#as they will they are just a several Creatures that is all they cannot help this

[catiuskaa]

head touches pillow.

sum: after a long day without you, finally able to cuddle against you, when his head touches the pillow, Hyunjin can’t help but dream.

wc: 5.1k

cw: dreams and art and philosophy coded fluff, hyunjin talks (in detail) about a sex dream, handjob, blowjob(?), aftercare.

[★★{📕}★★]

Hyunjin is a dreamer.

A dreamer is a curious creature whose head often floats several inches —or miles— above the ground, tethered to reality only by the occasional text message, meal, or heartbreak. They are powered by equal parts hope, caffeine —chocolate, in this writer’s case—, and the kind of delusion that dares to believe love letters still are a thing, that strangers on trains might be soulmates, and that rainstorms were invented for dramatic monologues, and really, really wet kisses.

Hyunjin blames his imaginative mind for all the late assignments, failed exams and dull evenings he’s had. If it weren’t for his active little mind, in a constant need for dopamine and books that can make one curl in bed, kicking their legs as they giggle and read about romance they can only hope they get to live, maybe he would’ve payed more attention —on a general sense, that is. And on a particular one, maybe then he wouldn’t have lost the bus that day.

But that would mean he wouldn’t have met you.

When a dreamer falls for another dreamer, the universe experiences a brief but noticeable glitch—somewhere, a clock forgets how to tick, a soldier writes poetry, and a star goes slightly off course just to watch what happens next.

“Oh, Larry won’t open the door for you, so I wouldn’t run,” you chuckle. “Mean bus driver, the fella.”

And Hyunjin just blinks, watching the red bus turn smaller as it drives away.

Turning to face you, he swears, changed his brain chemistry. Not that he knows much about brains nor chemistry, but somehow, when his eyes meet yours for the first time, it was as if the air paused mid-breath, unsure whether to exhale or hold onto the moment forever. There was no thunderclap, no dramatic swell of music —just a quiet, electric recognition, like two secret worlds brushing against each other at the edges. In that glance, he saw not just a face, but an entire cosmos made out of late-night musings, unfinished poems, and stardust tucked behind eyelashes, shining in the colour of your eyes. 

It wasn’t love at first sight, not exactly —it was possibility at first glance.

He doesn’t believe it happens often. When an artist such as him —or that’s how he enjoys calling himself when the blinds are down and no one’s looking— somehow falls in love, it’s like those magical moments that movies can’t help but mention. Finding a muse —to him, only you— is the one thing artists hope for in secret, hiding the fire in their hearts between layers of paint and crumbled ink-stained pieces of paper, hoping to never mix love and whorship in the same person, for one cannot hug someone that stands so far away on a pedestal.

Still, he yearns for the words a writer may reach to in order to make sense to the myriad of feelings that simmer in his paint-soaked heart, unable to express them in a way that could suffice.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hyunjin blinks, lowering his head to face you. He can’t help but smile, his eyes wrinkling at the sides.

“You’d lose all your money, my pearl. I think too much.”

Cuddling more against him as you giggle soothes within the both of you the tension from a long week, days that have passed by without the joy of seeing each other most of the time. But alas, here’s the sweet sweet joy of a long-awaited Friday night.

“C’mon,” you snicker, your hands tracing mindless paterns on his shirtless torso. You make a note to thank the summer weather for that. “Oh, at least tell me about that dream you had a couple nights ago.”

“A… dream?” He frowns in ginger confusion.

“Yeah, remember? I called you… Tuesday morning. You said you had a dream you wanted to tell me,” you grin, resting your chin on his chest.

"Oh, that dream,” his expression turns a little more mischievous. His smile only grows as he watches your expectant eyes. “Fun dream, that was. I remember it alright," he snickers, his tone a little husky. "Every single detail."

You give him a cheeky look, fixing your position to lay down next to him, your head up to face him, resting on your palm. 

“Go on. I’m all ears.”

He can’t help but chuckle, his expression playful. "Oh, are you now?" he teases, his tone low. "You want to hear all the dirty little details?"

“You know I do,” you grin, your other hand cheekily fidgeting with his golden chain.

He takes a deep breath, and he can’t help but lick his lips as he remembers the dream in detail. "So, it was just the two of us," he starts, his voice lower than usual, his gaze flickering over your features. "And we were... well, let's say we were in a bed."

“What do you mean, let’s say?” You grin softly. “Where were we?”

He chuckles, a small, charming smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "I don’t really know. I mean… well... you were on top of me, to be specific," his gaze turning a little bit heated. "And I could feel your skin against mine, your hands resting on my chest. And your face was... so close, I could feel your breath on my skin." Pausing, his voice grows huskier. "You looked into my eyes... it was like you were hungry for me."

As your hand couldn’t help but follow a slow path down his chest, your eyes stayed locked to his. There was something dangerously poetic about them, like they’ve been dipped in paint and secrets, and looking into them feels less like making eye contact and more like falling, headfirst, —heart-first—, into a storm you don’t want to escape. He didn’t just look at you—he unravels you. With one glance, he strips away your composure, peels back every practiced word, and leaves you lying there, entirely too aware of how close his mouth is to yours. It almost isn’t fair, the way his gaze lingers—slow, deliberate, like a hand sliding over bare skin —your nails, long, leaving cheeky red streaks over his abs. You could drown in him. You want to. God help you, you want to forget your own name if it mean he’d keep looking at you like that—like you were something he’d dreamt of touching —not just this once, but for lifetimes—, and now that you are here, he has no intention of looking away.

"You leaned in even closer,” he lets out in a short breath, “your lips… against my skin,” he swallows, dry. “I could feel… the heat radiating off your body and... I felt your words as a soft whisper against my ear," he murmured, eyes dark. "You said..." his eyes lock onto yours. "You said, ‘I want you. Now.’” he mumbles, his tone intense.

You licked your lips. God, you could eat him alive. “Then what happened?”

"You started… trailing your lips down my neck, leaving soft, wet kisses. It felt... really, really good."

“Mhh, I like the sound of that,” you smile.

He chuckles softly, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Good. It gets better," he simpers, his voice a little deeper than before.

"You then… started making your way down my body, your fingers trailing slowly over my chest, my stomach... and you stopped at my waist and..." he paused, his voice growing quieter as he remembered the rest of the dream.

Your hand started cheekily playing with the waistband of his pijama pants. “And?”

He swallowed dry, his body growing heated as he continues. "And you started... touching me," he lets out, like a  whispered, breathless confession. "Your hands were roaming all over my body, and your touch was soft, but so... possessive." You watch him lick his lips as he stares at you, and it feels like pornography. "Your lips followed your hands. And... you started nibbling on a spot right... here..." he vaguely moves his hand, as if afraid that would crack the heat-tinted atmosphere, and points to a spot just below his collarbone.

Leaning against his neck feels like a meancing act againt his self-restraint, and his heart too. He wants you to do it again. With this newly-found information about himself, Hyunjin can’t wait for you to try and kill him. 

“Oh, this one?” You smirk, stroking it with your nose tantalizingly.

He lets out something quite like gasp, a shaky exhale that sounds like "yeah," he breathes out heavily, his voice tinged with a moan that he’s holding back. He’s already hard. "T-that spot."

Only a fool would miss a chance this exquisit, so you quickly start to work. 

“Keep talking,” you whisper with a smirk.

Hyunjin’s brain threatens to turn off as he closes his eyes, his breathing heavier as you press kisses on his neck. "T-then, um..." he sighs, trying to focus through the sensation of your lips against his skin. "You started... moving lower, your hands and mouth down my chest... and then my stomach..."

He lets out a sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as your hand strokes his abs and your lips leave soft kisses on his neck, dusting his skin with pretty pinky marks. "Mmm, keep doing that," he murmured, his voice a little gruff. "It feels... really, really good."

“Keep talking about the dream, or I’ll stop,” you tease, smirking.

Fuck. Either he’s dreaming again, and today is only Thursday or he’s gotta be the luckiest man on Earth, he thinks, letting out a soft, breathy chuckle —a moan, if you squint your ears—, his eyes opening slightly. "Fine, fine... but keep going," he mumbles weakly, his tone laced with a hint of huskiness. "You were moving lower... and lower... and then... you reached my waist." His throat bobs, and you kiss it. He wants to cry. The thought of you stopping almost makes him, but he keeps talking, just like you asked. "You pulled my pants off, leaving me in my boxers," the dream seems almost tangible in the dark pools of his eyes. He can almost taste it, so he licks his lips again, one of his hand fisting the sheets, the other holding you close by your waist, his fingers quickly settling beneath your shirt where you hope he’ll always stay.

"I remember how… your fingers trailed over my thigh," he murmurs softly. "Gentle, but… firm…”

And so you press wet kisses down his chest, happily following the innocent little words that leave his lips —lips you hadn’t want to kiss this bad since, at least, last Friday, but you refrain just to keep listening to him— until you can reach his thigh with your hand. 

Your eyes move to his. Soft, wide, sly. “Like this?”

Yes. No. He’s going to blow in milliseconds. Scratch all that, you have to be a dream. Reality hasn’t felt this good since someone put butter in popcorn. Since he figured out color theory to some extent. He lets out a soft gasp, his breathing quickening. 

"Yes,” he almost moans, “exactly like that."

His hand grips the bedsheet like the poor thing could ever keep him tethered to how your mouth lingers on his collarbone. If this is a dream and he wakes up, he’s catching the first bus and knocking your door of its hinges with the only objective of doing very bad things to you. But when your kisses slow down in intensity, and your hands threaten to leave his blushed skin, he keeps talking. This is real, and if you stop, he’ll start begging. 

"You started kissing," he pants out, "kissing… down my thigh... and then you… started moving... higher."

He pauses, his breathing growing heavier as the next part of the dream unveils in his mind. Hyunjin needs you to keep touching him. "You were right between my legs, your lips just... barely against my skin,” his eyes flutter open, and he has the cutest blush all over his face. You’re going to eat him.

“T-then you… took me in your mouth," he gasps softly, his eyes closing again. "I remember how your tongue felt, how your lips felt-" He winces, because the memory and your touch alone are making him really hard.

He can’t do this. This feels too good. He’s not going to be able to let you go on Sunday afternoon. But then your hand travels down his chest and beneath his blue-striped pj’s, and he’s dead. 

“Keep talking, love,” you grin, kissing his chest as you start stroking him, moving your hand up and down.

He lets out a low moan, his body involuntarily bucking against your touch. "A-ah... I'm... trying..." he whines quietly, his voice growing huskier by the second. "Y-You were... um-" He trails off, now rendered unable to form a coherent thought, the sensation of your touch scrambling his brain.

"You... you were moving... up and down," Hyunjin tries to speak, but his words are cut off by a moan. His breathing is heavy and his chest rieses and falls rapidly. He can’t even look at you anymore; his eyes are shut tight, his head pressed against the pillow, blushing all over as he squirms underneath you.

"I... I don't...don't know how much...longer I can...can keep doing this," he admits in a low, ragged voice. "I... I need..." he attempts to say something, but the words just don’t come out. "Please, I… I need..." he pleads softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand slows down. You have the desperate need to fuck him senseless. Desperate, submissive Hyunjin is a rare sight, and you want to cover him up in pink hickeys. 

“The dream, love. Keep talking, mhh?”

He lets out a low, soft whine as your hand slows down, his eyes clenched shut. "Oh…a-ah, okay," he whispers, trying to regain his composure. The feeling of your touch is driving him crazy, but he knows he has to stay focused, because this feels too good to stop now. 

"You were... you were moving so... so slowly, and... and it was driving me insane." His eyes are like crescent moons, cheeky drops of sweat shining on his forehead, and on his pink-coloured chest. "I... I wanted more... but you were teasing me so much" he murmurs, his voice growing more desperate by the second. "I wanted to... grab you and... and just-" He groans in frustration, unable to find the words. "I wanted... I needed..." he chokes out, whimpering, struggling through the fog of pleasure. "God... it's so hard to think..."

Teasing him comes off naturally. Just looking at him makes you want to lean and bite his cheek. Instead you snicker, smirking. 

“Oh, poor baby. Feel so good, he can’t even think.”

Surely, you weren’t expecting the embarrassingly needy whine he lets out, his face flushed with pleasure. "Y-Yes," he murmurs softly, his arm moving to cover his eyes and how his blush turns deeper in colour, his voice heavy with desire. "A-and... and it's all your fault."

God. Your legs would give out if you were standing. His muscles flex as he tries to hide his face, kind of, and the fact that you know he’s far too gone to be consciously showing off only makes you hornier. Pleasure looks so good on Hyunjin, you can’t help but need more, as you start stroking him slightly faster. “That’s a pity,” you whisper with a smile. “Feels good, yeah?”

He groans, his hips instinctively bucking against your touch. "Y-Yeah," he breathes out weakly, his voice strained. "It feels... so good."

“Wonderful,” you grin, eyes so dark Hyunjin believes they might’ve just turned black. “Keep talking, then, love. What happened next?”

His body dares to tremble with pleasure as you continue, his breathing ragged and uneven. "You..." he trails off, trying to find the words to speak. "You... moved your mo.. a-ah, mouth away... but you... oh, God, y-you replaced it with..." he lets out a moan, his breath hitching as you continue your slow ministrations, “you replaced it with your hand... and..." He swallows hard, trying to find the words through the pleasure, "a-and you were... slow... and gentle..." he manages to speak, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Just like this?” you whisper too.

The feeling of your touch is driving him wild. 

"Yes," he whimpers, almost sheepishly. "Just... just like that."

He’s struggling to keep his mind clear, the pleasure almost overwhelming him. "Please..." he whines, his voice hoarse and needy. "I need... I need..."

Your eyes look into his, but you only find dark tones of brown that scream at you to keep going. “Focus, love,” you smile. “The dream, mhh?”

He struggles to speak, already feeling like it’s hard to think straight. "Y-You... you started to... speed up..." he whispers, his voice raw with desire. "And... and it felt so... so good,” he breathes heavily, “a-and then, you… ” He groans softly, his whole body trembling as he envisions the scene play out in his mind once more. "Y-You... you lowered yourself onto me..." he blinks slowly, his eyes locking onto yours, his voice heavy with lust. "And... and it felt... so good... so perfect..."

He inhales sharply, his heart feeling like it might just leap out of his chest. "You... you started... moving slowly... and... and I-" He lets out a low, guttural moan, his body arching towards your touch instinctively. "God... it feels... so good... so good... I can't think straight... I-I need you... I need you, flower... please…”

You kiss his thigh, to which he lets out a soft moan at the feel of your kiss, his body trembling with need. You’re going to cave, you know you will, but watching him like this is an addiction you don’t want to let go off just yet. “Does the dream keep going too long?”

"N-Not much longer," he sighs weakly, his voice strained with desire. "I am... I w-was so close... I-" He pants, the memory of the dream playing out in his mind. "I was so... I was so close to..." he confesses, his voice thick with lust. "But just before I could... you... you stopped."

And almost cheekily, your hand stopped, teasing. “I… edged you?”

Hyunjin is pretty sure he’s dead at this point. His body trembles, pliant and undone, eyes glassy with surrender as he floats deeper into that delicious haze —where time blurs and sensation reigns. Every word from you felt like silk and command wrapped in fire, and he clings to it like a lifeline, like prayer. His voice is barely a whisper now, rough with need, as he chokes out, "N-no… please, flower." Not out of pride, but desperation —because in this state, he isn’t thinking, only feeling, and everything he feels is you. Every nerve begs to be touched, praised, claimed—each second without your hands, your voice, your rhythm, feels like air slipping through his lungs. He’s gone, truly gone, and the only thing tethering him to reality is the gravity of your control and the aching, raw hunger to please keep going.

You coo at him, leaning against him to kissing his cheek, “You’re doing so good, love. Keep going, for me?” He nods softly, and you smile, softly pressing your lips against his. 

“And then?” You smile, resuming your slow pace with your hand.

His body responds immediately, his back arching as he let out a low moan. "Y-You..." he fails to speak, his words lost in a pool of desire. "You... you kept going... and... and it was so... s’good... but it was... frustrating... to be so... close... but not... not quite there yet..."

His body is shaking with need, his breath coming in short gasps as he struggles to speak. "Please," he begs softly, his voice a mix between a whine and a whisper. "Please... I need you… please… make me-"

Your tongue against his length weakens him in ways he never thought possible before, and when he finds your eyes glued to his, he’s sure his eyes tear up in pleasure. 

“Keep talking, love.”

He lets out a strangled moan. "Oh... oh god..." he moans again, his voice broken by pleasure. "T-too good... I… it's so... hard to... to keep… speaking..."

“C’mon, love,” you smirk. “You want me to keep going, don’t you? You just have to keep talking about the dream.”

He’s wrecked—gasping, trembling, eyes glazed as he blinks down at you like he can’t remember how to exist without your touch. "Yes... yes... please... don't stop..." he mumbles, his voice strained with need. "The dream, I'll... I'll keep talking..."

Hyunjin takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to compose himself as so to keep on talking. "So...  you k-kept going... and... and I was so close... so close... but it wasn't enough..." He sweats and blushes with need, his mind blurry as he struggles to focus on the words. "I was… I couldn't... couldn't handle it any longer...”

His toned body arches against you as he feels himself nearing the edge. "Please... please... I need you, flower... I need you so badly..." he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please... please, I can't take it anymore..."

You’re caving. You want to see him come. “How did the dream end, love?”

He lets out a strangled moan as you start kissing him, the touch of your lips sending sparks of pleasure through his body. "I... I don't...I don't remember..." he whines, his voice thick. "It all gets... it gets too hazy... I just remember feeling too... too pent up... too needy..."

“And then you woke up?”

He nods, a low, shaky laugh escaping his lips. "Yeah... I woke up... and I was so... so frustrated," he pants, his voice heavy with the echo of unfulfilled desire.

You blink. The smirk that takes over your lips makes Hyunjin shiver. “Love, did you… relieve yourself… thinking about me that morning?” 

His cheeks grow hotter, his expression turning more sheepish. "Yes... I… I did," he confesses in a hushed tone. "I couldn't help it... you were all I could think about." The memory of that morning is still vivid in his mind. "I was thinking about you... your touch... your voice... your body..." he murmurs, his voice growing huskier with every word.

“And you were touching yourself, just like this?”

He can’t help but moan at your words, his body responding instinctively to the mention of what he has done. He feels like he has been caught, and the way you’re looking at him threatens to send him over the edge. "Yes... just like this..." he nods, gulping. "I was... imagining your hands on me... just like this… and I... I couldn't stop thinking about you... thinking about what you would do to me..." he admits, his voice reeling in desire, almost rolling off his tongue. 

Mesmerized, you speed up, watching him squirm and gasp, his body arching towardsyour touch as the pleasure intensifies. "Oh... oh god... yes, yes..." he moans, his eyes closing tightly as he feels himself getting closer and closer. "Don't…” He groans softly, his hand gripping the bedsheets again. "Please... please, I can't... I can't hold back any longer..." he pleads, his voice sunken in sheer pleasure. 

“Tell me, love. Where you thinking about that when you called me that day?”

He swallows hard, his breath coming in short gasps as he remembered the memory. "Y-Yes," he managed to say, his voice ragged with desire. "I... I couldn't help it... you... your voice… it brought e-everything back... a-and I... I tried to keep my composure... but I couldn't... I couldn't keep it together..."

“What did you want to do to me, mhh?”

His body almost dares to tremble with need as he remembered the thoughts he had. Hyunjin is shaking, flushed and helpless, lost so deep in the haze he barely knows his own name —just yours. His fingers curl like he’s trying to hold onto reality, but all that comes out from his lips isa desperate, wrecked, tone, as he follows your command. "I... I wanted to touch you... to hold you... to feel you against me... to hear you moan..." he whines, his voice rough with need. "I wanted you so badly... so badly, it was driving me insane."

His breathing turns erratic. He’s going to come, but he wants to make you happy. He wants to hear you allow him. 

"I couldn't... couldn't get you out of my head... I just wanted to... to do things to you..." he gasps, his words fading into the air as he loses himself in the memories. "I wanted to... to feel you... to taste you... to hear you moan my name..."

His lips part around a soft, broken sound, eyes barely open, glazed with need and devotion. He’s trembling under your hands, breath shallow, voice cracked as he whispers, "I wanted... I wanted you so bad... I couldn't focus on anything else... I could only think about you... about your touch... about how good it felt when you-" He gasped, cutting himself off as the memory flared back up, leaving him breathless. "God... I could barely... barely concentrate on anything else... though I was… going crazy..."

He lets out a low, shaky moan, his body trembling uncontrollably as the waves of pleasure consume him. "That's... that's why it was so hard... so hard..." he whimpers, his words interrupted by soft gasps as he felt himself teetering on the edge. "It was so hard to... to talk... to talk to you... and not... not think about... a-about…!”

His whole body tenses beneath you, a helpless shudder rolling through him as the pressure builds past the point of return. His fingers twist in the sheets —desperate, frantic—, trying to hold onto something solid while the rest of him falls apart. Then he lets out a moan, deep and broken, the kind that seems to rise straight from his soul, and you take him into your mouth fully, slowly, as if savoring the moment just as much as he is unraveling in it. And when he finally comes —spilling over with a cry that sounds half like your name, half like prayer— you don’t flinch. You stay, mouth warm, accepting, steady, anchoring him as he shakes and gasps and loses himself entirely in you. You feel the way he melts, undone and wrecked and utterly yours, and you don’t let go until his body stops trembling, until he’s all quiet panting and reverent touch, eyes dazed, still somewhere between the high and the afterglow.

His mind goes blank for a moment as the intensity of the sensation overwhelms him. As he slowly comes back down to Earth, he looks down at you with a dazed expression on his face, his breathing ragged and labored. "Y-You..." he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Y-You're... God, flower, I missed you.."

You merely swallow, licking your lips and smile. “I missed you too, love.”

His body still trembles with the aftermath of his climax. You cuddle against him, fixing his hair, kissing his temple with a smile. 

“Want me to fetch a damp towel, love?” you whisper. “I know you don’t like sleeping all sweaty.”

Watching him nod, soft and dazed, like his whole body has finally let go, you smile and brush a hand over his cheek. He lets out a big, shuddering sigh —the kind that seemed to empty every last bit of tension from his chest— and his eyes flutter shut, peaceful in that quiet, golden moment. You move and lean down to kiss him —slow, lingering. He kisses you back with a hum, too blissed-out to speak, but full of everything he wants to say. With one last stroke of your thumb across his jaw, you slip away for a moment, careful not to wake him from the soft place he’s landed in.

When you come back with the damp towel, he’s still lying there, loose-limbed and beautiful, the rise and fall of his chest steady, calm. You lean beside him, murmuring something gentle as you began to clean him up, slow and careful, like a ritual. He barely moves—just lets you care for him, eyes fluttering open now and then to meet mine with that same look he always gives you in these moments: trust, tenderness, and something so deep you’re not quite sure it has a name. not in any language you know, at least. 

We speak of the experience of an encounter as that which can appear before us without our expecting it. It can change our course, it can transform us. It is the novelty that happens to us and then inhabits us. Two paths that cross. Two people that miss the bus at the same time.

What happens when we fall in love? Is it simply a matter of wanting what we don't have, or of wanting it because it seems forbidden? We consider it more interesting to think of it as a set of forces united in a singularity that challenges us, that summons us. One of those things that make us fall in love with someone. In Hyunjin’s case, the colour of your eyes could haunt him in his sleep, and he would forever be grateful for it. Or your smile, and how it lights up the room.

A smile is something that happens between two people. It is a gesture that begins and ends in the gaze of the other, of the person who may feel trapped, invoked, questioned, stolen by that smile. It does not belong to someone. It does not belong to its owner, but is a ‘between’ the two. It takes place in a relationship of one with the other. There is something in that smile that unites, in the same group, everything that has to do with us. Like in that moment when one is frightened and sees one's life flash before one's eyes, only in this case, one sees the life we would have with the person in front of us, reflected in the brightness of their irises.

Who are we afterwards? Are we the same? What happens inside us when we encounter forces, affinities, nuances, tones, and colours that we never expected, but which become everything we desire? It is a question of thinking about the displacement that occurs. When love crosses us, there is a swaying from side to side, a foreshadowing of the transformation to come when these two people collide. This love is only possible because of the tension that makes it unsolvable: a tension between who we are and who we are not, between presence and absence. An encounter from which we emerge changed.

Or not. Maybe the world still spins as usual —but for Hyunjin, with you by his side, it hums in a different key. One composed entirely of music, comfort, and dreams he no longer has to imagine alone.

And as his head touches the pillow —the cold side, after flipping it around—, he passes his arm over your waist and pulls you closer.  

Tomorrow, Saturday morning, he will make sure to pay you back, but right now, Hyunjin is sure.

He loves Friday nights.

[★★{📕}★★]

~kats, who’s new vocal stim is from sade’s kiss of life, “there must’ve been an angel by my side.” (and yes, I am aware that today isn't Friday. sue me)

catiuskaa, june 2025 ©

permanent taglist! @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung

[yinyuedijun]

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) ← part one | masterlist

11.6k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and sexual violence (none from Mydei, none inflicted on the reader). MDNI. dividers by @/strangergraphics.

Castrum Kremnos will fall.

Gazing upon the polis from the balcony of your room, you are sure of it: this is the town that you had seen in your vision, the one that had been succumbing to a sea of darkness and flood of monsters. The sky had been pitch-black—both moons gone, every constellation shattered—and the only light had been from the blaze of the fire tearing through the streets. The roars of mad Titankin and dying men had echoed into that strange night, the savage city howling in its death throes.

Castrum Kremnos will fall. The Black Tide will swallow it, and you will have your revenge. Oronyx would never lie to you, so you understand this for a fact. And because she would never lie to you, you also know this:

Prince Mydeimos will save you as his city falls.

You do not know what to make of it. The warrior who led an army into raping and plundering Aurelia will protect its High Priestess. The general of a warmongering tribe will take your hand and flee from battle. The lost prince who longed nine years for his home will abandon it to save you.

And the heir to a millennia of Strife cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a shallow cut across your palm.

You wonder if you have somehow misinterpreted Oronyx. But when you glance at Prince Mydeimos and catch him studying you with concern, you cannot help but believe that your understanding of your visions is truthful, at least in part. Even that of the one that bothers you the most—the one with all the children.

“Do you like dromases?” you ask him, and he blinks. You'd just been speaking of the Black Tide—its encroachment from all directions, Kremnos’ millennia of struggle against it, the good fortune that Aurelia had in avoiding it—so you suppose it is fair that he's surprised by the question.

“Dromases?” he inquires.

“Yes. You know—the long-necked purple creatures? They’re rather big. Hard to miss.”

He tries—and fails—to suppress an irritated sigh. “I know what a dromas is. I simply wondered if I'd misheard. Why on earth would you ask?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he replies, cataloguing you. “You have never asked about my personal interests before.”

Ever since Oronyx blessed you with prophecies several nights ago, your captor has been frustratingly suspicious of all questions you've asked—and with good reason. Nearly every single one has been related to your supposed future with Prince Mydeimos. However, you would rather die than tell him that you will, at some point in the future, blissfully feed a dromas together before a crowd of giggling children. Worse than the scene itself had been the unadulterated joy you’d felt in it: the genuine delight in seeing Mydei—not your captor, not Prince Mydeimos, but Mydei—so free of sorrow and so… safe.

Safe. You will be safe with Mydei in a beautiful city of eternal sun and cerulean baths. You will be safe with the Crown Prince who sacked your temple and burned your lands. You are safe with your captor who keeps you locked in his room, dressed in chains.

It sends you into such misery that you can hardly think of it, let alone admit to it.

“Nevermind,” you dismiss. “It isn't important.”

The Crown Prince gives you a long look, but you turn your gaze back to the city before he can search you too carefully. The silence that passes is so uncomfortable that you pray he will let the matter drop—but then he replies, “I have always found them curious animals, but I have not had much opportunity to interact with them.”

“Oh.”

You catch him watching you, expectant. “And yourself?” he prompts. At your blank look, he adds, “Do you like them?”

Does it matter? you nearly parrot, before you realise he must think you care about his opinions about dromases, and now he cares about yours. The Crown Prince of Kremnos wishes to know your thoughts about the silliest of all of Georios’ creations, and you can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this absurdity.

You choose to deflect, in the end: “They’re quite useful for trade, yet I hardly ever see them here.” You gesture at the streets, which are filled with soldiers and horses, but bereft of the great beasts that populate the rest of Amphoreus. “I was wondering if Kremnoans had something against them.”

“Not against them, precisely. It is just that they are not often used in war—their disposition is too docile. And the terrain surrounding Kremnos is often too hostile for trade caravans to cross.”

You frown. “Too hostile? How do you get food?” You glance at the plate in front of you, filled with honeyed sweets. “The ingredients that you use when you cook—they’re always fresh.”

“Helots till the land outside Castrum Kremnos in our settlements. Everything else comes from surrounding city-states.”

Prince Mydeimos looks away. So do you. The implication is clear: Everything else we steal. Everything else is plunder. Because the city runs on war, and you know this. You know this because you are no different from fresh food or fine wine. You are plunder just like the brown-sugared apples in your cakes and the warm spice of cinnamon in your dishes, and you will be devoured in the same way—sacrificed to Nikador by the future King of Kremnos.

Aquila’s eyes bear down on Prince Mydeimos in judgment, and your chains gleam in the harsh Kremnoan sun. Some time in the future, a strange, eternal dawn lights up Mydei’s gentle expression, your barren wrists. You can still hear your own laughter at the sight of him feeding a dromas. You can still hear yourself giggling as you are lifted onto one for the first time, a toddler squealing in the arms of her mother.

The truth is that you are painfully fond dromases. They were everywhere in Aurelia, and you loved riding them in the days before you were initiated into the Cult of Oronyx, before you became untouchable in her temple. The truth is that some day in the future, you’ll be elated seeing Mydei with one of those beasts, and you'll have the idea of getting him to take the Kremnoan children on rides—just like how you once were.

You take a bite of your pastry, its syrup cloying on your tongue, and you feel like a traitor.

One night, during the Hour of Curtain-Fall, you wake up with a knife to your throat and a hand over your mouth.

You do not recognize the intruder. He is clad in black, a shadow in the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Come easy and I won't have to hurt you,” he says lowly, and that's when you know that he doesn't mean to kill you, but it doesn't stop you from fighting anyway.

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

The motion comes easily to you after all your practice with the golden dagger—obsessive, fervored, a nightly ritual after your dreams of being raped, of being torn apart by golden gauntlets—and blade runs into the flesh of the man before you, cutting without resistance. But your aim is clumsy, untrained; while the intruder curses and recoils, he is neither killed nor deterred. His hands crush your wrists, pinning you to the bed.

“Fucking whore,” he spits as you kick and squirm beneath him, his blood dripping onto your sleeping garb. “You think I won't kill you if you're more trouble than you're worth?”

It's happening again. Aurelia is burning again. Your ivory chiton is being stained red; your body is being grabbed by violating, pilfering hands. You are going to be dragged away and stolen. You are going to be raped, for that's what happens to women who fall into the hands of the enemy—the hands of Castrum Kremnos. And unlike the first time, you are all alone—no worshippers at your back, no altar giving you strength, no Crown Prince to protect you.

Here, all alone in the hands of a beast, you scream the first thing that comes to mind:

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

You don't actually expect help to come. You aren't even fully aware of what you're saying, if it even makes sense. But after several moments of shrieking and struggling, the door is forced open and the intruder is being pulled off your body and skewered on a blade. You hardly notice it, though, heart seizing with fear and mind flooding with panic. All you do is weep, feeling the hands that dragged you from your altar, recalling the dreams—visions?—of someone forcing their way inside you, and it takes you several moments to realise you are sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is holding you. Someone’s arms are cradling you, and they're so warm and firm and safe. You have not felt safe in months, not since the soldiers broke through your temple doors, and now you're pressing yourself into this warmth, clinging to it. You think you'll die if you let go.

“It's alright,” someone says. Their voice is a low rumble, but gentle. “It’s alright. I have you. I have you.”

You are too busy sobbing to reply. A hand rubs your back until you have calmed, your senses returning to you. You look up when you do—

And you panic.

The golden eyes that glared down so hatefully at you when you were stolen, the figure of Strife that will kill you someday—they’re inches away from you. So close. Too close. You flinch, tearing yourself out of the hands that sometime, somewhere in the Evernight Veil, are forcing open your legs.

Even in your fear, you can see the pain in Prince Mydeimos’ eyes when you look at him with such terror.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm you. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. I—”

“I know.” You close your eyes, count to ten as you shudder. I'm not in the temple. I'm not in the tent. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I was raised not to weep. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. “I know you won’t. I’m well now. I'm fine. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry.”

Except there is. You are sorry for how weak you are. For how desperately you clung to your captor in your moment of disgrace. For how warm you felt, how safe you felt. If you could apologise to all the corpses on your temple steps, you would. You would place their bones upon your altar and prostrate yourself, and then you would beg Talanton to punish you for your injustice toward them.

How did you feel safe in the arms of a man who killed your worshippers?

“Why did you come?” you ask. Your voice is tight, your anguish barely contained. Why aren't you hurting me? Why are you protecting me? Why are you going to save me as your city falls? But you know the answer, know it before he even says it—

“I told you I do not wish to see you harmed. Not even by a hair.” His voice, calm and deep, is so comforting, like the warm spice of cinnamon. You look down, feeling like a traitor.

“But I thought you stayed at the barracks at night,” you say, desperate to change the subject.

“Normally I do. But King Eurypon called me on business here, and he bid that I stay the night.” His voice grows irritated. “How convenient it is that the guards disappeared and an assassin entered my room on the same evening.”

Even through the fear, your mind works through the implications. “You think he came for you?”

“I know it.”

Your brow pinches. “But he told me to come with him. He—he wanted to abduct me.” You stare at Prince Mydeimos, at the way his mouth tightens, at the immediate outrage burning in his eyes, and then you understand. “…they wanted to take me as a hostage.”

He nods. “I may not have been here, but you would have made for a fine consolation prize.”

It is a ludicrous statement—so naïve that it shakes you out of your fear. An Aurelian general once came to you for counsel on what to do about his most beautiful courtesan, who had been stolen from him by an Aidonian warrior. When you foretold her eventual location, he marched upon the enemy and sealed her fate as a casualty.

“I don't know about that,” you say, thinking of the poor girl, of her mother weeping in your temple. “Whores and slaves generally make for poor hostages. They are too disposable to provide any political leverage.”

“Men have been known to act unwisely for their favoured concubines.”

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

He gives you a wry look. “You are not, yet I act unwisely over you anyway.”

You can hardly argue with this. Prince Mydeimos should have killed you the moment you alluded to his plans of regicide—instead, he has kept you in his room, pampers you with sweets, and has you accompany him on long walks. It’s maddening.

“You should start being crueler to me,” you grouse. “Maybe then I will be left alone by your enemies.” And it would be better for my own sanity.

Prince Mydeimos is unamused. “Even if I had any inclination to hurt you, I doubt it will make things any safer for you at this point.” He stares at the corpse with irritation. “I will need to come back after dealing with this body.”

You blink. “Come back? You won't return to the barracks?”

“No. I would not leave you alone after an attempt to abduct you. I will return and stay here for the night.”

The look that you give him is so affronted that he immediately realises his error.

“Only to safeguard you,” he explains hurriedly. “I would sleep at the door. Leave you alone.”

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

“I cannot swear that I would not hurt you.”

“That’s fine. Do whatever you want. You may even kill me as you so often wish—as long as you are kept safe, I don’t mind it.”

You look away, utterly lost. Killing him used to be your fantasy, your only purpose for staying alive. Now, the words make you feel hollow. “You only don't mind it because you won't really die,” you accuse. Deflect.

“Strictly speaking, I would. It’ll just be impermanent. I'm sure it will be no less satisfying for you, though—you will still get to see me suffer in my death throes.”

You do like the idea of him suffering. He would deserve it. Still, you are not a sadist. “If you truly decide to stay,” you reply noncommittally, “we may see for ourselves.”

“I'm certain we will,” he says dryly. He rises from the bed, steps toward the coprse. Says he’ll give you time to change—you only remember then that your nightwear is stained with blood—and that he will return soon enough.

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“When you were calling for help,” he says slowly, “you screamed for someone named ‘Mydei’. Did you misspeak in an attempt to call for me? Or were you calling for someone else?”

You freeze. Scramble for an answer. You cannot tell him that you were calling for him—for you weren't, not really. You were calling out for the version of him that Oronyx showed you, the one in that beautiful city where you were both free and safe. Some part of you knows that Mydei would have saved you, knows it so surely that his name was the first and only thing you could think to scream. But assuming the same of Prince Mydeimos would make you an idiot: for all of his good behaviour, the man still has you in shackles, and he has never shown remorse for raining destruction upon your home.

Also, your ego would not be able to take admitting it was him.

“Someone else,” you reply firmly. At his skeptical look, you add, “Truly. Do you think I would call for the man who abducted me?” You give him an disdainful look, and although you can't seem to muster any fire behind it, he believes it all the same.

The suspicion leaves his eyes, and he nods. “This Mydei,” he asks, “is he someone close to you?”

“Close enough.”

“Who is he? A guard? A friend? A lover?”

Wouldn't I like to know. The possibilities make you feel like throwing up, and the pain in your voice is genuine when you reply, “I don’t wish to say. It doesn't matter.”

“I see.” His expression looks strange—an artefact of the moonlight, you want to think. “Well, whoever he is, he isn't here with you. Next time, you should just call for me.”

For the next three nights, Prince Mydeimos sleeps in your room.

He does as promised: he slumbers on the klinai near the door, never approaching your bed. You know this for a fact, for you stay awake the whole night. You stare at the ceiling, clutching your dagger until Aquila opens his eyes and Prince Mydeimos leaves for the day. It is only then you allow yourself to sleep, because even though you can now admit—with a great deal of misery—that the Crown Prince has no desire to hurt you, Aurelia is still burning behind you, and your heart is still rupturing in Nikador’s claws. But somehow, even with all of these memories and visions, you do not think of actually using your blade against the Crown Prince.

Then the fourth day comes.

Prince Mydeimos takes you out for a walk along a new path. It is busier than your usual ones on the rooftops and parapets, which are bereft of anyone other than the occasional warriors. On this long walk through one of the palace courtyards, there are not only guards and soldiers, but also statesmen and nobles—and slaves.

Some of them are in chains like you; some of them are in white caps. Many are soldiers, some are servants, and you see a few other concubines in garb not unlike your own: dressed beautifully in sheer silks, almost translucent and wholly indecent in how they cling to their bodies. But despite their expensive dresses and fragrance and rouge, all of them wear chains, gold or silver dangling from the manacles on their wrists or the collars on their necks. Some are even tied around their waists like belts, cruel and beautiful decoration. There are, you think, helots too—wearing ivory veils or flowers in place of the usual white cap. They are afforded slightly more dignity that way.

But regardless of their exact station—helot or slave—they are in the thrall of their owners, and they are subject to disproportionate punishment under Kremnoan law. You are startled when you hear a shriek pierce the quiet of the courtyard—anguished and pained and followed by begging.

Your eyes land on the source: a master and a slave. The slave is on the ground, her arms held up to shield herself from his strikes, her fiery hair curtaining over her face. She's trembling, cowering, reeling from the force of the abuse.

It feels familiar: both the terror and the pain. You think of the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, of being struck by that hoplite and stumbling to the ground. Prince Mydeimos had saved you then. He'd acted cruelly but he'd saved you, helped you up and took you onto his chariot, away from the Kremnoan soldiers.

But he's not saving her.

The slavemaster yells all sorts of profanities and accusations at the concubine. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes are intent on the two of them, his every muscle tense—but all he does is watch and listen. You stare at him, mouth agape. “Aren't you going to help?” you hiss.

“Were she a helot, I could,” he replies under his breath. “Helots are all owned by the state, and it would be my legal right to intervene. But slaves are private property, and I…”

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

Your throat goes dry. Your heart pounds in your ears. Each time the Kremnoan kicks his slave, you nearly flinch; every time she begs for mercy, you want to clasp your hands over your ears. Your throat swells up and you think you might whimper—but I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot—

She screams in Aurelian.

You tense. Look at your captor, look at the slave. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, and he knows what you are going to do, but you bolt before he can stop you.

“Stop,” you cry in Kremnoan, “stop, stop!”

The slavemaster is so surprised when you come between them that he does stop. You don't look at him; you only focus on the concubine. She never worshipped at your temple much, but she came when she was younger, just after you rose to the position of hiereia and before the long conflict with Kremnos began. Kassandra, you think her name was. She must recognise you, for she clings to you immediately, starting to babble in your mother tongue. High Priestess, she cries, High Priestess, my lady, please help me, please help, please—

Her master pulls you off her and throws you to the ground. He kicks you so hard in the stomach that you nearly throw up. You writhe like a worm on the stone path, pathetic and disgraced.

It's exactly what you want.

He kicks you thrice more. Once in the stomach, and twice in the ribs, his foot cracking brutally against you. Kassandra weeps and throws her body over yours, begging him to stop, but then she goes as silent as death. The kicks stop too. When you look up, you see a golden gauntlet restraining the slavemaster’s wrist. The man has gone as white as a sheet.

“Aineidas,” Prince Mydeimos says in greeting. His voice is heavy with obvious displeasure. You note the lack of honorific. Not a strategos. Not an Elder. Not a noble—or not an important one, anyway. A warrior? But he's so old…

“Y-your Highness,” Aineidas greets. “It has been long since we’ve last seen each other.”

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

Aineidas glances at you. Realization flashes in his eyes, and you have to actively stop yourself from smiling.

“I heard your victory was stunning,” Aineidas says immediately, trying to ingratiate himself. “How disappointed I was that I could not fight alongside the Crown Prince and see you in your glory!”

“As am I,” Prince Mydeimos replies. “Had you been there, you would have recognized my war prize.”

His hand squeezes around Aineidas’ wrists. Both of them look at you; you try your best to appear pitiful. It does not come naturally to you—you were raised to act dignified no matter the situation; during your training, you were actually punished for looking unseemly after beatings—but you have teared up so much from being struck that you think it works.

“Yes,” Aineidas scrambles, “yes, I did not recognise her. You know I would not have otherwise punished the slave of the Crown Prince.”

“It is illegal to punish the slave of any citizen other than yourself.” Prince Mydeimos pauses, studying you. “Though it is particularly great folly that you have chosen to strike my concubine, of all people. Either way, you have broken the law.”

Aineidas swallows. He sweats and stares at his wrist, which looks distinctly breakable. “I—you must understand, Your Highness,” he beseeches, “I was not thinking clearly. I was only furious that someone had interfered with my punishment of my own slave.”

“An understandable error. Still, you have violated three Kremnoan laws: you have touched another man’s slave, you have damaged the property of the state, and you have disrespected the royal family.”

You try not to shudder. Property of the state. That's what you are, legally. If I belong to Prince Mydeimos, then it is Kremnos itself that owns me.

“Th-there must be something that can be done,” Aineidas stutters. “You know I have great wealth, Your Highness, business has been quite good lately”—ah, you think, he's a merchant—“so I am happy to recompense you for any damages.”

Damages? What am I, a fucking statue? you think, nearly scowling. But you manage to keep trembling, demure even when Prince Mydeimos leans down and touches your cheek with a gauntleted hand. Your first instinct is to spit in his face again—too close, too close, how dare you call me property—but you only stare at him, teary-eyed.

“I may have been the one slighted, but my concubine is the one who has suffered,” he says. “I would ask her what she requires to heal. That is the only true way to undo the damage to my property.”

You’re going to kill him. You have reached your limit, and you have decided you are going to kill him. For it is one thing to be called a slave, but it is another to be called property.

It is only Kassandra’s quiet sobbing beside you that makes you neglect your dignity. Your pride comes second to your worshippers. You grovel and weep before Prince Mydeimos, trying to strike a balance between sorrow and fear: I'm sorry for misbehaving, Your Highness, and I couldn't help myself, I know Kassandra from the temple, I loved her dearly, and I wish to see her safe, I wish to be with her.

Most importantly: You may punish me however you want. Kill me if you must. Just spare her, I beg you.

Prince Mydeimos discerns what you want him to ask: “Would it help calm you if you were to keep this slave by your side?”

“Yes,” you sob, “yes, it would. Oh, Your Highness, I'll do anything to please you”—you try not to gag—“so long as she is by my side.”

Prince Mydeimos turns to Aineidas. “Allow me to buy out your slave, and I will not take you to court over your follies today. As for the transgressions of my concubine against you, I shall see to it that she is punished appropriately.”

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

Aineidas is satisfied. The relief is palpable in his voice: “Yes, yes—take the blasted thing. Take her for free, even; the fault here is mine, and it is the least I can do to make up for my error. I must warn you that she is unsatisfying as a whore but decent as a maidservant. Try her out if you wish, but I would personally keep the priestess for warming your bed.” He pauses his rambling to glance at you. “...and I have no doubt you will discipline her, of course.”

“I will. I have gotten into the habit of spoiling her, but it seems that I still need to break her in.”

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

Aineidas makes a joke about how it is natural for men to spoil their most affectionate lovers—even the whores. Prince Mydeimos’ jaw tightens, but he does not say anything. The two men finish their exchange. Kassandra is sent back to Aineidas’ room to collect her things, while Prince Mydeimos walks you back to your quarters—

—and he rounds on you immediately once the door is closed.

The prince’s eyes flick up and down your form. They darken as they travel over your ribs and stomach, where dirt stains your silk robes, where the fabric hides a terrible ache.

“Why would you do that?” he snaps—almost snarls.

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

“Put yourself in harm’s way. Potentially get yourself killed.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Why is it such an uphill battle to get you to stay alive? Are you so desperate for Thanatos to take you?”

“I did not try to die,” you say delicately. “I was only trying to help. You had no legal right to intervene when Kassandra was being beaten—so I gave you one.”

“At the expense of your own well-being!”

“Well, it was either my well-being or Kassandra’s.” Your frown is deep, irate. “You said once you have a duty to your people. Well, I have a duty to mine. You may have made me a slave, but you have not made me a coward.”

He looks at the ceiling, as if praying to Nikador for the strength not to strangle you. “I do not need you to be a coward,” he grits out, “only to have some sense of self-preservation. What if Aineidas had been a soldier? What if he had run you through with a sword? Or what if he had been an Elder, or a noble—someone not so easy for me to deal with?”

“Then I would have been stabbed or whipped, like most other Aurelians.” You give him an accusatory look. “I don't even understand why you are so outraged when harm comes to me, when clearly you don't feel anything for other slaves. Is it that you don't want to see me hurt, or simply that you don't like to see your property damaged?”

You realise that you want to provoke him. You want him to yell at you. You want to hear him say that you are nothing but a whore. You want to realise that your supposed visions from Oronyx had merely been delusions, and you want to know that you will never again feel so safe and traitorous in the arms of the man who sacked your city.

You are disappointed when Prince Mydeimos merely sighs. He finds his composure, his rage subdued.

“You have to understand,” he explains wearily, “that I cannot save you all. Not in my current position.”

You go quiet. You can't say anything—because you know it's true.

“And I thought”—he gives you a pained look—“I thought it would be obvious by now that I do not see you as my property. I see you as a human being whom I wish to protect.”

Your heart wrenches at his expression. “Why,” you ask bitterly, “why me and not anyone else? Why not Kassandra? Why not the other Aurelians? Why only me?”

“I told you,” he says grimly, “I cannot help you all. Under Kremnoan law, I can only protect what belongs to me—and only you are mine.”

That night, you think of killing Prince Mydeimos in his sleep.

It is not exactly that you want him to die. You don't even think you want him to suffer. But you should. You should want to kill the man who took away your home. You should want to kill the prince responsible for putting thousands of people in chains. It does not matter how kind he is to you, how many sweets he feeds you, how warm you felt when he held you. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. He says he sees you as a human being, but he's been keeping you like a pet. Something to be spoiled or broken in.

Have you been broken in? You can't think of any other reason why you'd be hesitating right now, holding your dagger to your captor’s throat. His soldiers didn't hesitate when they broke into your temple. They didn't hesitate when they dragged you out. They didn't hesitate when they put you in chains. The only time they paused was when they were trying to decide who should get to fuck your cunt first—who should get to steal the virginity of a holy maiden, who should get to defile the chosen oracle of a god they hate.

Aurelia is burning behind you. You taste ash and copper as the edge of your blade presses against your captor’s neck, its hilt gleaming under Oronyx’s moons. Prince Mydeimos is sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of his chest slow and gentle. He doesn't look like a figure of Strife like this, like the general who sacked your city. He looks a little bit like the boy you saw drowning in the sea. He looks a lot like the man you saw in your visions: Mydei. Gentle enough to hand-feed dromases and play with children and tolerate your teasing. Your hand trembles as you think of him, the knife’s edge shivering against his pulse.

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

You startle. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, fully alert—when did he wake up?—and before you can retreat, his hand clamps around your wrist and forces your blade to stay against his neck. His other one grabs you by the arm to pull you in.

You're nearly on top of him when he steadies your hand. It’s impossible to miss how his eyes burn into yours.

“If you are going to kill someone,” he says, his voice low in your ear, “you should act decisively. Slash the knife through the jugular and carotid as deeply and swiftly as possible. Do you want me to show you how?”

Do you?

You should. You should want to kill him. As long as he is alive, you belong to him; and as long as you belong to him, you are the property of the state that massacred your city. Killing him would be your only reprieve from that, even if only temporarily. Your hand tightens around the handle of your blade, chasing freedom; Prince Mydeimos bares his nape to you, his eyes cool. His hand tightens around yours, guiding you toward a lethal blow, to freedom—

—and a fragrance hits you. Cassia and pomegranates. Clinging to his skin and clothes. Obvious only now, when you are close enough with him to end his life.

It’s probably from when he made you dinner tonight.

Your meal had been an awkward affair. He'd delivered it himself for once, and he had been completely silent when he served it to you. He didn't even ask his usual three questions before leaving—though you noticed him trying. Someone else would have missed it, but not you. You could see it in his face when he wanted to talk to you, and you could also see it in his face when he realised that he didn't know how.

You should want to kill him. It would make you a traitor if you didn't. If you don't slash his throat open now, you should pray to the bones of your worshippers and beg Talanton to strike you down. And then you should slit your own throat for letting a Kremnoan touch you—for letting him put his arms around you, tender and warm.

But at the end of it all, the bones would remain bones. The corpses would stay strewn across the streets. Aurelia will always burn behind you. Neither justice nor death would reverse any of that. All you will have done is kill a man who worries so much for you that he goes out of his way to cook for you, just to make sure you don't starve. A man so gentle that he cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a tiny cut across your palm.

Your hold on your dagger—his dagger—grows slack.

“No.”

Prince Mydeimos watches you. “No? You aren't going to kill me? I thought you wanted to slit my throat.”

“I do,” you bite out. “I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones…" Your voice gets quiet, then. Brittle. "But it wouldn't.”

You lower your knife. Prince Mydeimos lets you. He takes it from your hand and, for one moment, you wonder if you've pushed him too far and he'll use it to finally kill you. But he doesn't—of course he doesn't—and instead moves it away from you.

“You should be more careful handling a weapon like that,” he says patiently. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Something inside you crumples. Your anger collapses, folds into shame, into loathing—whether not for being able to take his life or for threatening it in the first place, you aren't sure.

“You should just take that thing away from me,” you reply dully as you pull away from him. “Clearly, I can't be trusted with it. Nor is there any need for it.”

Prince Mydeimos sits up with you. “You've used it against one man who would be your abductor, and another man who already is. Clearly it is fulfilling a need for you.” He takes the knife into his hand, his expression turning curiously wry as he studies it. “In fact, it’s helped you more than it helped its previous owner, and certainly more than it has helped me. I would like for you to keep it.”

He holds it out to you again, returning it to your hands. It's still warm for your violent touch, from his gentle one. You stare at it: beautifully carved, bejewelled but not gaudy. The carved lion on its hilt stares at you in the moonlight, and it suddenly occurs to you that the beast is a symbol of the Kremnoan royal family: the mark of Gorgo's trophy.

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

You look at him, astonished. His gaze is neutral, and it remains as such even when you exclaim, “This belonged to Queen Gorgo?” Why would you give it to me? you want to ask, but your mind takes you elsewhere.

You do not know what Queen Gorgo looks like—you have never seen a portrait or come across a description in any of the histories—yet the image of her comes to you, unbidden. Golden hair and ocean-blue eyes. A lion’s corpse is stretched out at her feet. She's holding your dagger, along with a cup of ambrosia filled with venom.

A poisoned woman with a golden dagger—the one you dreamt about after Prince Mydeimos captured you.

“Your mother didn't die of illness, did she?” you ask. When Prince Mydeimos blinks, you say, “She was poisoned.” Your mind races, trawling through all the hints that the Crown Prince has let slip over the past two moons, all the signs in your dreams: The vision of a son killing his father. The sight of a young king on a bloody throne. I will not be the kind of king my father is, Prince Mydeimos had said. Haven't you seen what he's done?

“She was poisoned by your father,” you realise. “You want revenge.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a startled look. “I will never get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

He gives you a curious look. “You weren't sure?”

You shrug. “Unless I'm directly appealing to Oronyx with prayer and sacrifice, she only gives me vague hints of things. A lot of prophesying is guesswork around those hints.”

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

“It is a practised skill, actually. I had to cultivate it to become a hiereia.”

You pause for a long moment, studying him in the ways you were trained to dissect princes and lords. Noticing the way he's staring at Gorgo’s dagger, soft and almost longing. The way his shoulders are sagging, weighed by something invisible. The way he shifts idly, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders—sore from sleeping like shit for the past few nights, you guess. Prince Mydeimos doesn't trust any of the palace guards anymore, so it's become an indefinite arrangement for him to stay the night, slumbering on the klinai. I don't know who else will try to take you, he'd said, so for now we will need to keep doing this.

Not if, not when, but who.

“You don't have anyone you can rely on in this palace, do you? Not since your mother died.”

Prince Mydeimos tenses. “No. Just Krateros. He provides steadfast support and wise counsel—his loyalty is unquestionable.”

“But his influence has limits,” you reason. “Otherwise you would not be sleeping by a door every night just to safekeep a lowly slave.”

“You are not lowly to me,” he says, offended, and you can hardly believe how earnest he is. He really will make for an idiot king at this rate, you think, to care so much for someone of my status.

It should not matter to you if he will be incompetent at rule, but you chide him anyway: “I should be lowly. I should even be worthless. My life has no meaning to you—you should not be exerting yourself over me. But you have no men here you can trust to handle this for you.” Something inside you sinks. “You really have no one here at all.”

He sighs—quietly, but clearly. “Besides Krateros, you are the person least hostile to me in this palace.”

“Then I am shocked you have not yet been killed.”

“I have been—just not permanently.”

You go quiet. Prince Mydeimos is not bitter in his words; they are matter of fact, a sign of a man who has died so many times that it no longer bothers him. But the words inspire something wretched in you. You think of a baby drowning in the sea, wailing and dying over and over again—then returning home, full of hope, only to drown again in that same, poisonous tide.

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

You should not feel guilty. You should not feel pity for a man who took everything away from you. But you still find yourself looking away, your hands curling in on themselves.

“It must tire you,” you say softly, “that after treating me so kindly for so long, I nearly killed you tonight.” You glance at the dagger, which you have held for so long in your sleep for no reason. “I should really return this to you.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over tonight. It is nothing. This is Kremnos; vicious fights between acquaintances are common. Every person I know has had a blade held to their neck at some point and thought nothing of it after the fact.”

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Actually, my mother held this very dagger to my father’s throat.”

Your eyes go wide. “And what did he do after? Punish her? Or… is that why he killed her?”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a strange look. “Of course not,” he says. “He married her.”

You wake up the next morning with ugly bruises on your ribs. You feel them before you see them, the ache so severe that you hiss when you try to rise from bed. Every breath has you feeling like something is piercing your lungs; every movement has you wanting to gasp. As you grit your teeth and struggle, you cannot help but think of Prince Mydeimos’ anger at your behaviour the day before, and something inside you crumples once more. You'd crawl under the bed if it wouldn't hurt so much.

The prince himself is gone, but as if in anticipation of your injury, he has arranged for a healer to see you. Later in the day, Kassandra arrives as well—to assist and care for you as you recover, she says. It is absurd for a handmaiden to be given to a bed-slave, but Kassandra neither complains nor thinks much of it.

“Men get all stupid when they're besotted,” she says, warbling in Aurelian dialect. “Way he looks at you, soon he’ll be giving you jewelry and flowers and all sorts of treasures. You could rob him blind, my lady.”

You try not to snort. With the way Prince Mydeimos looked at you the other day, it appeared the only gift he wanted to give you was the touch of Thanatos. But then you remember that he bestowed to you his mother’s dagger, and you find yourself going quiet, thinking of it in its hiding spot beneath your pillow.

Kassandra does not notice your sudden introspection. She continues dressing you, opting for somewhat conservative attire—the usual translucent silks reveal too much of your bruising—although the dress she has chosen has a slit cut so high that you can hardly walk without revealing your inner thighs. If Prince Mydeimos ever caught sight of it, you think you might die.

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

“It’s to curry your prince’s favour,” she explains. At your continued despair, Kassandra frowns. “I know this can't be easy for you, my lady,” she says, her Aurelian gentle, a soft and rolling legato. She picks up a delicate brush, dabbing it in rouge. “You were raised to be a holy maiden, and it was taboo for anyone back home to touch you. But now that you're…” She hesitates.

“Now that I'm a bed-slave?” you supply, voice neutral. Her mouth thins.

“Now that you're no longer a holy maiden, I think it's best to appeal to your master and keep him pleased. I'd hate to see the Crown Prince treat you like how Lord Aineidas treated me.”

Your eyes go soft. “And I'd hate to see you be returned to a man like Aineidas. Resent him as I may, I am glad that Prince Mydeimos saved you from him.”

Kassandra smiles. “I'm more grateful to you, my lady. It didn't escape me that it was you who helped me—not him.”

Her brush outlines your lip, tickling you. The corner of your mouth twitches, and you close your eyes beneath her touch. Your conversation turns to kinder things: reminiscing about the bustling markets back home, the beautiful music, the hymns sung within your temple. She tells you of her father, and you tell her about your mother, and the two of you sing the melody of your mother tongue.

It occurs to you that this is the happiest you’ve been since the fall of Aurelia—the least alone you've been, and the most at home.

For the next fortnight, Prince Mydeimos does not take you anywhere. It is not out of any neglect toward you—he still sleeps in your quarters every night, playing guard dog by the door—but out of concern for your injuries.

“I do not wish for you to hurt yourself again,” he says, watching you flinch from the opposite end of the room. You've just taken your lyre into your lap; the motion has you wincing. Still, you frown at him.

“I think I can walk without worsening my injuries. My legs are not connected to my ribs, you know.”

You can see it when he stops himself from rolling his eyes. “My concern is not you walking. My concern is that you might launch yourself into harm’s way again—it seems to be your favorite pastime.”

“I am not such an idiot that I'd do that in this state,” you grouse, and the look that Prince Mydeimos gives you is so skeptical that you huff. “Fine,” you say. “Do whatever you wish.”

You turn your attention to your lyre and sheet music and choose the song he most dislikes—an Okheman prosodion to Kephale. He scowls as soon as he hears the beginning notes, but leans back and closes his eyes anyway, listening. Maybe even appreciating. You think he is asleep by the time you finish, but he immediately looks to you and requests another piece: “Anything other than that Okheman noise, please.”

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

“What, does His Royal Highness not enjoy my skill with a lyre? Would he prefer some other form of entertainment?”

Your tone is sardonic enough to warrant legal punishment (you have disrespected the royal family), but Prince Mydeimos replies earnestly: “I am greatly fond of the lyre and even enjoy your skill with it. Your taste in songs, however…”

You study him shrewdly. “I did not think Kremnoan royals would care so much for musical arts.”

“We are not educated in them,” he admits. “But I have a friend who is quite the lyrist. It is pleasant to hear the instrument—I have not listened to him play in quite some time.”

“Oh? Why not?” You try not to make it so obvious that you are searching for gossip: that you are surprised the Crown Prince has friends, and that you are curious about whether they are alive. “Did he quit and take up the aulos instead?”

“I hope not,” Prince Mydeimos snorts. “He has no talent for it.” Then the mirth leaves his face, and his eyes get distant. “He has been deployed for some years now to fight the Black Tide. Last I heard, he was warring on the Pyrian front.”

You look away. The city-state of Pyria was southwest of Aurelia—many of its citizens ran to your polis when their homes fell to disaster. Some of them even sought refuge in your temple, their bodies riddled with wounds and corruption. Every holy person in your city, from the Disciples of Cerces to the Sky Priests of Aquila, spent weeks trying to purify them. Still, a great number of the Pyrian refugees were taken by Thanatos in the end, either succumbing to mortal wounds or self-destructing in madness.

You do not want to think of what might be happening to Prince Mydeimos’ lyrist friend. Judging from his expression, he does not want to speak of it either.

Clearing your throat, you flip through the sheet music on your desk. “What kind of songs did your friend like to perform?”

“Bawdy trash,” Prince Mydeimos says, deadpan. “Don't bother searching for them—I would not have disgraced your table with it.” He gives you a thoughtful look. “Why don't you play an Aurelian piece? I have never heard music devoted to Oronyx.”

You stop.

You've never performed an Aurelian piece with Prince Mydeimos around—partly because you prefer to annoy him with Okheman and Aidonian music, but mostly because you didn't think any Kremnoan would want to hear it. They destroyed your temple, after all. High Priestess of a weak god, you remember the hyenas barking as the city screamed. That's what they think I am.

But Prince Mydeimos is—different. He sacked your temple, but for whatever reason, he still wants to hear you worship.

“Alright,” you say, an odd ache in your chest. “If you insist.”

Your final song of the evening is a hymn for the Goddess of Time. The following day, you perform a lyric poem about Janusopolis' early days in the Chrysos War, an epic about the attempted murder of Oronyx in your mother tongue. The next evening, you sing an Aurelian prosodion to Georios; after that, a lively hyporchema of Oronyx Festivals, one that makes you wish you were leading the acolytes and worshippers in dance.

Another night, you throw the prince a bone and play an Aurelian paean to Nikador. It was written prior to the Era Bellica—from a time when the Kremnoan people were not so savage, and Nikador’s only war was the one against the Black Tide. When he was the protector of Amphoreus, not its tyrant. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes never leave your form as you sing in ancient Kremnoan—from an era so long ago that it had not yet diverged from Aurelian, and the peoples of your two cities could understand each other perfectly. His gaze traces the strings of your lyre, the movements of your lips, mesmerized. The next evening, he asks to hear it again.

For ten nights, Prince Mydeimos listens to your paean to his God of Strife. On the eleventh day, by which you've stopped wincing every time you lift your lyre, he finally leads you outside again.

He takes you into the city.

It is your first time wandering beyond the confines of the palace, and you are startled by the bustling streets—the chatter and the laughter and the humanness. An air of aggression still hangs over the city, of course: armored soldiers march endlessly through the streets, chains clink noisily as the slaves labour relentlessly, the sword of Nikador hangs ever-present in the sky. Still, it is all made more bearable by all the people in its streets. By the buzz of crowded markets, by the haggling arguments of vendors and customers, by the giggling of children underfoot in the crowds. If you close your eyes and focus, you can summon memories of Aurelia like this—so easy to recall among the humdrum of daily life.

Castrum Kremnos is still a prison. But you cannot deny that there are parts of it here that feel—not warm, really, for there are still too many slaves, too many soldiers. But it is certainly less cold.

You think that Prince Mydeimos, himself, might enjoy the city more than the palace as well. He is nearly always tense there, but he seems relaxed among these streets, among his people. Every Kremnoan pauses to greet him, not only bowing to show their respect, but really talking. Soldiers’ faces glow as they sing his praises about his might in battle, about his last gladiatorial victory. Older women wave and ask if he is eating well, if he'd like some figs or pomegranates or sweets from their stands. (You think instantly of your aunts and grandmothers back home, and you feel such heartache that you have to look away.) Younger women and a handful of men stop to admire him; you do not miss how their gazes linger on you, the whore trailing after him in golden chains.

What strikes you most are the children. Each one of them squeals with delight upon seeing him, and a few run up directly to greet their prince, babbling about how hard they've been training and how they want to fight alongside him someday. They are the only Kremnoans who do not look at you with discomfort; they study you only with innocent curiosity.

“Prince Mydeimos,” a little girl asks, craning her neck to look at you, “is that your friend? I've never seen her before!”

Prince Mydeimos pauses. You can see him struggling to answer, neither wanting to lie nor explain what a whore is, and you try not to sigh before doing it for him: “I am the prince’s companion,” you say kindly in Kremnoan, smiling at the girl. “Not his friend, but someone who spends time with him when he wishes.”

“Oh.” The girl blinks, tilting her head. “Like, if he gets lonely? Or sad?”

“Something like that.”

She nods, then beams at you both. “Well, I'm glad the prince doesn’t have to be alone when he's sad, then.”

She runs off without another word. You look to him, a dry comment on your tongue—I'm sure you're desperate for a night alone after all the time you've spent in my room—but you find him staring at her retreating back, pensive. Something in his eyes makes your chest ache, and somewhere in the Evernight Veil, you hear him say: I don't remember the last time someone touched me like this.

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

“Come,” he beckons you, curt. “We have somewhere to be.”

He ends up bringing you to a smithy. The rhythmic clang of hammers against hot steel sings in your ears. He approaches a looming figure, impossibly tall, who works in chains. Your eyes are wide as you regard him. Mountain Dweller, you recognise, and slave.

Kremnos is infamous for hunting their kind. You should not be surprised at seeing one in bondage here, forced to work for the state that savaged him. Still, it is a wonder seeing such a mighty creature working so benignly for his captors. If you had such stature, you think you would have died fighting in Aurelia. You would have never accepted a life in chains—let alone one so mild and subservient.

“Crown Prince of Kremnos,” the Mountain Dweller greets. His voice is a slow, lumbering boom—strange in syntax, as if his throat and mind is unfit for human speech: “For your weapon… you have come.”

Prince Mydeimos nods. “Yes—for the weapon, as well as the other matter we discussed.”

The Mountain Dweller shifts. You can feel his gaze on your body, studying you through the slits of his helmet. You look up at him, watching him with curious eyes.

“High Priestess of Aurelia, you were,” he surmises. “Concubine of the Crown Prince, you are now.”

“Yes,” you affirm, and you don't bother softening the edge to your voice. “And you are?”

“Chartonus, leader of the Mountain Dwellers,” he introduces himself. “Blacksmith for the royal family.”

Your interest is piqued at one word: Leader. You decide to smile—not cheerfully, but respectfully, in the way you would for an esteemed guest at the temple. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Chartonus. I have heard great tales of the blessings that Georios has endowed upon the craftsmanship of your people.”

You can feel Prince Mydeimos’ eyes on you, but you ignore him. Only Chartonus has your attention, as would be the way with a formal guest.

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replies. “Of your talents, many Mountain Dwellers in Kremnos have heard. For you, I have something… by the request of the Crown Prince.”

You glance back at your companion. “For me?” you ask, and he nods.

“You'll soon understand,” Prince Mydeimos says.

Chartonus leads the two of you to the back of the smithy, opening a door to some private workspace. On the other side of the threshold, you see a man's silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair and grey eyes—

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

Not a soldier of career, but one of necessity. Ordinarily, he is a blacksmith from your neighbourhood. One of your worshippers. His name was—is, he's alive, he's alive—Hector, and he frequently visited your temple. You first met him when you were both children, shortly before your initiation into the cult. He often prayed with you after you became a hiereia. Sought counsel from you. Crafted your ceremonial weapons. Once he made a necklace too, which you had to publicly decline and privately accept only at his insistence. I can't bring you olives nor figs, he'd said earnestly, but I can bring you this.

Your heart aches when you look at him. For a minute, you feel like you are back in Aurelia, visiting him in his smithy, watching him work during a few hours’ reprieve from your training. After this you will go to the market together and listen to the musicians play on their aulos and lyres, and later you will go see his sister, with whom you will gossip about the men she saw in her brothel. A week from now, the three of you will dance together in a festival in devotion to your goddess.

And then you see the manacle around his ankle, the chain leading off it, and the illusion is ruined.

Hector is not subdued, though. His eyes go wide as soon as he sees you. “My lady?” he calls out, as uncertain as he is hopeful.

Your composure shatters.

“I can give you five, ten minutes,” Prince Mydeimos whispers into your ear. You’re startled at the proximity, but too shocked to recoil. “Keep up appearances, and don't try anything foolish. Remember that I can only do so much.”

He leaves the door open. He and Chartonus converse just beyond it, admiring some spear that the blacksmith supposedly just mended, and which requires care so intensive that Chartonus delivers an entire lecture to explain it. You can barely hear what they’re saying, so focused on the familiar face before you. You were not physically affectionate with any of your friends nor temple goers—your station demanded strict boundaries—but you would throw your arms around Hector right now, were it not for Prince Mydeimos’ warning.

Keep up appearances.

You settle for running up to him, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Hector,” you whisper, voice strangely choked. I cannot cry, you think. I cannot cry, especially not before a worshipper. “You're alive.”

“High Priestess.” Hector’s eyes blink rapidly. You're reminded of the night you told him you'd stay at the temple, despite the Kremnoan invasion; he'd opposed it so strongly, but how were you meant to abandon the worshippers who had insisted on staying behind? “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Are you—is he—is he hurting you? Are you injured?”

How typical of him to ask about you first, you think, when everyone else is clearly in worse positions. “Don't worry about me, Hector. How about you? The others? Aeneas? Lycaon? Your sister, Hecuba?”

“Aeneas and Lycaon and most of the other soldiers—they’ve all been sent to repair the fortress walls. I'm only here because I'm skilled. Some of the others who are tradesmen, they're here with me in the city. Hecuba, though, she's been taken to a brothel.” He frowns. “She’s decently learned and full of wit. They might have her working as a hetaira, if we’re lucky.”

Your face falls. People easily die performing hard labour, and the life of a bed-slave is a different kind of humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

“No, I'm sorry.” He gives you a look of such despair that your heart twists. “You've been captured by that beast… it's worried me all this time, what he's doing to you. I should have gotten you away from the city before the Kremnoans stormed us.”

Guilt lances through your heart. Prince Mydeimos is nowhere near a monster, and you have suffered nowhere near as much as your fellow Aurelians. “You need not worry for me, Hector.”

“I can hardly stop,” he argues. “I think—I think we should find a way to get you out of this place.”

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. “If you could find a way out of Castrum Kremnos, I'd much rather you escape with your own life, Hector. I am too noticeable of a prisoner to smuggle out.”

“But you're our High Priestess!” he cries. “We—we can't just leave you in the bed of that monster. Please, my lady. He destroyed our city, our temple, our home. We can't bear to see him destroy you too.”

Something nicks your heart. To the Kremnoans, you are a spoil of war; to the Aurelians, you are a figure of worship. And as long as you stay in the hands of Prince Mydeimos, you are equally a symbol of Kremnoan victory as you are Aurelian disgrace. His supposed rape of you is the ultimate humiliation for them.

You cannot blame the soldiers for wanting you to steal you back.

“Hector,” you say gently, in that voice you reserve for those frightened before the gods, before war, before fate, “I understand your feelings, but you know it would be suicide for you to try. I do not wish to see any more Aurelian blood spilled.” None beyond your own—your fate is inevitable, but Hector can be saved.

“But—”

“No buts. Listen to me. Have I ever guided you falsely?”

Hector closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed deep. His voice is thick, hoarse, when he asks, “Is there no way out of this hell for us? Has Oronyx shown you that our fate lies within these fortress walls?”

Your heart drops.

You understand now that you have been foolish. Unbelievably foolish. What have you been doing, asking Oronyx about your path to freedom and not your people's? What have you been doing, hiding under a bed for months while your friends and worshippers were labouring in chains? So blinded by anger that you could not even think of a way to see them? So blinded by pride that instead of thinking of how to help them, you could only think of killing the man who has now brought you to them?

How selfish.

But now you are thinking of that beautiful city of eternal dawn, in which your wrists were not shackled, in which you were sorrow-free. You wonder if there would have been space for other Aurelians in that paradise, if they would have been just as safe.

How else would your heart have felt so light in that moment?

You measure your words carefully, hiding your shame. Hector does not need to know that his High Priestess is an idiot; it would only depress him. “Not so far,” you reply with grace. “I will try peering beyond the Evernight Veil again for our futures. From what I have seen, I will not say that there is no hope for us—but Hector, there will be no hope for you if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

He gives you a despairing look. “Will you be taken away again so soon? When will I see you next?”

You hesitate. “I do not know… that would be determined by Prince Mydeimos.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to work here, unable to see you, when I know you are being tortured in his bed—”

“Who is being tortured?” a voice cuts in. Both you and Hector freeze. Your heart twinges again; you can see it in your friend’s face when his does as well.

Your time is up.

“...no one, Your Highness,” you reply to Prince Mydeimos, even though your attention is on Hector.

You study his features intensely: every crease and contour and shadow. For once, it is not to read someone’s expression; it is simply that you do not know when you will see him next, and you do not wish to forget his face in the meantime. Oronyx never lets you forget calamity—razed cities, bloodied corpses, burning groves—but something as mundane as the face of a loved one? She often neglects it.

You and Hector stare at each other for probably a beat too long. When you remember yourself, you ask Prince Mydeimos, “Is my prince finished his business with Master Chartonus?”

“Yes.” Steel clashes against steel, echoing in the smithy and threading between his words. “There is no longer any reason to linger here. We will return to my quarters now.”

“But—”

“That was an order, not a request,” he says.

Keep up appearances, he means. Remember that I can only do so much.

You deflate, turning away from Hector, unable to look him in the eye anymore—unable to see him gaze upon the symbol of his humiliation. You bow to Prince Mydeimos, feeling both spoiled and broken in.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Your grief must show on your face, for Prince Mydeimos is also unable to look at you as the two of you depart.

That night, Prince Mydeimos makes you a dish that bursts with the spices of Aurelia. He serves it to you personally once more, watching from his usual spot against the wall. You can tell that he wishes to say something to you, but you cannot bring yourself to ask what: you are worried that your voice will crack if you speak. With each bite you take, you think of the quiet peace of your temple, of Hector praying at the altar to which you attended. You think of the music of the Oronyx Festivals under the stars, the hyporchema to which you danced and laughed. You think of the bustling markets that Kassandra visited everyday, looking for figs and olives and cassia under the Aurelian sun.

When you glance at Prince Mydeimos, you wonder if he knows how badly your heart aches.

“Why did you bring me to Hector?” you finally ask. “Why did you seek him out?”

His answer is so simple that it hurts: “You said you wanted to see your loved ones.”

I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones.

“Right,” you say. “When I tried to kill you. I said I wished to return to Aurelia and see everyone there.”

“Yes.”

You look away, lip trembling. When Prince Mydeimos speaks again, his voice is so gentle that you can hardly believe that it is coming from the Crown Prince of Kremnos, from the leader of a warmongering tribe. From the future king who will kill you.

But you can easily imagine it from the throat of a boy who once drowned in the sea, who was cast out of countless homes.

“I took your home away from you,” he says quietly. “Even if you killed me a thousand times, you will never be able to go back. There is nothing I can do to fulfill your wish to return.”

There is remorse in his voice. Genuine. Unbearable. The heir to a millennia of Strife regrets the grief he inflicted upon you. The man who will someday kill you regrets all the pain he brought upon you—and he wishes to undo it.

“You can never take me home,” you recognise, “so you are trying instead to return my loved ones to me.”

He nods, and you understand that this is his apology.

It will not suffice, of course. A sorry will not change anything. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. No matter how considerate he is with you, Prince Mydeimos will always be the man who destroyed your city and sacked your temple. He will always be the beast who dragged you from your altar and into his bed. Aurelia is forever burning behind you, and it is all his fault. Oronyx will never let you forget this.

Still—there are things that have not yet turned to ash. Things that you cannot hold onto not with the power of the divine, but with your own two hands.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that there is a chance that I can move freely throughout the city without you.”

“Yes,” he affirms. “If people were convinced that you were my lover and not my prisoner, they would not think twice about seeing you roam the city.”

I cannot cry, you think. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot cry, but your voice breaks when you ask, “So I could go see them whenever I wished? I could visit Hector, and I could find Hecuba, and I could check on all the men labouring at the fortress walls? I could make sure that they were all safe, all well?”

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

You study him, dissect him in the way that you were trained for princes and lords. You see not your captor, whom you could never even pretend to like—but Mydei in a city of eternal dawn, where you are teasing him gently, listening to the giggles of a flock of children. You see not a beast, but someone who is so easy to love that it scares you. Scares you almost as much as his gauntlets that are cleaving open your legs, almost as much as your death at the foot of his throne.

But you have a responsibility to your people—and even if you are a slave, you are not a coward.

“Very well," you decide. "Let's try it.”

End Part II

notes: I tried so hard (to get to the porn) and got so far (in word count) but in the end it didn't even matter... my genuine apologies that there was so much plot and no sex. enemies to lovers is truly not a trope for the weak T_T

some notes:

there's a ton of ancient Greek refs, as usual - names like Hector, Hecuba, Lycaon, Kassandra, etc. are all borrowed from the Iliad. a lot of Kremnoan names will be borrowed from Spartan history!

"Council of Elders" = Senate per Spartan history. I just like the aesthetic of Spartan vocab.

YES I know Mydei had a dromas war steed. Kokopo III shall make an appearance later TRUST!!

[kleptokure]

Shifty Sheep .☘︎ ݁˖

Shadow Milk Cookie x GN!Reader

A/N: request served for anon! (づ ´ ˘ `)づ

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

The Bear Jelly Balloon plants on the ground. You find yourself a bit too giddy to get off the means of transportation. While you might have bribed another to board the balloon in the first place, you choose to ignore that. Focusing on the happier fact, you're in Beast-Yeast!

That fact seems more depressing to others, but they just have goals far too serious. Your goals? Well, you plan to explore every nook and cranny here. Not for any reason, but to spot out all the animals.

You cannot truly deem yourself the top animal admirer if you stay within the bounds of Crispia. With a curious mind, you plan to write about each new friend you come across.

There have to be mammals you never even imagined that take habitat here, and you long to see how wild sights can get. Also, the thought that sweet, loving creatures here have never received a cuddle in their lives completely shatters you. No matter, as you are here and plan to change that for your upcoming companions.

Stepping off of the balloon, you find yourself in a forest. Of course, that was on purpose. Your first guess on where critters would reside is no other than a place surrounded by trees.

Wandering down a pathway that was almost covered by foliage, you look both ways, awaiting your eyes to set sights on anything moving.

You are smart enough to know making any loud noises would be a bad decision. While there are friends, there are also foes, and you would like to attract only one of those two.

Speaking of friends, it seems like you found one, fortunately. The creature seems interested, taking the move to approach you.

Floating a few feet in front of you, an illuminated green being holds a derpy smile. The creature has green circles stemming from his being, rather than hands or legs. How unique.

The being appears as interested in you as you are in them, hovering around you as if conducting an inspection.

You are boring, the harmless thing concludes. With that, it meanders away, not daring to grace you with a chance to touch its skin. Unlucky, but you understand. Your elated emotions might have scared it off.

Without expecting reciprocation, you send the spore a wave off. Nonetheless, you are left happy. A cute critter is bound to cause happiness, despite no touch being involved.

Continuing on, you examine the vegetation. The trees are darker compared to those in the kingdom you reside in. Along with the feat of being tall, towering over everything around. It fails to scare you since judging is not a big part of your personality.

Moving on, the bushes here hold their own features as well. Looking closer, the rectangular hedges come along with red flowers. Not roses, but with the appearance of dice. How neat, you'll pluck a few to take home. Hopefully nature can excuse it.

Though, once you stroll your way towards the bushes, you find the shrubs separate the trail from the darker parts of the forest. Regardless, with the help of the light shining down from the cloudy sky, you are able to spot a wooly creature.

A sheep, you can tell with ease. Its appearance does not look out of the ordinary, but that lands as irrelevant. Either way, you were going to envelop them in love.

Hopping over the bush, you witness another surprise. There are plenty of sheep around, ten if your eyes gazed over correctly.

Some are resting in their place, others are munching on the dry grass. They all seem unbothered by your presence; therefore, you choose not to bother them. Rather, you watch, taking joy in all of the happy mammals around. Maybe all was well for them, even without love from a cookie's touch.

Coming prepared, you remove a camera from your satchel. The moment seems so serene, tempting you into taking a picture. A time resembling this, you could almost believe Beast-Yeast was a place of tranquility.

Your cookie camera in hand, you snap several pictures of the sheep. Settling your jitters of excitement, you place your camera back into its place. Afterwards, you notice the item might have caused a disturbance to the lot of sheep. They run away in their herd, leaving you behind.

Catching your eye, you notice a sheep that remained behind, its back turned away from you. Surely it did not miss the rest of their group walking off.

If that was the case, you step to its side, squatting to the wooly animal's height. That marks the moment the lone sheep turns to look at you, curious eyes staring into your own.

Wow, now those are some striking eyes. The sheep owns one cyan eye color; the other one is cerulean. Even the pupils are opposite in color, elevating your interest. Perhaps their herd owned the same eyes as your friend here, and you were too caught up in gawking to notice.

As much as you would like to snap a picture of the sight, it would have a chance to hurt its conflicting-colored eyes with the sudden flash.

"Hi there," you started off, offering a soft tone. "Are you lost, little guy?" Although it cannot speak words, you deem yourself capable of understanding animal speech. Placing your hand on its head, you await an answer.

"Baa," the sheep responded with an expected response, which you chuckle at. It was adorable all the same, causing you to pat their head. Even though it realizes it's merely the two of you around, the singular sheep seems uncaring of their friends' disappearance. You find no strong need to return it to its group.

"Aren't you just the cutest thing?" you expressed, now squishing the sheep's cheeks. It seems not to mind, noticing their wagging tail. You're happy to see it enjoys this as much as you do.

Inviting you in for further affection, the sheep lies on their side, allowing their fluffy stomach to show. Without a second thought, you accept the offer, now rubbing the wool, which was surprisingly well-kept, attached to their belly.

You could see yourself doing this forever, and if your companion here could talk, you're sure they'd agree. Maybe taking them along with you would be the better option. Leaving the sheep by themselves fails to appeal to you.

Reluctantly, you pull your hands away from the fluff in order to gain the cream sheep's attention.

"How about you come along with me? I promise it'll be fun," you suggested, and the sheep appeared to be interested, their ears tilting up a smidge. A second after, your friend rises to their feet, looking at you expectantly. It took little to convince them, which plays in your favor.

"I knew you would agree! C’mon, little gu—" You pause, realization hitting you in the face.

"Huh, I can't just call you little guy, now can I? You deserve a name..." Trailing off, you begin to ponder. Your unnamed friend looks entertained.

"I got it! I'll call you Cotton Puff. You’re just as soft as cotton, anyways. Smart, right?" Although you adored the label, Cotton Puff does not look so amused. Well, you never said you were good at reading animal expressions. Besides, that could be their happy face.

Cotton Puff lets out a huff. Pushing their head against your legs, the cream sheep nudges you to go forward. Deciding to not leave them waiting for much longer, you turn back towards the entrance here. Of course, you help Cotton Puff over the bush, hopping over afterwards.

You commence a light jog along the pathway since the pit stop here already took up some of your time, which you do not regret. After all, you got yourself a sidekick here.

A few minutes pass by, and you run into another resident of Beast-Yeast. If you were looking elsewhere, your eyes would have skimmed over the many translucent butterflies. The fluttering wings caught your eye, making you pause in your jog.

Instead of a pace towards the group on your end, the butterflies move to fly over you and your pet, just as the spore from before. The blue butterflies carry a floral scent, drifting through the air and making the experience all the more pleasant. One in the group chose to land on Cotton Puff's nose, which you found silly.

Cotton Puff found something to be funnier, and that something was to chomp down on the harmless butterfly, swallowing it down right after.

You stare at the sheep, who looks all innocent now. Cotton Puff stares in return, then allows a sweet baa to come from their mouth, as if what you witnessed never happened.

That was unhinged, to say the least. There was no way for you to predict that, so you decided to rid it from your mind. Not much you can do now.

As one might expect, all of the pretty butterflies fluttered away due to Cotton Puff's behavior. You fail to blame them, and you also hold no blame for Cotton Puff, somehow. Their chubby face is too hard to hate.

Even so, you should probably offer him a piece of your hearty rye, or maybe the whole roll. You would like to prevent another incident from occurring.

Like a cat, Cotton Puff circles around your legs, the soft wool rubbing against you. Might it be an apology, you believe you’re not the one to receive it.

Nonetheless, the lover in you returns his little cuddle, ruffling Cotton Puff's wool. Again, the sheep appreciates it, and you can hear the slightest rumble erupting from their throat.

While that's adorable, you also do not want to waste the rest of the day smothering Cotton Puff in affection, even though it is tempting. You must spare some for your future friends.

With a quiet whistle, you bring Cotton Puff back into focus on your small trip. They was one step in front of you, as they already started up their trot. You follow along, not too far behind your unpredictable friend.

This time around, it takes a bit longer for you and your pet to find another wildlife. Perhaps choosing left on the split path you came across earlier was not the best choice, as the vegetation lessens with each step, and the trees grow tapered around you. You prefer the livelier setting of flowers and shrubs.

Laying at the end of the path, you spot another life form. Thankfully, selecting this trail wasn't for naught.

At first, you would guess it is simply another sheep, but as you and Cotton Puff shorten the distance, you notice this "sheep" is noticeably larger. Other traits stick out, such as the pointed ears and longer tail.

Since you are well educated on the topic of animals, you could tell this anomaly was a wolf, who was too busy munching on grub to notice their two watchers.

Yet a conveniently placed branch snaps under your foot, alerting the wolf in sheep's clothing of your placement.

Turning with a stare and quick to start up a growl, the wolf seems defensive of its findings. By all means, you were not here to steal food. You are far more interested in the fact that an idiom in Crispia is no longer such in Beast-Yeast.

In spite of your wishes, the chance is snatched away, as Cotton Puff took the bold decision of biting the snout of their newfound enemy. You were unaware their little legs allowed them to jump so high.

Going against its intimidating front, the wolf releases a whine and wastes no time to dash away. Cotton Puff watches, then returns to your side with his guiltless smile.

Maybe it would be optimal for the both of you to rest now. You can only pray that a nap can remove Cotton Puff's tendencies to bite other creatures.

You choose to retrace your steps, going after the location you found Cotton Puff in the first place. It's probable that being away from their natural environment stirs up odd reactions. Or that is just what you tell yourself, since you cannot come to believe that such a docile animal can be so naturally violent.

At last, you've come across a suitable spot to rest. A clear area surrounding a tree, along with a few bushes taking place nearby.

Sitting against the tree, you put your satchel to the side. Cotton Puff makes ease of placing themselves right on your lap, a perfect spot for them to nap.

Giving them one more good petting, scritching their round head to ensure a good doze, you find your eyes closing. Anyone would be tired after such a trip, so you allow your eyes to shut, falling into a light snooze.

Your eyes twitch open, slowly awakening due to the sun peeking through the branches and onto your face. The light stands as your first sign that, perhaps, you slept through the night, your nap shifting into a full-on slumber.

On an unrelated topic, your lap feels unusually heavy. You're quick to correct yourself, as you remember Cotton Puff taking place there before you fell asleep. Nonetheless, you go to look at them.

Huh, when did Cotton Puff grow so... blue? Not to mention, why does your former fluffy friend now appear as a cookie? You cannot be remembering wrong; you're sure Cotton Puff was a sheep. Then who is this?

An unknown cookie rests their head on your lap. Of course, you plan to wake them. As kind as you are, this is uncalled for. Even so, you intend to wake them nicely.

"Uh, hey?" You tugged on their shoulder. While you expected them to stir, you did not anticipate them to stare dead in your eyes once they turned.

"...Hello," you whispered, far too unsettled to say much else. The wide smile the blue cookie holds does little to comfort you.

Instead of a verbal reply, the cookie rises, giggles falling out of his mouth one after one. Was this some sort of prank? If it was, you start up your own awkward laugh, even though you failed to catch on to the topic.

"Well hello to you too!" The man returns your greeting with an eager one, pushing his cheek to your own in order to nuzzle your face. He's quite affectionate, that much you know.

"Who are you?" Pushing through his warmth, you managed to squeeze out your question. This cookie seems more acquainted with you than you are with him.

Pausing his tenderness, the cookie tilts his head when eyeing you.

"What could you ever mean? You know me!" That fell short in answering your inquiry, also playing a part in your confusion increasing.

"C’mon, take a reeeeal good look at me. Here's a hint: you love me very, very much." This cannot be a cookie from your kingdom, as you associate more with animals than others back home.

Since he offered, you take a good look at him. His clothes were... something, in short. Taking a look at his hair, it was unexpectedly staring back at you. You'll skip past that.

His face has a scar across his eye. Speaking of his eyes, which are next in line for inspection, you spend little time examining the pair.

"Cotton Puff?" His larger grin tells you your answer, but you are still dumbfounded. A cookie that possesses the ability to turn into a sheep. Since when? This is not what you meant by wanting to meet diverse animals.

"BINGO! Maybe the hint gave away too much, hm?" The real hint was his eyes, which, in truth, you should have noticed earlier. Though, looking at his eyes was the least of your worries in the moment. He was a stranger sleeping on your lap, and that stood out much more.

"But now you have met the real me! You should be thankful, really. Many don’t see this form, and if they do, well, they don’t live for much longer, ha ha!" That took a dark turn, and you recall that pattern in Cotton Puff, too. You feel inclined to believe him now.

"Allow me to give a proper introduction." You watch as the cookie removes himself from your lap, now hovering a few feet in front of you. He clears his throat to begin.

"It is I, Shadow Milk Cookie! Or, y'know, the Beast of Deceit, the true holder of a Soul Jam, the notorious jeste—"

Truthfully, you did not listen to anything else after that. The words "Beast of Deceit" caught your focus, and you feel dread engulf your being.

Was it true? The fables of the all-powerful Beasts were real all along? It just seems like anything and everything exists in Beast-Yeast. And to think you, a merely curious cookie, were cuddling him?! That had to offend him greatly. Could he find it within himself to forgive you?

"I’m sorry," you shouted, now on your knees in a sorrowful position. Your entire act caught Shadow Milk Cookie off guard, interrupting him in the middle of his ramble, while also bewildering him.

His jester hat in hand, he stares at you with a raised eyebrow. Shadow Milk is knowledgeable, so he can tell why you switched up so quickly. It's adorable if you were to ask him.

"Ooooh, someone knows me, don'tcha?" He did not bargain for that, but it makes this all the more fun. Shadow Milk Cookie is not beyond taking a thing or two for his advantage.

Your eyes dashing towards your bag, you lay your hands inside, rustling for an item. Shadow Milk Cookie watches with interest. Not exactly what one does when they find themselves within the presence of his might, but whatever. He could tell you were an odd one from the start anyway.

You pull out a... castella? Wow, you really know how to shock the crowd. Instead of shock, Shadow Milk Cookie would say confuse.

"Could you forgive me?" That look on you really is cute, the Beast thinks. Now you lie as the one appearing as a little lamb.

Besides that, if you had anything to apologize for, it's the stupid name you gave him. Cotton Puff, for a sheep? Too cliché. But you make up for it with all the cuddles you gave him.

"Hm," Shadow Milk Cookie hums in thought, grabbing your gift. "Boring!" He throws the castella elsewhere, and your expression deflates. He dislikes that look, but what else did you expect with a castella? What is he going to do with cake? Eating is not a requirement for him like it is for you. You’re so ditzy, and it's stupid how that attracts him.

"I have something else!" Quickly, you search your bag, as if there was anything else that could be of worth to a Beast. He has to have everything he could ever want by now.

"Ah, ah, ah!" "Cotton Puff" stops you in your tracks, which you find unfortunate. Is he going to end you now? Without mercy?

"I know just the thing I want," he states, leaving you on edge. Please let it be something other than crumbling you.

"I spy my little eye on..." Shadow Milk Cookie trails off, leaving you with suspense. He could soak up your face forever, but he gets to the point.

"[Name] Cookie!" Immediately, your face alters into a look of horror, and Shadow Milk Cookie does not favor that in the slightest. You did not even give him a chance! Whatever stupid cookie told you about him gave you the completely wrong idea. No worries; he can show you how benevolent he is.

"I’m... I'm sorry," is all you manage to speak in a shaky tone. From that alone, Shadow Milk Cookie can tell that you have got this all mixed up. He refuses to hurt you, so cheer up already. Did you think you could get away after showing him such tenderness?

The jester decides that love is the best medicine, charging towards you to embrace you in a tight hug. To accentuate it all, he lifts the two of you above ground, twirling you around in his arms.

"Oh, stop your silly apologies already. I chose to grace you with forgiveness," he's decided, speaking in a high and mighty tone.

"Really?"

"Nope." Well, that's one way to diminish all hope you had left.

"If you really are sorry, then come to my abode, like the good cookie you are," Shadow Milk requests, though it comes off as more of a demand since there is not much of a choice for you here.

"It's decided. YOU, my little lamb, belong to ME!" Shadow Milk is overly giddy to announce his claim over you when you didn't even respond. Though it goes as easy to guess what you would have said anyway.

And with that, the two of you poof away to your new home. You can bid your old friends here farewell. Actually, bid all of your friends farewell. You would be crazy to believe you'll be seeing Crispia anytime soon.

A brush in hand, you find your current situation more pleasant than you anticipated. You were transported to a realm that belonged to the deceitful cookie. Tricks, cards, and puppet shows resided everywhere in the mass of pitch black.

Right now, Shadow Milk Cookie created a comfortable bed for the two of you to sit atop. The Beast lays his head on your lap, similar to before, to let you brush his unusual hair. Not living up to your expectations, the brush does not harm the eyes taking place in his icing.

Legs swinging in the air, Shadow Milk Cookie enjoys being tended to more than he thought. He could still live without it, duh. Although that's what he tells himself. The trickster refuses to grow vulnerable with you this early on. You have to work for it.

Shadow Milk Cookie plans to keep you for a while. He would like to see how tender your relationship could become. Also because you pamper him in affection all too well. He might be strong, but not strong enough to turn you down. His pampering puppet, he titles you.

Besides, you seem so willing now. All it took on his side was saying your view of him was a "big misunderstanding," that the liar was not all that bad. He would never crumble another cookie!

He wonders how you fell for that.

"Sooo, my star! How did ya end up here in the first place? Runnin' from someone? Huntin' someone down?" Shadow Milk Cookie is educated, but he does not know everything. He was busy escaping those faeries and all that, so he fumbles in knowing why you came here.

"I wanted to explore what types of creatures reside here," you explained, and in return, he laughs. Shadow Milk should have foreseen a reason like that would be yours.

It is shocking you have not suffered any injuries throughout your journey. It would have happened soon enough if he had denied accompanying you, so you should be grateful for him, he thinks.

"Awwwh, well then! I'll show you ALL the animals you desire." That excites you quite a bit.

"Just kiddin!" he settles on. Shadow Milk Cookie is not fond of you sharing your endearment with other beings. You should have learned that he lives as a fickle cookie.

"After all, I'm the only animal you need." Instead of a cookie, there rests Cotton Puff on your lower section. The sight is familiar, bringing you warmth, even though you realize the sheep was not what they seemed.

This time, you bring Cotton Puff into a hug, feeling his coat brush against your cheek. It could be that Shadow Milk Cookie was right, that the cream sheep could be your one and only pet.

Cotton Puff licks your cheek, and you deem that a sign of reciprocation. It doesn't sound so bad staying here a while.

Without a doubt, Shadow Milk Cookie would agree. Just turn a while into forever. Where else could his little lamb have to go when he's right here?

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

A/N: Sorry for being inactive for a bit. I had several assessments, was under the weather, and burned my fingers. I believe it is the curse of being a writer coming to strike me. (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)

[pineconepie]

Here's the yanmom drider from a poll I did a while ago!

CHARACTERS: Anevra, Reader/You

WARNINGS/TAGS: Parental yandere, forced infantilization, baby-talk, animal death (hunting), abduction, semi-obedient reader, non-sexual nudity, bathing, escape attempt

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

Your torch flickers weakly, squinting through the darkness and the rain, trying to make sense of your surroundings. It's hard to see anything when you can't even see the sky.

You knew it was a bad idea to be exploring in these dark hours, but you needed to try and find shelter before night fell for real.

Your eyes finally pick out what looks like the entrance to some kind of cave.

Well, not like it's ideal, but at least you won't have to worry about getting any wetter, right? Besides, maybe the storm will calm down, and you'll be able to get home soon.

It's a spacious cave, and all you can hope is there isn't anything horrific to greet you inside. Your boots squeak against the rock floor as you walk carefully deeper in. It's pretty cold in here, though at least it's much drier than outside.

Maybe you can just build yourself a fire and hunker down.

You take out supplies from your backpack and set them on the floor, lying down on a blanket as a makeshift mattress.

Then you take a long drink from your canteen, wiping some of the moisture away from your face with the edge of your sleeve.

Using the little fire left from your torch, you lift it to take in your surroundings more better. There's a lot of large cobwebs stretching throughout the cave... but you know most spiders are generally peaceful creatures, right? As long as you don't provoke one... You look down at your own hands and realize how badly they're shivering.

As you rummage through your backpack to find something else to help warm you up, you hear a skittering noise. But it has to just be the echo of your own movement off the walls, right?

Something is thrown in your general direction, making you yelp. It's the carcass of a dead animal, but you don't get time to analyze what it is, because now you're terrified about who just threw that... or rather, what threw that.

The skittering noise again. And this time, it doesn't sound like an echo at all. Rather, you're almost completely positive it's coming from somewhere in this cave.

Then you see her.

At first, she just happens to look like an extremely tall woman, one with short light brown hair and blue eyes.

But then you see her multitude of legs and realize why this cavern looks so huge.

She looks just as shocked as you probably do. Then she brings her hands to her mouth. "A human!" Her voice sounds surprised, but happy. She almost lunges forward towards you, crawling on several of her long spindly spider legs. She looms over you, examining you. The size comparison between you both makes her seem at least three times taller than you.

You stay frozen in place, staring back at her. This can't be real... You're just exhausted and dehydrated and need some sleep. But that can't happen if your body refuses to allow you to close your eyes for a minute, too paralyzed by fear.

"I cannot believe my luck! After centuries, here I was thinking that I'd never have children to dote upon!" She places her hand to the side of your face. "What a blessing you are!"

Despite everything, your curiosity wins out over your caution. "Why... umm... why aren't you trying to eat me?" You hope that doesn't put ideas into her head.

She looks absolutely appalled. "Why would I ever think about doing such a thing?"

"Well..." You motion towards her extra eight legs and to the dead animal carcass still laying on the cavern floor. "Don't driders eat humans?"

"A lot of them do," she admits, "but not me! I've always adored humans! You all are just so small and cute!" She gently strokes one finger against your cheek. "Look at you! You're so small!" She suddenly stops and pulls away. "Where are my manners? My name is Anevra. Oh! But I suppose humans don't call their mothers by their name typically." She smiles warmly at you. "So how does Mama sound?"

This is ridiculous, you decide. This has to be some kind of twisted dream that your sleeping mind created. Your brain must just love seeing how much it can torment you, even if you aren't conscious.

"Mama?" you echo, feeling unsure of what else you should say.

"It rolls off your tongue nicely." Anevra's voice is smooth and warm, as is the expression on her face.

With how big she is compared to you, you can't tell if she genuinely thinks you're a child or not, but you don't really want to stick around long enough to find out.

The longer she looks at you expectantly, the more pressured you feel to do or say something, anything. Perhaps if you go along with what ever this is, you can find a way to escape, since you have an idea she won't let you leave willingly.

She leans in close, her face only inches away from your own, so close that you can see her eyelashes. "I bet you were scared, all alone outside by yourself in the rain. Don't worry, sweetling, Mama's got you now." She lifts you off the cave floor as easily as picking up a feather, then sets you into the crook of one of her arms. "It'll be okay now," she whispers.

Her extra legs guide your arms around her neck. When she's satisfied that you won't fall, she crawls back into the darkness of the cavern, where there are more cobwebs.

"I know that when I was younger I'd get comfort out of cuddling," she comments softly. "Are human children similar?"

"...miss, I am not a child," you finally say.

Anevra laughs, a soft sound echoing against the walls. "What a funny little thing you are!" She rubs her large hand over your head. "Of course you are. Why else are you so little compared to me, hmm?"

"Because I'm a human, not a drider!" You wiggle against her grasp, which just seems to make her grip harder onto you. Her strong embrace feels like it could snap your bones if she pressed any tighter.

"You are definitely my baby," she continues. "You don't have to be so shy about it."

With nothing else you can do, you decide to try and go along with her delusions. Maybe once she gets comfortable with you, she'll let her guard down, and then you can make a run for it.

It doesn't take very long for you both to reach a chamber deep inside the cavern system, but you weren't really sure how to keep track of time when all you could see were shadows and webs.

There are more spider-like aspects to her dwelling than before, with thick webs covering parts of the walls and ceilings, acting almost like decoration.

"Do humans normally shiver so much?" she murmurs, almost to herself.

You look down at yourself, just now realizing how you can barely keep your body still.

Whether it's from fear or coldness, you can't tell, though. It was colder deeper within the cave system, so that could definitely be a factor. Plus, now that the shock from meeting Anevra is starting to wear off, the chill is sinking in.

"Cold," you reply through chattering teeth.

"You poor thing." She brushes her knuckles against your face. "Let me wrap you up in a cocoon."

Before you can protest, you feel webbing wrap around you as tightly as a blanket. She holds you close to her chest like a precious gemstone. You can hear her heartbeat against your ear. Your struggles just cause you to get wrapped up even further. And she's looking at you with such maternal adoration. How could someone so dangerous seem so sincere?

But eventually you get exhausted from trying to fight, and she hums pleasantly in satisfaction.

"Hush, my little one." She presses a kiss to your forehead. "Now that I have you safely wrapped, you can rest your weary head against me all you'd like." She traces her clawed finger across your cheekbone.

...

When you wake up, everything is quiet, save for the distant sounds of wind howling and rain pouring down into the cavern.

As soon as you can get away from Anevra, the better.

However, when you squirm, you realize you're still wrapped in webbing. Then you start to struggle.

You hear a familiar skittering sound. It echoes off the walls until Anevra shows herself. She tilts her head at you. "Good morning, little one!" she greets enthusiastically. "What are you doing?"

"Can I come out now? I'm no longer cold or tired," you inform her.

"No! Not yet!" she insists. "I still want to hold you!"

How frustrating. But maybe there's something you could try to convince her. If it doesn't work, hopefully she won't react violently towards you.

"I wouldn't be going anywhere else," you promise. "I just wanted to... uhh..." It feels silly to say this next part, but it might just work. "...be able to hug you with my own arms," you finish quietly.

Luckily for you, Anevra reacts exactly as you hoped she would. She covers her mouth with her hands, eyes practically sparkling as she squeals with delight.

"Oh, you're such a darling little thing, you know that? You're simply too precious for this world."

She unravels you from the cocoon with great care, as if you'd break at any second.

But once you're free from the webbing, you try to jump down, only to be pulled into another embrace by her. Though it's less constraining than the webbing was. Still, it doesn't change the fact you're being held against your will by a drider.

You reluctantly wrap your arms around her midsection. You hope that you're being convincing, because all you want to do is get out of here.

She pets the top of your head. "Aren't you just the sweetest baby? Hmm? Mama loves you so, so, so much!" She punctuates each word with a kiss on your forehead.

Now that you think about it, maybe you'll have to plan this more well. After all, you don't know the layout of the big cave well at all, not to mention how dark it is and the fact she is probably fifty times more strong and fast than you are.

Perhaps if you spend some time getting used to the layout of the cave, you'll be more prepared to make your escape.

For now, all you can do is play along. You let her dote and coddle, as annoying as it is, because hopefully in the end, your efforts will prove to be worthwhile.

Anevra sets you on the ground for a minute while she scours the cave, muttering things to herself under her breath.

"What are you doing?" you ask after a little while.

She turns her attention back to you. "Oh, I'm sorry! Here I am ignoring you!" She shakes her head. "Mama is just a bit distracted, that's all. I'm trying to find suitable food for a human. And after that, I'll bathe you by the hot spring. Does that sound okay, sweetling?"

"Hot spring?" you repeat, confused. "There's a hot spring here?"

"Yes," she answers happily. "This cave is much bigger than it looks."

She starts a small fire nearby using logs and sticks, presumably collected from the outside, then places a flat rock on top.

You can hear your stomach grumble as she cooks a slab of something, though you're not quite sure what kind it is. It's still so hard to see in this dim lighting.

Once it's finished cooking, Anevra leans over to you, holding the meat up to your face.

"Can you feed yourself?" she asks gently. "Or do you need Mama to do it for you?"

"I can do it myself." As embarrassing as it is, you don't think you could bare her feeding you like a helpless infant. So you gingerly take the food from her claws and begin to eat. It tastes surprisingly good, but maybe your hunger is causing your tastebuds to favor everything edible. Either way, you're thankful to fill your aching stomach. Despite everything, Anevra's warm smile feels genuine.

After you both finish eating, she offers her hand to help you stand up, which you cautiously accept.

You walk down several long passageways, illuminated by the light of a lantern, until you reach the hot springs. There are steam clouds floating around the water and in the air, making everything moist.

She hums as she begins undressing you. For a moment, you're freezing again, but she grabs you from under your armpits and places you into the hot spring. The warmth hits your bones like an electric shock, and you melt against the rocks.

"Good baby," Anevra murmurs to you.

As she begins washing you, your mind goes numb for a moment. But you're startled back into focus once her fingers comb through your hair and scratch against your scalp.

"So tiny," she marvels aloud, "so small. Fragile and cute." She plants a kiss to your temple. "All mine."

Your body feels numb and limp from the warmth, despite the weirdness of the situation. The water smells faintly of lavender. Your eyes flutter shut, and for a blissful moment, you're asleep and peaceful.

Nothing exists, nothing worries you, and nothing bothers you. Just the sensation of weightlessness, like you're floating in a cloud.

Suddenly, you jolt back awake as you feel Anevra pulling you out of the water. She dries you off with a cloth, then grabs a shirt and shorts. They look handmade, though they're pretty big, enough to hang loosely around your frame.

The two of you settle into silence as she guides you back into the depths of the cavern.

...

Each day begins roughly the same. You wake up, have breakfast, try to get familiar with the layout of the cave, have dinner, and bathe in the hot spring.

Anevra is always watching, her gaze hovering over you, protective yet possessive. Even so, you try your hardest to keep your emotions neutral. You can't risk showing how upset and uncomfortable you are by her behavior.

Your opportunity comes to you one night, as she's sleeping. Most of her legs stretch out, and you lay carefully in the crook of one of her arms. When you sense that her breathing has become steady, you wiggle away slowly.

However, once you free yourself, you see that Anevra hasn't moved at all, still deeply asleep.

Good.

You creep as silently as possible to the entrance of the cavern system. Luckily for you, the sunlight shines down into the opening. Makes sense it'd be daytime, she must be nocturnal.

Everything's fine.

Until it isn't. And that happens the second you step outside and realize you have no idea where the fuck you are. The landscape around you is barren and unfamiliar, and you don't recognize any landmarks. At this point, it seems like your best option would be to retrace your steps, or at least attempt to, before you ended up lost in this place.

You're walking for about half a mile when you finally turn around.

And instantly regret doing so.

There stands Anevra. She's smiling, but you can feel the malice radiating off of her. Her face is eerily blank of expression, aside from the grin plastered on her face, unnaturally wide and bright. As though she were forcing herself to remain cheerful for you.

"Aren't we silly today?" she asks. "Going on an adventure, are we?" Her tone is calm, but you sense danger lurking behind her words.

She doesn't give you a chance to reply before lifting you off the ground and carrying you back inside.

"I'm so very disappointed in you," she says, wrapping you in a layer of thick webbing. "Mama told you many times never to leave the cave, especially by yourself. You disobeyed me." With every word, the webbing grows tighter. "It looks like you need to truly learn how to depend on me before I can trust you again." She cradles your cocooned self like a swaddled infant.

"Please! Let me go!" you exclaim. "I didn't mean to scare you!"

Anevra clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "You didn't listen, sweetling. Mama's not angry, though. You just need to learn how much you need me."

[planetdream]

AN EVENING IN THE WOODS !

CHARACTERS ! werewolf!bang chan, human!reader

GENRE ! horror/thriller but barely, smut [minors dni]

WORDS ! 3.3k

SYNOPSIS ! on a drunken game night, you're dared to take a little stroll through the woods after rumors of a werewolf lurking through the town.

THIS FIC CONTAINS ! more thriller than horror i think. mentions of alcohol. being chased/stalked; mentions of being 'kept'. reader desc. wearing long skirt + called 'good girl'. smut [dubcon(?)—reader is basically being used. d/s dynamics—predator versus prey. possessiveness. [rough] sex in the woods. monsterfucking ig. large cock channie <3. pussy eating. facefucking. cumplay + creampie. belly bulge oops. dumbification(?) growling..] used the word 'beast' a lot oops. it gets weird idk

💌 ngl...i think i forgot how to write smut u guys... this is partially inspired by a brief part in house of leaves by mark z. danielewski, but like, not really at all iykyk. anyway, as u kno, i always appreciate feedback <3

There’s a big difference between vampire hunters and werewolf hunters. The creatures are different from each other in both ferocity and nature; thus, the study and hunt of them will differ based on several factors. Hunters of said creatures are expected to know what to do in situations in which they are faced with such foul beasts. You, quite frankly, are neither a vampire nor a werewolf hunter. Inexperienced to the point where you couldn’t begin to imagine what you would do if faced with anything that is such a monstrous terror, let alone a werewolf. Yet, here you are, prancing around the cold forest like a delicious piece of meat, praying that you don’t cross paths with anything—man or beast.

About a month ago, men and women alike began disappearing from town in the late hours of the night, not to be seen or heard from again. In the following weeks, numbers of missing people have only risen, leading many to believe that there might be a serial killer on the loose. That, however, was only until word got around that a town drunkard had seen what he could only describe as a ‘terrifyingly large rabid dog’. ‘It had to be about six feet tall just standing there’, he said, swearing solemnly, even vowing to quit drinking in an effort to portray his seriousness. The man wept, “It was one of them werewolves. I swear by it.” 

Only from there did word travel through the town. Though, no one believed the drunk old man, laughing at his testimony—‘A werewolf? In this town? That’s impossible’—some treating it as some fable, or a game, even. Which is what leads to you, alone, in the woods tonight. A fun game of truth or dare with your friends—being a chronic truth picker, tonight (with a little liquid courage) you decide that you want nothing but to humor your associates, you chose dare—turns into you blindly making your way into the dark forest with nothing but a lamp, pocket knife, and a few neon stickers to help you make your way back; and that’s only if you’re not murdered. 

By the looks of it, the surrounding forest is empty. The only sounds come from the rustling of tree leaves mingling together due to the wind, the sounds of birds squawking in the far distance, and the snapping and crunching of twigs and leaves beneath your shoes. You trek your way through the trees and dirt extremely unnerved. Nothing has happened at all, and although you’re thankfully still alive and breathing, making your way through the clutter of trees and dead wood, you cannot help but be a bit frightened about the dreariness and uncertainty of the situation. 

It’s a cold night, predicted to snow a bit; temperature dropping lower and lower with each hour that falls. The sun had set a while ago and the purple-orange hue leftover has now faded from blue into black. And while the stars are beginning to show themselves—pristine and beautiful—the dark sky only adds to the dreariness of your walk through the forest. The sudden additional silence is eerie, nature has stilled completely. Although the echo of stillness is inexplicable, unusual; it comforts you—knowing that you would hear your assailant coming, should you come close to being attacked. 

When looking at your watch, you find that you’ve only been in the forest for fifteen of the required thirty minutes—it’s very possible that you can go the distance, turning on your heels and deciding to make your fifteen minute walk back to the edge of the dark forest; and most importantly, to safety. After all, your friends must be worried about you by now; maybe even surprised that you’ve really stuck to the dare. In a matter of minutes, this will be all over and you will be resting at home.

You had to have been walking in one straight direction, right? Maybe because it’s dark, and you, admittedly, have drunk quite a bit, but the placemarkers you remember sticking to the trees along your path are nowhere to be found. The light of your lamp shines against tree after tree, but they remain in their natural state, unchanged. Your eyes widen, heartbeat increasing as you look at the leftover placemarkers you hold in your hand, only six remaining of your original twenty—so you know you’ve used them. 

You stop in your tracks, not willing to venture any further than you already have. Mind racing, scanning and assessing all the possible things you can do, slowly slipping into a panic. You could scream as loud as you can, vocally expressing your need for rescue; but how likely is it that you’ll be heard, especially given how deep into this unchanging landscape you are. Perhaps you can continue walking ahead, only praying that you make your way out unharmed—after all, safety should have been just a fifteen minute walk ahead.

As you lift your foot a few centimeters off of the ground to make your first step, through the darkness of the forest and out of your peripherals, you swear you see a large shadow for just a split second—lurched over and next to a thick tree to your right. A chill runs down your spine and you shudder as you realize the presence of this creature; intimidating and dominant. Taking no chances, feet hitting the ground hard as you sprint through the woods, doing your best to escape this nightmare; real or otherwise. 

The action of running when you feel like you’re being chased, versus running because you are being chased, are quite similar. It’s all instinct, a gut feeling that you jump on, increased heart rate; it’s choosing to flee rather than to fight. The difference, in this moment, you realize, is the definite risk of getting caught. The consequences could prove to be unsatisfactory, at the very least, if you were to be caught by whatever it is that may be following after you. Although, looking behind, there’s nothing in sight—no sign of disaster nor danger. You continue along, albeit a lot slower than before, attempting to catch your breath a bit. Walking off trail just a bit to slow down and assess your next course of action. 

The snapping of a twig within your vicinity has you darting from the temporary hiding place. However, the predator is right on your trail, persisting in its hunt for flesh. You weave your way through the woods, brain firing off about escaping quickly without harm. The chase does not last long, though. One misstep taking you down, tumbling. Briefly, in your panic, you appear to meet eyes with the foul beast. Fear lodged in your throat, dry and brittle—crumbling into tiny little pieces that pester your insides like a million tiny beetles finding a dark, cavernous home. Stomach clenching, seizing as you cower in submission to your terror. Hands buried into the freshly fallen snow—previous footsteps already blanketed over and long gone. Never have you thought you would give up so easily; unsure if you’ve got it within you to fight back in the absolute worst case. 

Body stuck in place, paralyzed with fear once you hear the snow behind you crunch, a sign that the creature is inching closer to you. It’s like your life flashes before your eyes once you feel the snout of the creature pressed against the back of your neck, heat blowing against the back of your neck, followed by a short, deep snarl emitting from within the beast. The large presence behind you is undeniable. The way the creature towers over you is horrifying—a domineering and overbearing sense of power, exuding pride and strength in the form of body heat. It circles you, though you are too terrified to look towards it, despite the daring growl it emits. Heart racing, nearly about to jump out of your chest and run away itself. The creature begins to circle around you, and out of the corner of your eye you can see its feet—huge black paws. Oh great! You’ll be eaten alive. 

But then the feet of the beast turns into man, and slowly you raise your face to get a good look at its true face. He starts off as a blur initially, but the longer you look at him, the more recognizable he becomes. A face you’ve always seen lurking around town. Though despite the area being rather small, you’ve never formally interacted—only stared at each other from a distance then kept it moving. Tonight, however, you finally decided to walk up to him at the local bar whilst with friends, only for him to walk away without a word. ‘Oh, him? Yeah, Chan is just like that.’

“Mmm. What’s that smell?” Chan asks while humming. Arms caging you in against the tree as he presses his nose against your neck, right near a particularly sweet spot. “Smells heavenly. So sweet and delicious.” 

He continues to sniff you out, planting a small kiss to your neck before traveling lower, nose now pressed to the fabric of your clothing. Face pressed in between the valley of your breast, Chan takes a long, deep inhale. His eyes are closed as he pulls back, slightly smirking with clear contentment. Chan takes the material of your shirt pinched between his fingertips before tearing the shirt down the middle, groaning at your now exposed chest. His hands cup your tits, thumbs teasing at your nipples, as he runs his nose down the valley, before swiping back up with his tongue. 

Chan isn’t done, nose still pressed against your skin as he sinks down to his knees. Rough hands cupping your ass, squeezing, as he stops—nose pressed against your mound, breathing you in while trying to pull you closer, finally finding the source of that sweet, heavenly scent. He’s breathing heavily to the point that you can feel his hot breath against your skin through the thin material of your skirt; snarling as he takes in your scent. And he’s mumbling something down there—pussy hungry words about how fucking delectable you smell. Perfect to devour. 

Contrary to the petrifying circumstance, the rush of adrenaline you get in the moment is euphoric and exhilarating. Chan’s touch is hot against you, almost scorching, and leaves you wanting—no, needing more of him. 

He hikes up the long length of your skirt with ease, throwing your leg over his shoulder to force your hips towards his face, diving face first into your cunt. Tongue lapping up hungrily at your wetness, moaning and groaning without a care in the world as he gets the first taste of his meal. Plump lips sucking your clit, vibrating when he moans, causing you to shake and squirm, but Chan has a strong grip against you. He’s messy as he eats you—occasionally breaking free, not for air, but to spit against your cunt—as the lower half of his face is covered in your nectar; which he hopes never washes off, absolutely frenzied by your scent, cock hard and leaking cum, jumping at the thought of finally getting to fuck his cock into this sweet little cunt. 

While Chan is usually a patient man, having no problem in waiting—stalking his prey and then teasing them for hours upon hours on end—he finds himself struck with need. A particular need to feast. To fuck and destroy his prey. Days and days of stalking you, taunting you from afar, and you played right into his palm—obviously fated to be found afraid and lost, deep in his territory. It is at this point he thinks to keep you. Perhaps hide you away somewhere cold and dark where only he’d be able to find you. Keeping you bound to him until he gets sick of you—or until you cease to exist. Aching to fuck you over and over and over again until it becomes too difficult for you to even think about moving a muscle, succumbing fully to his torturous pleasure. He stops himself from thinking too far ahead all too soon, clearly entranced by the sweetness of your cunt. 

Chan springs to his feet; cock heavy, hard and curving to the right, tip swelling red with need and dripping with precum. Your eyes are glued to his cock as you watch him massage his right hand over it; even in his big palms his cock is huge. The excitement to take him spreads from the pit of your stomach and up your chest, visualizing into the form of goosebumps all over your arms. He just laughs at the look on your face; how equally intrigued and dismayed you appear. A perfect little lamb stalked and caught by the big bad wolf, unable to flee due to their own fascination despite their fright. 

Chan leans in, his lips against yours briefly. A hand curling into your hair to bring you down to your knees, you follow suit. His hand stays tangled in your hair, pulling harshly against your scalp. With his other hand, Chan strokes his cock, running his thumb over the tip; then pulling your head towards his tip. Eagerly, your tongue slips from your mouth, ready to taste everything he’s giving you. You swirl your tongue around him, but Chan has other plans, slowly sliding his cock into your mouth; helping you savor the slightly salty taste of his seed. Fixing your mouth open as wide as it can go, with both hands now tangled into your hair, he thrusts his cock in and out of your mouth, slowly increasing the speed of his thrust. 

“You just take it like a good girl, huh?” You don’t say anything, but that dazed look in your eye and the moan that escapes from deep in your throat tells Chan all he needs to know. 

“Perfect little mouth, but I bet that pussy is even better.” Chan frees his cock from your mouth with a trail of spit. His hand around his cock once again, the slick sound like music to your ears. Though, it’s at this point that the cold air is starting to get to you—the snow is light but still continuous—yet you power through it for just another taste of Chan. 

“Want you so bad,” You bite your lip, looking into his eyes, eyebrows furrowed together. You stand and stretch to turn your back to him, looking over your shoulder as you wiggle your backside towards him like a bitch in heat. Chan smirks at you, a small laugh erupting from him at the sight of your shamelessness.   

In the heat of the moment, Chan licks the palm of his hand before bringing it down to rub at your cunt from behind. He doesn’t say anything, but you can hear a long, deep snarl come from within his chest. The closer he gets to you, the louder the growl echoes, and the more he warms you with his body heat—caging you in against the tree. You grind into his hand, greedily taking anything he gives you. While Chan is steadily becoming just as impatient as you, he always spares time to play with his food; teasing the tip of his cock against your slit. Chan slowly slides into your cunt—a rough hand clenching onto your hip, nails digging into your skin; not nearly enough to keep him from losing his cool as your wetness encases his cock, wet and tight. 

You’re barely taking half of his dick before the stretch of it nearly becomes too much—but he’s one step ahead of you; arm snakes across your belly and down to your cunt, two wet fingers ready to play with your clit. Chan works his fingers against your clit slowly winding you up, all while planting a quick kiss against your shoulder; tongue drooling out to lick a long wet stripe against your neck. It’s only once he receives a moan from you in response that he starts thrusting into you slowly; the thrusts of his hips syncing with the movement of his fingers. 

It isn’t long before you’re taking more and more of his cock, being stuffed and stretched deliciously. Cunt leaking and begging for more of him. Chan lets out these harsh growls and grunts that contrast with the pitch of your moans. His nails dig into your hips, using a minimal amount of strength to pull your hips back against him, making you meet his thrusts. His hips smack against your ass roughly, cock stretching you further, but your cunt swallows every inch perfectly. That’s only until he slides out of you, wordless, yet, still letting out a snarl. He pushes you onto the ground, hands and knees crashing into the new layers of snow. You yelp out in response, but Chan can only laugh at you. 

“Just letting me push you around like this? I think I should keep you,” He follows you, kneeling onto the ground, cock in hand. Laying  a quick smack at your ass, he hums. “How would you feel about being my little plaything, huh?”

His free hand kneads against your ass while he plays with his cock. “Keep you locked up with me ‘n only let you out in these woods at night, hmm? All cute ‘n naked for me to hunt down and fuck again.”

“And you can’t even hide cause I’ll always find you, pretty.” He finally slides into your cunt, still not letting you have all of him, yet. “How does that sound? Do you like it?”

His words are filthy and so are his touches but somehow he’s got you entranced. You let out a loud, cracked sob of a yes in response to his inquiries as if he bullied it out of you. “Good girl.” 

Chan finally allows himself to break—hips snapping harshly into yours. Not caring if you go limp from the way he’s fucking into you, instead his hands are once again clenching your hips, grinding his hips against your ass whenever he thrusts his cock back into you. Your fists clutching onto the snow as you take his cock, unable to do much but drool and mewl for him. 

He presses his chest across your back, caging you onto the cold ground. His tongue once again flat against your skin, licking every inch of what exposed skin he has access to. Still pounding into you as he chases his impending orgasm. Then he sinks his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, letting out a whine rather than the usual growl as he fucks his cum into you. It’s hot, sticky, and heavy—and it seems like it’s unending; seemingly producing more and more as he pumps his cock into you. Slowly Chan reaches a hand down to press against your lower abdomen; feeling how your belly swells with all the cum his cock is feeding your cunt. 

You moan at the feeling when Chan pulls out of you with a sigh of exhaust. Cum coating his cock and spilling out of your cunt, staining your thighs. So much of his seed has spilled out and he’s no longer stuffing you with his cock, but yet you feel so full. Chan continues to incite, two thick fingers dip into your cunt to scoop up and play with the excess cum that’s dripping from your hole. 

Chan pulls you back to him by your arms, caging you against his chest. He whispers to you. “What if we played a fun little game, hm?”

He grips your chin and those same two digits that were once inside of you, force into your mouth, offering you another taste of Chan’s cum. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice, “Let’s say, I give you a ten second head start to run.”

Chan kisses the back of your neck and a chill runs down your spine. “The ten seconds start now.” 

He frees you from his hold, and springs to his feet leaving you dumbfounded. But by the time you stand and face the direction of Chan, legs weak and cold, he’s no longer there.

It seems his fun little game has officially started. 

© PLANETDREAM 2024

[little-miss-fandom-freak]

Jayce Talis x Goth!Reader

Here's the 2nd Goth!Reader story as promised, Dr. Phosphorus' is on the way!

The two of you met while he was in the Undercity buying parts for his newest project.

You were a regular in Benzo's shop, selling anything you found while you were out scavenging. You were in the back, looking for something in particular for a project of your own. When you came from the back, Jayce digging through a box of power converters.

"Whos this guy?" You asked as you walked behind the counter.

Ekko shrugged. "Some topsider."

When he finally found the one he needed, Jayce dropped it in his box and slammed it on the counter.

"How much for all this?" He asked.

Ekko looked at you, then back at him. "Um... let me look."

As Ekko looked through the box, the Jayce's gaze drifted to you. You were too busy going through Benzo's knick-knack box to notice, but he was completely infatuated with you. So infatuated, he didn't even hear Ekko tell him the accurate price. When Jayce didn't respond, Ekko took advantage and doubled the price. Jumping out of his thoughts, Jayce quickly paid, and as Ekko happily scurried away, Jayce kept his eyes on you.

Feeling his gaze, you looked up at him through your lashes. "Can I help you?"

He looked almost startled when you acknowledged him. "Oh-um. I was... um... I-I was just... uh, I wa-wanted to say you... you-you look... nice."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his flustered self. "Thanks. Not so bad yourself, Topsider."

"To-Topsider? How-How'd you- I mean, what? Me, top-topsider no! No I'm not..." He realized he wasn't convincing you at all.

You laughed once again. "You're funny. I like that."

"You-You do?" He couldn't believe his luck right now. Grabbing you supplies, you walked around the counter with a pen in your hand. You pulled his hand twords you and wrote down your information on it and without another word, you left.

♡ Your first date with Jayce was to the History of Piltovian Technology Muesum. He felt a little embarrassed by it at first but was thrilled to find out how much you loved it.

♡ He doesn't quiet understand Goth culture (He's the type of person to call anyone wearing a lot of black Goth), but he tries

♡ He builds you little robot creatures and gifts them to you randomly (holiday or not)

♡ Your dynamic is literally the "He asked for no pickles" meme

♡ Let's you practice new makeup styles on him. It sounds since until you realized he cannot sit still at all.

♡ You're basically known around the university pretty early on as Jayce's scary girlfriend.

♡ People think Jayce is haunted after the one time you spent the day on campus with him and Viktor. Several students reported a ghost sighting that day.

♡ Speaking of Viktor, the two of you got along like a house on fire

♡ Being that you both grew up in the Undercity, you both had a similar thought process.

♡ Despite the chaoticness of the two of you, he loved seeing his best friend and lover get along.

♡ He also introduced you to his mom not even a week into dating (even she felt like it was a little early, but she welcomed you with open arms)

♡ Kinda thinks your a witch because of all the "potions" he finds you making (theyre just medicines and face creams)

♡ If you don't live with him, he will visit you almost every single day.

♡ But if you do live with him, or at least stay at his place the most, he will let you have full control over decorating. He's a scientist, not an interior decorator. The most "fun" thing in his apartment was a dead plant on the kitchen windowsill.

♡ Loves wearing your jewelry.

♡ If you're missing a certain ring or bracelet, there's a 99% chance Jayce took it before when left that morning. (He says wearing it feels like having you there spiritually)

♡ One day, he had you meet the Kiraman's. And you were a nervous wreck.

♡ Not only were they Jayce's sponsors, but they were close friends with him, and you didn't want to ruin it.

♡ When Jayce caught you dumbing down you outfit to one thst was more casual, he FREAKED out.

♡ He hated that you felt the need to change yourself. "If they can't see past the makeup, then they're sad for just assuming who you are without even getting to know you." (He made you cry, thank God you didn't have any makeup on)

♡ Caitlyn was a little scared of you, but eased up when she saw the look of pure love in Jayce's eyes everytime he looked at you.

♡ He bases a lot of his designs around you. This lead to many if the Hex-Tech machinery having Gothic-like designs.

♡ He tries so hard to get involved in your intrests, but he doesn't understand it.

♡ Pre-Time jump Jayce gets very sick when it comes to any level if gore, so horror movies were out. He didn't quiet understand the appeal of Goth music, but he loved seeing the way your face lit up when you would explain the song or the band to him

♡ When Jayce left with Himerdinger and Ekko to investigate the Hex Core, he ran into you. He tried his best to explain everything, and he knew you didn't understand but just being able to air it all out calmed him down.

♡ You were already late for work or else you would've went with, so instead you have him your black cuff. It was his favorite because he had a matching pair that was his house colors.

♡ And good thing you gave it to him, it was the only thing that kept him mildly sane when he was in the other timeline.timeliness. He would spend hours just staring at it, trying to hold on to the memory of you

♡ When he got back, the first thing he did was try and find you. When he did, he couldn't help but kiss you until your black lipsticks rubbed off of you and onto him.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

I hope you enjoyed this and if you have anything you would like me to personally respond to, message me or put it in my ask box because as of right now, Tumblr won't let me respond to comments :)

[cavetreasures]

Sorn's problem

I've been thinking about Sorn and what I'd probably find if I cracked his skull open (lovingly) and stirred through his brain, and I have an interrrrpretation.

I feel like there must be something that's holding Sorn back from being fully himself and going for what (who) he wants. One reason is that it wouldn't be entirely satisfying for me to discover that he's doing all this simply because he's just that emotionally stilted — but there are other little things as well, like the below shot of the camera lingering on the back of his head as he's watching Jun leave the car.

You usually see things like this when the story is telling you that the character is hiding something. Might be confirmation bias though, and I'm not sure how much effort they're putting into narrating through camera shots, but anyway.

When we first see Sorn, we watch him through Jun's eyes, and Jun sees him as this unhinged, hypersexual creature — wild and unrestrained, getting off in the middle of the day, in a public space, lacking any shame or inhibitions. Free and unfeeling. I'm however convinced that Sorn's actions in that first scene are directly related to Jun.

What if he thinks he's not allowed to be with Jun? If that is true, then what he was doing in that scene was forcing himself to perform an exaggerated version heterosexuality — but then he notices Jun, and his efforts go out the window.

I think Sorn has always been aware of his attraction to Jun. He does all those deliciously devious things to Jun without batting an eye because "well, he's heterosexual, it doesn't mean anything, he won't feel anything for me anyway, I can bullshit my way out of this." He thought he's just going to suffer with his one-sided thing, and Jun will never know.

And then Sorn disappears because of The Reason (feelings of worthlessness, or family drama, something else, or everything at once). He severs the connection completely because he needs to, trying to get over Jun. And it's completely fine, because Jun doesn't feel anything for him anyway. He has a girlfriend, he's alright. So Sorn tries to forget him, but it doesn't happen — because he's hooked, and no matter how many partners he has, they just cannot fill the Jun-shaped hole in his heart. They can never satisfy him enough. He never lets them really see who he really is; he never allows them into his personal space.

But at least he's at peace, because Jun is straight— so there wasn't even a potential possibility for a relationship, right? Well, no wonder his reaction to finding out Jun is openly gay is so mixed when they meet each other again. His obsession is back. He cannot stand the idea that Jun is going to have more — and it is not going to be with him — so the bullshit is back on, and he goes off the rails.

Sorn creates this situation where he thinks he's in control, where he's going to get a taste of as much as he can, for as long as it's possible, without stepping over the line. And in his mind it's fine, because Jun doesn't like him, so he's the only one who's going to get hurt — and he's probably used to suffering already.

And he's in denial of Jun's growing feelings for him, justifying Jun's unusual animosity by attributing it to his own jerkish behavior, arguing that it's normal for Jun to have such a reaction to everything that he does. And his friends always calling him a jerk and blaming every little thing on him without really paying attention to his feelings are not helping in any way — they're just solidifying his delusion and maybe reinforcing his bad guy self-concept.

Similar to his whole "no-attachment sex apprenticeship" thing, the printer prank was done to get Jun's attention, teach him a lesson, and keep him in control. He thought Jun wouldn't suffer because it wasn't that serious to him — but Jun cried. He underestimates Jun's emotional depth and plays into the condescending mentor persona, convinced that he's the only one who can be really affected. In other words, he has his head stuck in his own butt.

So I think soon everything will slip out of his control and it will blow up in his face. Jun will get hurt, Sorn will have to face the devastating consequences of his actions, and I will cry. :)

[ghcstao3]

Johnny grows up listening to stories about the Ghost of the forest that surrounds his village.

A myth, a man, an otherworldly creature, no one quite knew what Ghost was. But as far as the tales went, Ghost was an evil entity, no matter of what genre, that haunted the woods and had nothing but bad intentions. A supposedly horrifying being, a powerful being, that did not take kindly to intruders. By magic, or something far, far worse, it is said that many who have attempted to seek Ghost out seldom returned, or if they did, they were never the same. If one went with offerings for Ghost, then the creature might be inclined to enact a singular kindness, one favour of goodwill, but like the tides Ghost's mood could change in an instant, and all his rare generosity would be instantaneously revoked.

It takes being one of the fools that attempts to find Ghost for Johnny to learn these stories are filled with nothing but falsities.

When Johnny's mother falls ill one autumn and not one of the village doctors is able to help her, Johnny decides to do the unadvisable thing of trekking into the forest to search for Ghost, and pray that he should be one of the lucky ones to be afforded Ghost’s good fortune. If human remedies and medicine are not of use, then perhaps magic could serve as a cure. So Johnny thinks, anyway.

He nearly gets lost several times over before he eventually comes across a homely-looking cottage that is far from the expectations he'd had set by the various stories meant to keep village children out of the forest. Smoke curls lazily out of a chimney, ivy creeps over stone and mortar, moss eats up the worn path leading to the front door. It doesn't... appear particularly menacing, so Johnny isn't at all dissuaded from making his approach and knocking on the old wooden door.

It would be at this cottage that he would, in fact, find Ghost.

But it would also be at this cottage that Johnny would learn that Ghost is merely a man only a few years older than him, a man named Simon, who is not at all evil and not at all magic and not at all the grotesque creature he was said to be.

Over tea Simon would explain to Johnny that when he was a boy he’d been cast out of the village, painted as a monster by all the townsfolk after his home had caught fire and, unfortunately, killed his family—save for him. They’d accused him of witchcraft, magic-use, demonic possession, and sent him out into the forest to die. But Simon is resilient, and Simon is smart, and yes, he does have something that will help Johnny’s mother. He’s far more advanced than those village doctors ever would be.

Johnny wants to ask more questions, wants to get to better know Simon, wants to know how all those legends came about—but soon enough the sun is due to set, and Simon is sending him away with an elixir and some herbs, and Johnny has to say goodbye.

He’d return one day, though, he promises himself. Because Simon seems lonely, and Johnny just simply cannot have that.

[perasperaadpasta]

I have no empathy for Good Omens or Sandman or whatever other Gaiman work fans who 1. just cannot help making the allegations about themselves and 2. are genuinely heartbroken to the point of being unwilling to reasses their attachment to these works (these usually overlap).

When I found out an author I was obsessed with, whose works I read nearly in their entirety and voraciously, whose stories inspired me and filled my imagination for years, turned out to be a paedophile who abused her children, facilitated the abuse of multiple others by her also paedophile husband, and raped her daughter, none of that... mattered anymore. How could it possibly?

I'm talking about Marion Zimmer Bradley, if her rap sheet isn't familiar. Having grown up a nerd who could read at highschool level at 7, and who was, at 12, already sick of how male-centered fiction (and particularly fantasy, my favorite genre) was, discovering The Mists of Avalon was a revelation. The pointedly anti-Christian, unapologetically female-centered narrative was a near-spiritual balm for a closeted lesbian kid in a Catholic small town.

I read all of her Arthuriana books and all of her Darkover series I could find. I'm interested in Arthuriana to this day because of the point of view she offered. The possibility of shifting the male gaze pervasive in art to a female view from within was so instrumental to how I approach art at all. And this is, of course, not pioneered nor exclusive to Bradley, but it was my introduction to it, to this critical and yet respectful framework of experiencing art.

And yet. When I learned what she'd done, it fundamentally and irrevocably changed what she'd said.

Is it really still a work of feminist expression if composed by a rapist? I cannot reconcile the thought that the most execrable creature in feminist thinking can be capable of anything but farcical, hypocritical emulation of sincerity, convincing as it may be. It cannot possibly be earnest and its pretense is pervasive. Even if the story was otherwise so good, so entertaining that its message could be sidelined, there's hardly a lack of that that makes this particular one indispensable.

My admiration for her is all revulsion now. I have no interest in what this sort of thing has to say about anything, safe for possibly in the context of criminal psychology.

I will never reread it. I will never recommend it as entertainment and least of all feminist entertainment.

And here's the thing, this wasn't life-ruining for me. This did not hurt me personally. My world didn't shatter, it didn't even crack. Important as it may have been, the loss of a THING, a book, ONE story in a world so saturated with them several hundred lifetimes wouldn't suffice to know them, is not a loss I would ever have the self-indulgent embarrasment of mourning. It was what it was once, and it is what it is now.

The only people who were hurt were her victims.

Absolutely no exceptions. It's vulgar to a degree I can't wrap my head around to consider otherwise.

[forestclan-clangen]

MOON 4 (Final)

<< FIRST | < PREVIOUS |

- Redstar tries to feed the woods. She really does. But the woods are silent. Nothing tries to take her. Feeling dread, she remembers Lakestar’s words when she was a ‘paw herself – that the Woods could smell StarClan’s scent if it tried to be fed again. It hated being tricked.

(Redstar, leader, female, 63 moons)

---

Redstar had waited with her back turned from the Woodcrawler nest for several hours now. She watched as the sun set on the horizon, and the nocturnal creatures started emerging from their dens. Crickets sang and the occasional owl called in the distance.

Still, she waited.

She had to.

The woods darkened even further as the claw-shaped moon peeked through the canopy. Redstar gazed up towards the sky. She was greeted with the shining stars of her ancestors above, their light twinkling with determination to fill the sky enough to make up for the moon's minimal presence.

So why did Redstar feel so resentful?

Her tail twitching in anger, she disrupted her vigil and turned around to stare at the very same den that a Woodcrawler had killed her from, several moons ago. When she first came here in newleaf, looking to feed the woods, she encountered the most disturbing effigy that she had ever seen a Woodcrawler emerge from. At the time, she could only feel pure terror as the hollowed eye sockets of a cat's skull bore down on her; its unhinged jaw was stretched unfathomably wide as mimicry of her words clawed its way out of its throat.

Only when she was finally home, back within the safety of the camp walls, did she decide that it must've been decayed remnants of a Fake Cat - weaponized by the creatures of the woods one last time before being absorbed back into their underground dens.

And that angered her.

She knew that the woods had no mercy and no sense of morality. It had no qualms about using the skins of the dead to lure their prey. It was just one more way to torment ForestClan and anything else they hunted. So what was this, exactly? This freakish disinterest in hunting her, taking her, whatever it was that Woodcrawlers did. This was the fifth time she went out in the middle of the night, to this same den, only to return to her clan with nothing. She could feel the disappointment and the worry in their eyes. She was failing them. She was scaring them, and she didn't know what else she could do. She couldn't just attack the roots around the den - if StarClan couldn't heal her fast enough, she could lose multiple lives while she was being dragged away by an agitated monster. But if she had to go one more night without being taken, then...then...

Redstar's heart sunk in her chest. She recognized the heaviness of her eyelids. She sat back down and closed her eyes, sighing deeply. She never thought it would hurt this much to, out of all things, have the woods reject a meal.

Did they catch an unfortunate Twoleg? Did a poor rogue or loner wander too close to a tunnel?

Was it her?

Redstar's tail thumped against the ground as her memories stirred in her head.

She remembered when she was an apprentice, a long time ago, before she held any resentment towards Lakestar. It was a cold leaf-fall morning, and Redpaw at the time felt numb. Iciclepaw had just lost her only sibling to the apprentice trials, and while Cliffpaw was comforting the white she-cat with a gentle touch, Redpaw just felt confused, and empty. She didn't know what to tell Iciclepaw.

Lakestar decided to help train Redpaw while Redpaw's mentor was in the medicine den. It was then that Redpaw prompted her leader. "Lakestar? Is it true that you have nine lives from StarClan?"

"Used to, yes. I have less now."

"...But still more than the rest of us, right?"

"You don't need to play coy, Redpaw. I know what you're asking. And no, I cannot sacrifice my lives to feed the woods."

"How come?"

"It just doesn't work that way. The Woodcrawlers can tell. My scent, and those of protectors of secrets - StarClan touches us in a way that the woods can smell."

Redpaw must've given her some kind of look, because Lakestar's sharp green eyes pierced her own. "The woods can remember being tricked, Redpaw. And it remembers when someone's wronged it."

As Redstar opened her heavy eyelids and returned to the present, she couldn't help but ruminate on her predecessor's words.

For the longest time, she thought she was simply lying. There could be no other explanation for her refusal to sacrifice her lives, other than cowardice.

But now, she shook at the thought. Was she telling the truth?

"...You will take my lives," she hissed at the black den before her. "You will gorge yourself on them and nothing else. Do you understand? You won't ever get a choice. Not anymore. I don't care how long it takes."

The crickets and the tree frogs sounded her reply.

Redstar turned her back towards the den coldly. She looked up at the stars one last time.

She wasn't sure where Lakestar went after she died. She tried not to think of it. Especially not after she heard her screaming over and over as Living Tendrils stole her remaining lives, while she begged StarClan to not let the roots trap her. Redstar spared her clan mates the task of confirming her final death - but she never forgot the sound she made as the deep roots swallowed her into the pit.

Still, Redstar thought. Maybe this was one last vengeance, one last trick from Lakestar. If she were here, she would laugh at her. Laugh like the woods were surely mocking her now. Go on. Jump in. Feed the woods.

She wouldn't give up. No matter what, she wouldn't ever bow to the woods and the cruel traditions of her predecessors. That time of ForestClan was over.

She will be different. She will be better. She will bring lasting moons of peace to ForestClan, and allow her clan mates to feel safe, for once in their lives.

She made a promise to them. She had to.

---

< PREVIOUS | NEXT >

[44-lost-at-sea-ucjau-44]

Hey, for all you Chonny MaJash fans that headcanon Heart as photophobic, I thought I'd make this post as someone with chronic photophobia that's like actually bad enough that it's considered a disability on like. Advice on how to write/portray photophobia and whatnot

I'd appreciate it if you reblogged this 🙏 it's a pretty easy disability to get right and most of you definitely do but… not all of you

If you can just reblogging this for any character with photophobia is good! 👍 that can be useful for peoples as there's like a stunning lack of information on this out there

First off, disclaimer:

There is literally NOTHING wrong with making like, supernatural or animalistic photophobia. Can't do light cos you're a shadow creature? Cool. Can't look at like bc you're an olm with sensitive eyes-under-skin? Awesome.

Photophobia is much more commonly a symptom than a full-on condition but like… as a photophobic person I remember discovering the name of the thingy from clucking Plague Inc. Necroa Virus from some miracle and having to wear sunglasses for my eyes

And then I got my hands on a pair and was saying how happy I was and then this CUCK named Ryan Mackin (dumb name btw) in sixth grade told me "or you just wanna look cool" bc people don't commonly associate sunglasses with conditions and I felt stupid and didn't wear them until eleventh grade

I'm an adult now and sunglasses REALLY do help 👍 I gots all kinds of cool pairs and I look snazzy wherever I go but I HAVE dealt with ableism you wouldn't realise people have over just light-sensitivity. And like, my mother (whom I most likely got it from) has it too but actually didn't believe me for the longest time bc of her own internalised ableism and I even remember finding a kid on Discord who had it too and had ZERO idea that it was an actual condition bc there's legit NO representation out there nor is it ever commonly-talked about

So just. If you can, which you don't have to obv I literally do not and will not judge at all as a photophobic person, portraying realistic photophobia can teach someone out there like little sixth-grade AXYER with vampire eyes (as I like to call them) that it's a thing and they can get treatment for it

TREATMENT: As previously mentioned, sunglasses are your best bet if you cannot see an eye doctor. Even just local Walmart glasses section sunglasses can go a long way, it's really not that hard to treat photophobia (which is, again, why it's so surprising that people can be so ableist). A lot of people make Heart use a blindfold for the photophobia alone which is a bit overkill considering even in really severe cases of photophobia you don't normally need to be FULL-ON blindfolded to treat it. Normally, just a pair of good shades can do the trick and staying in dark/dim rooms.

From my experience, the longer you're in a bright room the more your eyes will begin to get this "stale" feeling and they'll start to sting and eventually feel like they're burning slightly, especially when you close your eyes. Ya gonna wanna be in dark/dim rooms for as much as possible, they can even cause headaches if you're around brightness too long

Yes this includes phone screens. Yes this includes laptop screens. Anyone who can consistently have their screens on high or sometimes even medium brightness probably does not have chronic photophobia

Prescription sunglasses are a thing and are generally what an eye doctor will give ya. Generally you'll get glasses that can transition from shaded to normal and generally you'll have to pay a pretty penny for it. A lotta photophobic folks actually won't even get them and will just stick with normal sunglasses, simply cos it's cheaper and not much less effective

If you want a photophobia-accurate Heart, give that girly some shades (or a visor! They make visor-sunglasses, it's what I use for Heart cosplay)

ABLEISM: That's right, ableism section in big bold letter, we get a LOT of it in small ways. Def not nearly as bad as say, wheelchair-users or cane-users, but we nonetheless get it pretty darn bad at times

I get that most people with CCCC AUs don't have Heart exist in da physical world, with real, talking breathing human beings, but if you do this part'll be useful. Or if you just want Mind to be ableist in his hatred towards Heart. I mean, it wouldn't be inaccurate, it's said that Heart "[struggles just to stand]" and Mind calls him weak all the time as an insult. He even meant that insultingly! So ya maybe you could use dis for dat

I've had people wonder why I wear sunglasses a lot and usually I'm happy to answer and they're happy to understand, but I've heard people be really condescending about it before. Things like "do you tilt your head up because you can't see out of those things" no, I tilt my head up because sometimes I want a better look at something and they're still tinted. "Can you not wear those in-class, they're really distracting" I'd love to not, believe me. "You can't wear them bc then everyone would be allowed to wear them" Is everyone disabled? "Or you just want to look cool." Shut up, Ryan.

In da workforce they are also rather brutal about it tbh. I didn't have a doctor's note at my first like actual job so they wouldn't let me which is pretty fair as people would definitely lie about having photophobia just so they get to wear shades everywhere but I think the lying is part of the problem.

Photophobia's a really easy condition to fake and it doesn't help that you can just pull the "eye doctor didn't believe me" card and it really sucks. Please don't fake photophobia if you can; we're already hardly represented and it really puts us in an insanely bad spot if you do that. Most places allow you to wear sunglasses and it like isn't even that interesting of a condition to fake. Don't assume anyone is faking photophobia, for obvious reasons, that doesn't help either; we're just gonna have to go with the honour system and hope no one's scummy enough to do that.

Anyway, Heart's probably been told at least a few times that he can just deal with it and that he's overreacting. That's a common one too.

SMALL DETAILS: Just some small stuff about my personal experience that I thought wouldn't hurt to share

-My brightness on EVERYTHING is always all the way down, or close to it

-I own like, fifty pairs of sunglasses; lots of weird ones also

-I never have the light on in my room unless I have to show someone something; for light I have a space projector, as I can't be in total darkness for another unrelated (non-physical) disability

-Flashlights are my enemy. I will get actively fuming with someone if they aren't careful with one around me

-I won't scream bloody murder if light gets in my eyes but it is pretty funny to shout "MY EYES!!!" and/or "OH MY POOR BABY VAMPIRE EYES!!!"

-I don't know for certain but I feel like migraine photophobia is exemplified if you already have it

-It's pretty common to only wear the sunglasses/use the tinted mode of glasses when you need to. They do still obscure your vision pretty badly and you wouldn't wanna wear them if the room IS dim enough that you don't have to, as it makes dim phone screens, words on paper/books, people's faces, room-navigating and people's gesturing very difficult to see

-Photophobia is a VERY diverse condition. You can have extremely severe photophobia where you're literally considered legally blind and cannot do anything involving sight p much or you can have very mild where you kinda just can't be in very bright rooms. It's a spectrum

-People with lighter eyes are significantly more likely to get photophobia than people with darker eyes. If you want an accurate Heart, giving him blue eyes or even white eyes would probably be a little bit more accurate

-Having a medical card is useful if a place tries to stop you from wearing sunglasses

-Idk about every photophobic individual but I actually actively remove my sunglasses to get a better look at something or enjoy a nice view

-Also, I usually don't wear them at home bc my family keeps the home dim. Photophobic people will tend to have dark/dim rooms or households if they can

-There are good days and there are bad days. Sometimes you don't even need the glasses (not that you'd wanna test it) meanwhile other days it feels like your eyes got licked by a solar flare from looking at a lamp post

-In my experience, ironically enough, daylight doesn't really hurt my eyes that much. May be different for other people tho

Anyway that's my two cents. Hope it means anything to anyone and if you are ALSO photophobic pls do add your own information <3 again you do not have to make biblically accurate photophobic Heart but it can be really really helpful for photophobic folks who don't even realise something's wrong

Peace ✌️

[thiscityneedslessfog]

the Midnight Channel Killer is a control freak and I’m going to shout about it

Alternate title: I can’t take it anymore, I HAVE to talk about the bitchy spider

I have to say, I love that Adachi is impulsive as hell and that p4’s plot happened entirely because this guy flew off the handle at Mach 8 over not having his rather invasive question answered. He’s not at all a master manipulator (though he likes to pretend he is), he’s an emotional wreckage that’s ruled by his violent temper and desperate clinging to his pride and I’d argue naivety.

I mean, I'm convinced the real motive of the Midnight Channel Killings is a horrific cocktail of boredom, misogynistic entitlement, jealousy, and most of all a desperation for a sense of control over his life... I love that irony because he loses control over his own body in his attempted power grab via Ame-no-Sagiri taking him over in the end before the Investigation Team beats the crap out of her.

Why do I say it’s a sense of control over his life? It's a bit hard to explain, but I've noticed every time Adachi complains about his situation he projects the issue onto someone else. Here he puts the blame on his bosses for casting him out to Inaba when… they cast him out because he screwed up. We don’t actually know what he did (I’d bet it’s information leaking if I had to guess. It sounds pretty severe but it’s clearly not bad enough to completely ostracize him), but it’s clearly was his own fault he got cast out.

Here’s the thing—Adachi clearly genuinely believes he has no control over his life, and makes it abundantly obvious he believes in fate, the idea that your life is decided the minute it starts, throughout his dungeon.

I mean… this is just blatantly not how the world works… talent is just a skill you catch onto faster. Everyone catches onto some things more than others. The real magic ticket is connection. Humans are social creatures. I could go on a long winded rant about this but this isn’t about humanity, this is about one insecure, prideful dumbass. This is why I call him naive, actually—his horrendously warped worldview.

Meanwhile Adachi’s rant after Saki’s death makes it… really obvious that he feels he had no control.

Again, he deflects blame from himself when he made the damn mistake that locked him in here. He firmly believes that he’s a victim in this situation when he caused it himself. And he wants a way out.

It makes sense, right? Adachi is a very controlling person in general, after all. Hell, Yamano and Saki’s deaths both make it obvious. Yamano’s I have more to say on with Adachi being a control freak.

The first thing I want to talk about is Adachi’s threat towards Yamano before he attacks and kills her. So, in my experience (I genuinely cannot cite a source here it’s “trust me bro”) there are two bases of power that you can have over people: trust and fear. Trust is usually built by a good rapport with another party (or numerous other parties) so that they’ll let and even help you get where you need. Fear meanwhile is built on making them believe they can’t stop you even if they want to, and it tends to be easier to spark than trust. And since Adachi is pretty livid with Yamano and feels entitled to her due to his Midnight Channel induced desperation, we get this telling line.

Also, a late edit: I finally found out from some of my friends why Adachi said he wasn’t intending on killing her…

Anyways, I’m keeping in the fact that JYB made this scene genuinely chilling. Holy crap, it’s weird hearing him voice villains. And great.

The second thing I want to talk about is how his really creepy entitlement towards women (including a teenage girl—SHE’S NOT EVEN A WOMAN YET) is another facet of how his controlling tendencies manifest. Not even just that entitlement—it’s his possessiveness and jealousy over them, like they “belong” to him. It doesn’t help that he’s got a violent temper—he killed them both because, again, he flew off the handle!! Yamano’s death has already been mentioned—he was angry at her for “betraying him” when she didn’t even know who he was until he approached her to ask that question.

(hardly can be called an affair when you two aren’t dating…)

But Saki’s was even more of him being a controlling bitch—he attacks Saki because he saw her just talking to Namatame. He didn’t want someone he was attracted to interacting with someone he was jealous of at all, and in response makes some violent advances on her. And then when she literally just defends herself, he kills her in response. All because some guy he hates spoke to her, and that wasn’t allowed in his eyes. Talk about a green-eyed monster…

Not to mention in both situations, Adachi is taking advantage of his inherently more powerful position as a police detective (you know, LAW ENFORCEMENT) and taking advantage of the people around him’s trust in the cops. I mean Saki asked him why she was being questioned right before he cornered and attacked her. I’m mentioning this because these scenes were him aggressively abusing that power that he clearly genuinely wants to have…

And speaking of Namatame, Adachi was panicked when Mitsuo Kubo became his copycat. He didn’t want Kubo to get accused of being the Midnight Channel Killer, he wanted Namatame to be! Just Namatame, nobody else! He threw away a very easy out just because he was so particular about who he wanted to frame for the Midnight Channel Killings.

(As another aside, I played p4 with a large pack of friends and even though I’d suspected Adachi since Yukiko’s dungeon, Adachi throwing in Kubo was what made me go “no way it’s ANYONE else.” Great job, Adachi, you played yourself. 👏…👏…👏…👏…)

He also risked himself being exposed (and got exposed) because of the “threat letter” (which, to be honest, from his interactions with Nanako during his social link, was really a PANIC letter) because even though Namatame was now doing something he wanted the whole time up until this point… Nanako is actually someone Adachi likes, and that one factor being present causes everything to crash. (To be fair to him on this point, it’s Nanako. So it’s a mix of his controlling side AND one of… what, two? Three, if we include Yu…? people he actually is attached to being in danger.)

As for why he’s so controlling, I don’t really know. I have speculations, though. I believe he’s likely got trust issues because he questions why Yu trusted him, and even stifles a laugh when Yu tells him he believed in him.

The fact you’re Dojima’s best friend, dumbass.

Yu didn’t trust Adachi out of naivety. I don’t know if Adachi genuinely doesn’t realize or is in denial about it, but Adachi is Dojima’s best friend. In his second scene and his first where he does anything more than throw up, he playfully teases Dojima upon him saying “Our perp… it’s gotta be someone in Inaba.” Adachi is invited to dinner numerous times, right after Yukiko is rescued, he drunkenly tells you about Naoto being rescued at Dojima’s place, Dojima doesn’t bat an eye when Adachi is near Nanako. Dojima cares for and trusted Adachi, and Yu saw that. And Yu putting his trust in Adachi was putting his trust in Dojima’s judgement by proxy. It makes total sense Yu would trust Adachi…

Not to mention, he constantly pushes people away, like Dojima or Yu or the old woman. Relationships at their core are exchanges—there’s no fundamental difference between a friend and a business partner other than potentially trust and attachment, so I think he’s just… not really willing to give any of himself and just takes. Also he just doesn’t seem used to it (he literally states he avoids the old woman because he has no idea how to respond to a woman who actually acts like a decent parent.)

I think he not only thinks it’s safer to be this way, but…

Adachi is a very proud man, and shows that his sense of pride makes him believe he can do everything on his own. He sees all the events that led him to Inaba, to becoming the Midnight Channel Killer, as out of his control. I mean literally look at his rant after killing Saki above. He was “supposed to be the best of the best,” and blames his superiors for sending him to Inaba when, again, it was his own fault! I think partly because of his pride, he also just thinks “if anyone can do it right, it’s me, so if anyone should head this, I should.” I know tons of people like that! I mean, he tells Nanako that he’s the smartest person in the Inaba PD.

I mentioned this delicious irony with him and Ame-no-Sagiri, but even without all that, despite him being so controlling as a person, Adachi’s not even very good at keeping... anything under control. He was agitated when he realized Naoto wasn’t strung up on the power lines, and… he’s also wildly violent-tempered as Yamano and Saki experienced firsthand—this guy can’t even totally control himself. And manipulating Namatame severely backfired because it led to Nanako almost dying.

the spider is trying to weave a web. he’s struggling.

[alextydaisuda123]

Pizza Tower AU- Cloud Tower

"WARNING!": A LOT OF TEXT

A new AU that didn't take long to wait. To be honest, this idea came up spontaneously and additionally for several reasons, one of which is my childhood dream of having wings (and over the years my dream hasn't faded, which is surprising, usually my dreams fade after 5 years or a little more). Before I start talking about this world, a couple of additional words. A huge thank you to Emily (@creat0rstudi0) for helping me with this AU: she helped with the design of Peppino and Gustavo, from whom I pushed off and created images for others, painting everyone choosing a good palette for them (don't worry, I also painted the characters myself, Emily just gave a clearer palette than me, so I will show you 2 versions of painted characters), and also helped a little with information about the bosses. Well, now let's go.

Cloud Tower is an AU where instead of the earth there are small floating islands, platforms, and the space around is an endless sky, which is both a home and a grave. If you break your wings and fall, there is only a small chance that your body will fall on some island or platform, or if someone notices you falling, and if this is not the case, then consider that you will fall endlessly for the rest of your life (or until your corpse is cut by the air). And also (almost) everyone has wings. There are those who were born without them, or with them, but because of their problems (they grew together incorrectly or broke unsuccessfully) are disabled, roughly speaking. Also, someone may have additional plumage (in their hair, on their body, etc.) in addition to their wings. And yes, since the climate in their world is not so simple, many fly in warm clothes. There is also magic here, but it is hidden either in artifacts or in some creatures, since the world itself is also magical in its own way (after all, the food here is alive, lol). A few words about the tower. There is a certain atmosphere there similar to the Rainbow Factory from MLP Creepypasta.

Peppino and Gustavo are both cooks, but in their own separate directions. Peppino is an Italian cook, while Gustavo works as a baker of bakery sweets. One day, Pizzaface arrives on a flying platform and reports that Peppino's pizzeria will be destroyed by a cloud tower, but if he does not want this, then let him fly to the tower, and flew away, leaving behind an evil laugh. What actually did not like this, and they both decided to fly there and destroy the tower with its "owner".

Additional facts: Peppino, despite the fact that he does not particularly like to fly, although he has to, his flight speed is clearly faster than Gustavo's, while he flies slower; Gustavo has his own separate bakery, where he makes pastries, he would like to work with Peppino, but he cannot leave the place where his family once baked their first bread; Peppino participated in the heavenly war, from which he still has an injury, but thanks to work and his faithful friend Gustavo, he tries to live an ordinary life and not think about it.

Pepperman and Vigilante are two of the main bosses of the cloud tower who clearly didn't get there of their own free will. They were kidnapped a long time ago and forced to work for Pizzahead, having been threatened in a special way. Pepperman is a restorer (like in steampunk, yes) and a decorator. Vigilante is an ordinary security guard, and also watches the precipitation.

Additional facts: Pepperman has really white pupils, which is why his eyesight is worse than usual (he is not completely blind), and the reason for his poor eyesight is that he refuses to wear glasses for flying (but be that as it may, for work he still wears them under his beret along with additional tools); before getting into the tower, these two were ALREADY a couple; Vigilante's grandfather, who has long been retired, is still alive; as PH himself "promised", so that the bosses would be freed from their tower duties, they need to "rip off Peppino's wings" at any cost, even if they weren't aimed at fighting him.

Noise and Noisette are another couple who ended up in the tower in the same way as Pepperman and Vigilante. Noise hosts the news and weather forecast, and a small show similar to "Truth or Dare". Meanwhile, Noisette is still the same cafe owner.

Additional facts: Noise has a broken right wing, it was broken by Pizzahead when he tried to fly out of the tower for the first time, he broke it so much that now Noise can't fly at all, the wing has grown together crookedly and he is unable to straighten it and move it, so he flies with the help of a backpack on his back, which he can change to either a jet or a simple propeller; Noisette sometimes helps Noise with flying and how Noise injured his wing, she does not know to this day; I lied to you a little, Pizzahead kidnapped only Noise, and Noisette herself flew to PH when she was looking for him, and when she found him, so that PH would not harm her, he lies to her and offers to join Pizzahead, as he himself wanted.

Bruno is an unsuccessful clone, mixed with a regular bird and Peppino's DNA, created by PH. He can fly, but very ineptly because his arms replace his wings, which is why he falls and crashes into all sorts of possible objects, which is why he flaps his wings hard and pieces fly off from them, he can of course grow them, but this whole process takes a lot of his strength.

Additional facts: in addition to his speech, he makes a distorted bird sound; despite his inability to fly, the bosses (Pepperman, Vigilante and Noisette) still teach him to fly normally, they also additionally look after Bruno himself, feed him and teach him to speak, since PH himself does not do this; because of such care, Bruno accepts his friends more as parents, calling them accordingly (in the future, he will also call Peppino this way 😂)

Pizzahead is the main boss, a sadist and a psycho. He built a tower, around which a barrier in the form of clouds with a powerful lightning discharge is built, and in order to turn it off, you need to turn off the generators.

Additional facts: Pizzahead and Pizzaface in this AU are brothers, Pizzahead is younger; after one incident, his psyche was shaken, he was inspired to recreate the tower for his whims and "fun"; he cut off Pizzaface's wings and as a great and first trophy keeps them in his office along with John's wings and one wing of Jerome; those wings that Pizzahead himself is wearing are also "trophies", cut off from other creatures, but he tells everyone that they are fake and it's just a cape, he also participated in the war, but in secret from his brother, so that he "wouldn't worry" about him.

Pizzaface is Pizzahead's brother and ... a good guy? Yes! In this AU, he is not a bad character, but rather a good one. So in that encounter with Peppino, he just played the role of a bad guy. He is quiet (but he tries to be sociable) and traumatized. He does not often show himself to the other inhabitants of the tower, which is why few people know about him. Most of the time, he spends either in the secret room where Pizzahead keeps him, or with Jerome, helping him clean the tower.

Additional facts: because of the cut off wings, he feels weak and exhausted; he still does not know why Pizzahead acted so cruelly and what happened to his psyche, but he blames himself for this, that he was not caring enough and simply did not keep an eye on him; Pizzahead watches almost his every move so that he does not do stupid things and does not ruin his plans, and for the sake of PH he has to play the same role of a bad guy.

Jerome is a small pillar with one wing and memory loss due to a strong blow from Pizzahead. He is a simple cleaner. He does not remember anything about his brother or his past, although memories still pop up in his head. In the past, he had magic, but due to the loss of a wing and memory, he does not remember and cannot use it normally, over time, the skills were simply lost.

Additional facts: he is Pizzaface's best friend, and he sometimes helps him remember things, but he cannot (PF hopes that he will remember something); he has seen John many times as an ordinary part of the tower, but he cannot remember him or at least his name; initially, he was not supposed to be in the tower and Pizzahead wanted to throw him on a long flight, but Pizzaface somehow convinced him to leave him and just make him an ordinary cleaner.

Well, I hope you like this AU. Enjoy and have a nice flight!

[bisclavret]

incomplete list of things about gwaine that drive me crazy in no particular order:

he was the son of a knight but earned his knighthood by different means, so his origins are never mentioned again. except when merlin (in old bitch mode) threatens to ~out~ him with "i know what you are". assuming what he means is that gwaine is a [secret noble] and not a [homophobic slur]

does this mean his heritage is something gwaine does not want to broadcast? why? he's a noble now anyway. is it because the other new knights aren't of noble birth and he doesn't want to stand out? is he that insecure?

hold on i just got a note about this from the writers room. it says "who gives a shit" ???? what do they mean by this?

king caerleon and queen annis become important characters down the line and gwaine somehow does not get involved with their plot at all. he's from caerleon so that's literally the king that tore apart his family and left them to die. s3 gwaine seemed pretty severely traumatized by all this but i guess he got over it

it's like they put him in a suit of armor and he immediately got brain damage. what do you mean "how do we know which way is north"??? gwaine. gwaine how many fingers am i holding up

"why am i always the butt [of the joke]?" he asks his fellow knights. they clown on him even harder.

but tbh it's a fair question — why is he always the butt of the joke? it's always either him or merlin. y'know, merlin the walking talking gay metaphor... and sir gawain from the famous bisexual christmas story (that never happened). why are the two of them always the butt of the joke? i wonder if—no.... it cannot be.....

"got bored of playing soldiers" gwaine tells his closest friend before helping him rescue a "traitor". but we don't have time to unpack all that. in fact, forget he said anything. forget it just like he's about to forget seeing merlin do magic right in front of his face in a few minutes.

sir gwaine loves playing soldiers! he loves saying things like "enough! you speak to the king!" because evoking royal status to force people into submission is gwaine's favorite thing to do. as we all know.

a sorcerer looks him right in the eye and tells him "i am not evil. i am just someone who values his freedom" the "...are you?", like anything that could be remotely interesting in this show, is left unspoken. and is he??? idk guys

the diamair - that alien-looking creature that contains all the wisdom in the world - healed gwaine from the brink of death and seemed to single him out as important. but important how? he unceremoniously dies later that season having achieved zero notable quests as a knight; in fact he probably had more epic adventures as a rogue traveler!

or was the most important moment in gwaine's life — his purpose — to chaperone merlin to a cave without even knowing why?

i mean why not i suppose. kilgharrah was plotting his merthur doomed yaoi the entire time so it's plausible the diamair was on the merwaine doomed yaoi train.

speaking of doomed yaoi. (you knew we'd get there)

pov: you're a charming rogue adventurer with no friends. one day you meet a cute weirdo who begs you to get knighted and stay in town so you can keep bonding over your daddy issues or whatever it is guys do. you keep refusing but after the third time he asks you're like sure why not i've lowkey always wanted to try this. and then as soon as you're knighted he promptly loses all interest in you unless he needs something.

so what do you do?

a) keep challenging him the way you used to because it always works on him and he always comes out of his shell and it's always a rewarding experience for both of you

b) have a bittersweet arc where you grapple with the fact that knighthood and life at camelot aren't what you hoped they'd be after all — in part due to your people-pleasing tendencies

c) let the cute weirdo keep calling the shots even when he closes off even more and seems increasingly miserable and antisocial

d) passive-aggressively hint that you would do more for him than for any girl but never tell him how you feel or what you know and never directly ask him to trust you because misery and apathy are infectious and brother you've caught the bug

e) march off to face the local evil witch basically unarmed (you gave away your own sword in lieu of a love confession) and let her put you out of your misery once and for all <3

[sea-lanterns]

I’m imagining all the super tall and stoic ladies (Arlecchino, Sara, Shenhe, etc.) just absolutely melting when they see their newborn child for the first time. Even Arlecchino, who already has several children, still fails to hold any resistance to the sense of awe that comes over her when she meets her newest child.

This is not helping my baby fever, anon ( • ᴖ • ｡ )

Just imagining these tall, intimidating women holding their tiny newborn child for the first time has me writhing around on the floor. I need to take a moment to compose my thoughts, hold on…

sfw under the cut

Arlecchino is no stranger to newborn infants, however; this time it’s different as it’s her newborn infant. Her baby. The baby she had with her gorgeous wife, (you) and was currently squirming around in her arms like the little bundle of joy it was. Usually Arlecchino is able to keep her calm considering she’s held countless of babies before, yet this time it felt different.

How could this tiny, small, creature possibly come from Arlecchino? It was so small and…innocent. It has Arlecchino stunned silent as she cannot believe this beautiful child came from the love of you and her. Her child.

Like instinct, Arlecchino already knows how to properly hold it, feed it, and cradle it in her arms as she looks up at you with the most admiring of eyes. She looks beyond pleased as you lay there in your bed, exhausted from the fruits of your labor as she presses a kiss to your temple, wiping the sweat off your brow and cooing.

“Thank you for being them into the world, my love. They’re absolutely precious.”

The sight of Arlecchino’s black, clawed arms gently rocking your newborn infant has you smiling despite your exhaustion. The father already having fallen in love with the tiny creature in her hands and welcoming the small child into your family.

When Sara’s first newborn was born, she was beyond nervous. She was unsure how her tengu blood would mix in well with yours, and was worried her first child might end up getting teased simply for looking a bit different.

But the moment you handed her a small bundle of heat, Sara practically froze. It was comedically adorable how your newborn had two little chicken wings (without feathers) protruding from the back as a result of Sara’s tengu blood. Sara couldn’t help but admire the adorable little wings, giving them a little poke to watch them twitch and flutter.

Sara is in love. She’s so in love. Tengu babies were so rare, and yet; here she had one in her arms, one of her own flesh and blood. She’s so grateful to you for bringing this baby tengu into the world with her, and she immediately cuddles up to you, shielding your small family in her massive wings, as she smiles and rubs a damp cloth across your face.

“You did so well, dear. Take a rest, you made the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen and deserve it…”

Shenhe was probably the most nervous out of these three. Despite being so calm and collected on the surface, inside the woman was freaking out because her wife had just gone into labor and Shenhe was terrified she would accidentally crush her baby if she held it in her arms.

Poor Cloud Retainer and Ganyu have to help her keep calm or she’d accidentally destroy the hospital. She was just a shaking mess and it took her a while before she could enter the delivery room and help you manage through the labor process. Once her nerves have been steeled however, Shenhe is rewarded with a tiny bundle of joy swaddled up in a cocoon of blankets. Her child had finally come.

She will be hesitant at first to even be near it, afraid her bloodlust energy would scare her baby and make it cry. But after some soothing words of encouragement from you, Shenhe hesitantly holds the frail infant in her arms, literally holding her breath as she was afraid of even breathing on it.

“…It’s so small.” Shenhe whispers under her breath, looking up at you with eyes filled with wonder “…It’s…mine?”

When you nod to confirm that the baby was indeed hers, Shenhe immediately snuggles the infant close. Not another word to be said for several, long, minutes.

[up-to-some-good]

Dawn

Written for @wolfstarmicrofic prompt #24 - first pet (488 words)

"What is that?"

Remus barely looked up from his book as Sirius stalled in the doorway.

"Hello, love," Remus responded, the picture of calm. "How was work?"

"Don't change the subject." Sirius stomped over to his partner and ripped the book out of his hands, making sure to mark the page with a slip of parchment before turning to Remus and pointing accusingly at his lap. "What is that thing?"

Remus raised an amused eyebrow.

"She's a cat, Pads. Surely you've seen one before?"

He continued petting the creature with one hand as he spoke.

"I know it's a cat, Remus. What I don't know is what it is doing in our apartment!"

"Well, that's easy." Remus smirked. "She's our new baby."

"No."

"No?"

"No," Sirius confirmed. "We cannot have a cat. I am a man who can turn into a dog at will. You are a man who turns into a wolf once a month. Felines and canines, historically, do not get along. So no cats. This is a cat-free zone."

"Counterpoint," Remus offered. "Minerva McGonagall turns into a cat, and she's practically your mother."

"Irrelevant. She does not live in this flat. And neither does that creature."

"Yes, she does," Remus responded. "I found her this morning outside. I took her to the vet and made sure she's healthy. I bought her everything she needs and several things she doesn't. She snuggled me while I napped earlier. She lives here. We're keeping her."

Sirius sighed and massaged his temples.

"Would it help if I told you I named her Dawn?"

Sirius looked up and lifted one eyebrow in a silent question. Remus blushed and looked back down at the orange fluffball in his lap.

"She's our baby, so she needed a fitting name," he explained. "So she's Dawn, the sun to our moon and stars."

Sirius sighed again, but smiled gently and sat down next to Remus on the couch.

"You're a sap, but she can stay," he responded. "Under the condition that she sleeps on her own bed. I don't want my pillow covered in cat fur."

"Deal."

That night, Sirius went to bed early while Remus finished the dishes and took a shower.

When he got to their room, Sirius was already asleep, his head resting just on the edge of his own pillow, ensuring he was as close to Remus's side as possible. And curled into him, pressed up against his stomach, Dawn was sleeping just as comfortably.

Remus grinned as he got into bed with the pair. He knew when he saw the cat that Sirius would fall in love with her after a while, like he did with any animal he came across.

It was Remus's decision to pick up the cat, Remus who bought her food and put on her collar, but it was always going to be Sirius’s cat. That's why he picked her up, after all. For Sirius.