of the room.

I turned to meet the voice and I was greeted by the prettiest kunoichi I had ever seen. Long locks of red hair cascaded past her shoulders as her amethyst eyes shone in the sunlight. 

"I'm Kushina Uzumaki, I found you out cold by the gates. Could you tell me a bit about yourself and why your here?"

An Uzumaki. I didn't think I'd run into a member of my clan so soon. 

Longingly, I stared at her as I took in everything I had just learnt. I hastily shoved my gaze onto my hands as I fiddled with my fingers.

I had to make up a good story-a believable one at that- explaining why I suddenly turned up here. 

It's not like I can just say 'Oh hey yes I'm running away from a bounty-hunting organisation who will kill me on sight. Oh, wait I forgot to mention that a masked man has blackmail material on me and told me to spy the village.'

I'm certain that these Konoha nin will look intently into any information I provide leaving no room for anything but the absolute truth.

"Whatever you do, do not reveal your identity"

"Um, I'm Y/N Uzumaki and my papa told me to run here if anything happened to him or the village." I muttered keeping my gaze stuck to fingers. 

If I were to make this somewhat credible, I'd have to start the water works real fast.

"My village. It was destroyed down many years ago, but then we moved closer to the Village Hidden in the Mist, but then I was taken away from my family!"

Hopefully this will lead to a dead-end if they decide to investigate my past. 

"Hey its okay you’re safe now Y/N," Kushina said as she ran to the side of my bed. My eyes burned as I forced them open and I sat there and sobbed. 

She whispered ever so gently as she coiled her arms around my fragile frame. She patted me on my head and smoothed out my tangled hair. 

The warmth and compassion she held me in felt comforting to say the least. But I didn't deserve an ounce of her love. I'm merely here acting as a pawn just so I find some way to survive in this hopeless world. I selfishly clung to her embrace but quickly retracted myself from her arms.

Wait. Where did the scroll go? Oh, for the love of Kami, I can't get caught. This is my only way to a brief freedom. I immediately started patting my body down hysterically but stopped after hearing a soft raspy chuckle come from the door.

"Looking for this?" a man clad in a long white robe says before handing the scroll back to me, "We found you clinging to this scroll for dear life. Can you tell us a bit about what happened and the scroll you bought with you?"

The Hokage. He must be the Hokage. 

"I was taken from my family and they kept me hostage for so long. I don't remember much from my captivity. But all I have is that scroll which my papa gave me. My parents, they might still be alive! I have to find them!"

"All in due time, you'll need to get strong first! That's why I've made arrangements for you to stay here in Konoha and you could join the academy if you would like. The medics have tended to your injuries and you're free to leave today. Kushina will see you to your new home."

"Thank you for letting me stay Lord third." I said as I bowed my head before he made his way out of the hospital room.

"Come, I'll show you to your new home."

Guilt slowly started creeping up on me as I walked down the streets of Konoha. I can't allow myself to get attached nor get swayed from my initial goal. 

Get the information for the masked man and leave as soon as possible. I won't allow myself to soften up to this village, it'll make saying goodbye easier if I don't. 

My thoughts were swayed as soft fingers interlaced mine.

"I don't want you getting lost in the crowd and besides you keep sighing, you know." Kushina said as we slowly parted from the morning crowd and onto a side street, 

"I promise you that we'll find your family in no time. We're Uzumaki's, that means your family is my family, you know! So cheer up! A sad look doesn't suit your cute face Y/N, you know!"

"Thank you, Kushina-san." I replied. 

Her words were wasted on me. Going to such lengths to avoid my true identity from being found. Lying to the very people who just saved me, forming fake bonds with those willing to offer me a home. 

It all left a sour taste in my mouth.  

"I'm sorry I wont be able to check up on you tomorrow, I have a mission early morning. But remember, you start at the academy tomorrow, so make sure to get there on time and to sleep well, you know!" Kushina said as she ruffled my hair, "If you need anything, just ask me, I live down the street there in that house."

"Thank you, Kushina-san. Have a good day." I said before making my way into my new apartment. It was furnished with basic necessities but that didn't matter.

After checking no one was in sight, I climbed out of the apartment window and jumped onto the street and sneaked out of the village with ease, considering the two jonin guarding the gates were fast asleep.

I found an empty area, secluded by the trees. Surely whatever is in this scroll can't kill me, the masked man seemed determined to get me to Konoha. 

I pulled the scroll out from my pocket, and braced myself as I flowed my chakra through the scroll.

"Blood manipulation: blood edge."

The scroll ripped open, and my vision was blurred by a POOF!

"Ah so you're finally here then," a voice emerged from the smoke.

My vision cleared up and Zetsu materialised in front of my eyes.

"Oh its you. What do you want?"

"Leader-sama wants you to keep an eye out on the nine tails jinchuriki, Kushina Uzumaki. The next time I see you, I expect a report Y/N chan. Or should I say Kunoichi Thirteen?"

"Where is Sumire, Zetsu?" 

"Patience is a virtue Y/N chan, it wouldn't kill to have some," Zetsu chuckled, "Besides she's living in a hidden cabin 40km north-west from here." 

"I hope you trip and break all your branches Zetsu." I spat, before turning my back to him as I made my towards Sumire. 

"Don't kill the messenger Y/N chan!" he said before seeping back into the earth, "Say hi to Sumire chan for me!" 

The way he seeps into the earth always sends a shiver down my spine, like watching something unnatural and unsettling disappear into the shadows. Even after he's gone, the creeping unease he leaves behind lingers in the air. I turn in the direction of Sumire and run with no thought but one; Sumire.

The house stands in eerie silence, a derelict relic of a forgotten past. The roof sags in the middle, with the odd tile missing or shattered, exposing the underlays and rafters. Windows that were perhaps clear and welcoming are now covered in grime. Vines and weeds claim their territory around the rotting wood, choking the paint underneath. 

Inside the air is thick with the scent of damp wood, the floorboards creak with every step and cobwebs drape the abandoned furniture.

Yet the suffocating air and the fading wallpaper fade away in the warmth of her embrace. 

"I'm home," I whispered, entering the dimly lit house. 

"Welcome back Y/N. It took you long enough to find me." Sumire said as she wheeled out of the kitchen to the entry way where I stood. 

"Sorry, I got caught up in some business. I missed you Sumire," I whispered as I kneeled to her so she could do my favourite thing ever. Play with my hair. 

Sumire hasn't always been like this. She hasn't been able to walk since I was in the academy. 

"I missed you too Y/N. Does that mean you will stay here with me?"

"I'm sorry Sumire, I have something to do here in Konoha, but I promise after I'm done we can leave like we always dreamed of." 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

And with that, the Uzumaki siblings have been reunited.

However, much still hangs in the air as confusion clouds Y/N's thoughts. Just how did Sumire end up in Konoha? It all seems so convenient that the masked man desperately needed Y/N to infiltrate Konoha, where she finds her sister.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As always you can find this fanfiction on wattpad (if you prefer wattpad formatting). Let me know what you think so far. Is it interesting? I'd love to hear from you dearest reader.

Loving you always,

Suri <3